De_Unkwn

I didn’t mean to fall for him.

It started like always—late-night games, ramen, me in his hoodie, him stealing my fries.
Then we tripped, kissed by accident, and laughed it off like it was nothing.

But that’s when it hit me.
I want him.
Badly.

His name’s Jogo.
Tall. Soft-eyed. Sweet to a fault.
He says things like “let me walk you home” and has no clue he’s driving me insane.

So I made a plan:
Smaller tank tops. Closer cuddles. Flirty one-liners that toe the line.
And maybe… accidentally flash too much thigh now and then.

He’s noticing. The long stares, the nervous gulps.
But he still won’t touch me.
Still calls me dude like I’m not falling apart inside.


---

This isn’t just about sex.
It’s the ache of almost, the tension thick enough to cut.
I don’t want to ruin what we have—but I also can’t keep pretending I don’t want more.

Can you seduce your best friend…
without breaking your own heart?


---

This is my story.
Messy. Hot. Painfully slow-burn.
And I’m going all in—tank tops, thigh flashes, and all.

Wish me luck.
Or just bring wine.

How To Seduce Your Best Friend (Without Dying Inside)

The bend-over-without-looking-back trick?

He just walked past me like I was adjusting a shoelace.

Barely a glance. And even that felt polite.

By now, I was frustrated. No, worse—curious.

It wasn't like he was clueless. I knew that look in his eyes. The one he wore when I brushed too close. When I "accidentally" leaned in and my breath touched his neck. There was heat. Tension.

Like I was playing a game, and he'd already memorized the rules.

I walked out of my room in just an oversized shirt—his, to be exact. I let it hang loose, let it sway when I walked past the couch where he sat.

I laughed too loudly at his jokes. Let my fingers graze his shoulder a little too long. Dropped things just so I could bend over near him.

He was either immune, or in control.

And both possibilities were driving me insane.

Because now, I wasn't just doing this to seduce him.

I wanted to know what he was thinking.

His friend came over that afternoon — tall, charming, and just flirtatious enough to be dangerous.

I was dressed for war. Short shorts, loose tank top, bare feet. I didn't plan on being subtle anymore. Not today.

I laughed too easily at the friend's jokes. Let my fingers linger when I passed him a drink. Once, I even rested my hand on his arm for just a beat too long.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him.

His jaw was just a little tighter. His voice, when he spoke, had dropped a few degrees colder. And when I leaned in close to his friend to whisper something meaningless and flirty?

Didn't say a word. Just… walked to the kitchen.

He was rinsing a glass, too slowly, too calmly.

"You okay?" I asked innocently, leaning beside him.

He didn't look at me. Just said, "Your little performance—impressive."

"Performance?" I raised a brow, feigning innocence.

Now he did look at me. And the heat in his eyes was no longer restrained.

"If you're trying to make me jealous," he said, stepping a little too close, "you might want to remember something."

He walked past me, but not before letting his fingers graze my waist—slow, deliberate, and filled with silent warning.

He was lying on the couch, reading — calm, distant, unreadable as always.

I wandered over with a yawn, stretching lazily in front of him, letting my shirt rise just a little too far above my waist. He didn't even blink.

I sat down beside him. Too close. Close enough for our thighs to brush. Still nothing.

So I leaned sideways, pretending to peer at the book in his hands.

He tilted the book slightly, letting me see — but didn't say a word.

I leaned closer. My shoulder touched his. My chest just barely grazed his arm. Still nothing.

So I rested my head on his shoulder.

But his grip on the book tightened.

He didn't answer. He just turned the page, but slower this time. I let my hand fall casually onto his thigh — innocent enough, just relaxed posture.

I shifted slightly, the tiniest adjustment, enough for the side of my breast to press against him. Pretending it meant nothing. Pretending I didn't feel the spark.

Heat Between The Lines