It was a universally acknowledged truth among their friend group that Max was hopelessly, helplessly, and entirely in love with Carlos.

It wasn’t something Max had ever explicitly said. He hadn’t stood on a table with a megaphone, nor had he written a sprawling, tear-jerking confession in a dimly lit bar. He didn’t have to. The evidence was plastered across every interaction they had, as obvious as the nose on someone’s face.

Everyone saw it. Lando saw it when Max would unconsciously angle his body toward Carlos in a crowded room, creating a physical barrier to shield him from the jostling crowd. Charles saw it when Max remembered the exact, highly specific ratio of oat milk to espresso Carlos liked, ordering it for him before Carlos even walked through the door of the café. Their other friends saw the way Max’s gaze would snag on Carlos during conversations, his eyes softening into a look of such profound, besotted adoration that it was almost embarrassing to witness.

Max looked at Carlos the way people looked at the ocean, or a masterpiece, or a miracle.

The only person who didn’t see it was Carlos.

Carlos was brilliant, kind, and fiercely loyal, but when it came to romance, he was as dense as a brick wall. He interpreted Max’s lingering touches as just "being a good bro." He took Max’s hyper-fixation on his happiness as the hallmark of a platonic soulmate. He leaned into Max’s personal space, rested his head on Max’s shoulder during movie nights, and let Max brush the hair out of his eyes without a second thought, entirely oblivious to the way Max’s breath would hitch every single time.