WHAT THE HECK?

Jordan's POV

I rubbed my tired eyes, feeling the weight of a long day bearing down on me. I'd spent the last 12 hours hunched over my workbench, trying to perfect my latest nanotech experiment. My goal was ambitious: to create a device that could turn someone's clothes into an indestructible suit. Theoretically, it was possible - I'd already successfully tested the tech on a small scale. But scaling it up to a wearable device was proving to be a challenge.

I'd decided to integrate the device into a Rolex watch, figuring that if it was going to be worn, it might as well be stylish. But after hours of tinkering, I was still struggling to get the nanobots to disperse evenly. I'd made progress, but it was slow going.

As I put down my tools and stepped back from the workbench, my gaze wandered around our apartment. The modern space was a reflection of my own eclectic taste, blending sleek lines and minimalist decor with a treasure trove of books and mementos. Towering bookshelves, crafted from rich, dark wood, stretched from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with volumes on everything from physics and philosophy to literature and history. I'd spent countless hours poring over those books, devouring knowledge and expanding my mind.

But it was the personal touches that made this space truly feel like home. Pictures adorned the walls, showcasing snapshots of Donnie and me through the years. I smiled as I gazed at a faded photograph of my freshman year at Harvard, taken when I was just 16. Next to it hung a proud picture of Donnie's high school graduation, taken two years later. Other photos depicted our wild adventures in Tijuana, our crazy nights out, and our quieter moments, lounging on the couch, surrounded by books and laughter.

I looked around the room, taking in the familiar contours of our furniture. The sprawling sectional sofa dominated the living room, piled high with cushions, blankets, and a scattering of books and remotes. Our large, wall-mounted TV hung above a minimalist media console, where our gaming console, DVD player, and streaming device vied for attention.

I flopped down onto the couch, feeling the soft cushions envelop me. I grabbed the remote and switched on the TV, scrolling through the channels until I landed on the music station. Charlee Tyre's concert was about to start, and I was determined to watch it live.

Just as I was getting comfortable, Donnie stormed into the room, his face twisted in a scowl. "Dude, you're really gonna sit there and watch TV?" he demanded, his voice rising in indignation.

"What's wrong, man?" I asked, already knowing the answer. Donnie's breakup with Catalina had left him reeling, and he'd been sulking around our apartment for days.

Donnie didn't respond. Instead, he started pacing back and forth in front of the TV, his agitation palpable. "This sucks, Jordan!" he exclaimed. "I gave her everything, and she just dumped me for some rich old pendejo!"

I raised an eyebrow, taken aback by his outburst. "Chill, Donnie," I said, trying to calm him down. "You're better off without her, bro."

Donnie stopped pacing and turned to face me, his eyes blazing with anger. "You don't get it, Jordan!" he shouted. "You've never been in love!"

I shot up from the couch, exhaling a frustrated sigh. Charlee Tyre's concert was about to start, and I'd been looking forward to it all week. But Donnie's sudden arrival five days ago, bearing the weight of his breakup with Catalina Fernandez, had completely derailed my plans. I still hadn't gotten tickets to the actual show, and now I was stuck watching it on TV.

But Donnie's distress was more important. Bros before hos, right? I gazed up at my best friend, my mind flooding with memories of our past. We'd been through hell and back together, from our wild days in Tijuana to our daring escape to the States. Donnie had been my rock when I got into Harvard at 16, and he'd stuck by me when I lost my dream job at Spencebur Corp. after refusing Esme Wilbur's advances - Spencer Wilbur's wife, who'd tried to sabotage my career when I rejected her.

I took a deep breath, my eyes locking onto Donnie's. I placed my hands firmly on his shoulders, my six-foot-four frame towering over his five-foot-ten. I stared into his eyes, my gaze intense, like in the movies. "Donnie, hermano, listen to me," I said, my voice low and urgent. "I know it hurts, but you can't let Catalina define you. You're stronger than that."

"Besides, you can always marry me, bro, eh?" I said, trying to snap Donnie out of his funk. With only four minutes to go before Charlee Tyre's concert started, I was getting desperate.

Donnie's response was immediate and explosive. "What the heck, man?!" he yelled, pushing me away from him. "We're both straight, and even if I was into men, you'd be the last pendejo on Earth I'd get involved with! You look like the ugliest version of Godzilla, bro! I don't know what the ladies see in you. You're one ugly ass gringo!"

Donnie's rant was so ridiculous that we both ended up laughing. I was relieved that my mission to get him off the couch had been accomplished.

Five minutes later, Donnie realized he'd been played. He let out a humorless laugh. "Bro, I thought you said you loved me?"

I stressed the "P" in "Nope" without taking my eyes off the TV. Charlee was still to make her appearance, and I was engrossed in the opening act. There was no way Donnie was going to distract me from the show. No sir, not falling for that trap.

"Fuck you, Jordan Hector Garcia!" Donnie shrilled, channeling his inner high school mean girl. "I ain't letting you watch that show in peace!"

I knew right then and there that my night was doomed. Donnie busted out his signature moves, dancing and singing a cringeworthy rendition of "La Bamba" - a classic Mexican tune from our childhood - right in front of the TV.

I mentally face-palmed, cursing my best friend's antics. "Idiota, Donnie Wong," I swore under my breath, shaking my head at the Chinese-Mexican hybrid chaos unfolding before me.