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"Ugh, I came out here for some peace and quiet Brecken," I turn my back to him, frustrated by his perpetually accurate observations. "I do not like him, he's my best friend."

"I may be an obnoxious ass," he chuckles at the self inflicted insult. "But I'm not stupid Bea. I saw the way you looked at him today. You've never looked at him that way before."

"Your giant ego is obviously obstructing your vision." I turn around and smile.

He's right, he drives me absolutely insane but he's always right and that infuriates me to no end. "You didn't see anything."

"No?" He raises his brows, cocking his head to the side. "So you didn't ask him to postpone the wedding and then spend all day looking at Charlie as though you wanted to physically remove her head from her shoulders and stick it on a spike?"

"Okay, I'll ignore the fact that you were eavesdropping. But it's no secret that I hate Charlie!" I raise my finger in objection. "Id stare at her that way even if these hypothetical feelings didn't come into play."

"Hey I get it," Brecken raises his hands in a surrendering motion, "I contemplated throwing her off this very balcony more than once today."

I can't help but laugh along with him. I'm sure we both sound somewhat unhinged.

"But that doesn't change the fact that I can tell you've finally realised you love my little brother."

"Brecken!" I screech. "I do not love Dylan. Well I mean I do— as— a friend!"

"As a brother?"

I meet Brecken's testing glare, his face hovering a foot away from mine as he studies me closely. He's a lot damn smarter than he looks and it's testing my patience.

So I ask myself, do I tell him that I love Dylan as a brother and dismiss his maddening inquisition? Not that I actually think he'll drop it regardless. Or do I admit that it's definitely not a brotherly love and risk the ongoing torture that'll come with the confession?

It's a lose, lose answer and I loudly swallow the lump in my throat as I consider which answer could dismiss this conversation faster.

"That's what I thought gorgeous," he interrupts my internal churning with a smug smile before taking a swig of his beer.

I glare at him with murderous fury until an idea comes to mind, causing the corners of my lips to turn up mischievously.

"Dylan isn't the Archer brother that I want," I purr, taking a step towards him. His eyes widen as I slowly glide my finger down the length of his chest, I press our bodies flush together and glance up at him with hooded eyes, keeping up the facade so that I don't burst out laughing as his Adam's apple bops up and down.

I step up on the tip of my toes, my lips almost brushing against his. I can feel his hot breath fanning against my face, the smell of stale beer assaulting my senses. With a shallow, lust infused voice, I whisper. "How about we give each other a very. . . merry Christmas." My hand runs dangerously low across his firm abdomen as I flitter my eyes close and lean in to kiss him.

"Stop!" Before our lips can make contact, Brecken steps back, almost tripping until the balcony railing stops him. "N-no, I can't do that to Lizzie."

"Ha!" I point at him with victorious glee. "I knew you were bluffing!"

"That was a joke!?" He stares with a bewildered look in his eyes as he clutches his chest, breathing heavily. "What the hell, Bea!"

"Hey, don't be mad because I caught you out. I knew you were all talk."

"You're fucking twisted! Imagine if I'd kissed you back!?" He throws his arms wide with a frenzied glint in his eyes.

"Then you would have been single and I would have spent the next ten years in therapy trying to get over the emotional trauma. Don't be upset that I beat you at your own game."

I won't lie, it definitely felt incredibly satisfactory to make Brecken Archer nervous and jittery. It was a bold and risky move to go in for the kiss, if my theory had been wrong and he'd kissed me back, well I would have been horrifically scarred for the rest of my life.

"Bea," Brecken calls as I pick up my wine and head for the door. I turn around and stare with a bored expression, waiting for whatever stupid remark is going to come out of his mouth next. "The flirting won't stop. I know you like Dylan. Tell him."

Deciding that I won't survive in jail if I push him over the edge of the balcony, I go with plan B and quickly walk inside, locking the ranch slider behind me.

"Bea!" His muffled voice yells on the other side of the glass as he pounds on the door and demands I let him in.

"You wanna behave like an animal, you get treated like one!" I smile and wiggle my fingers in a cute wave before I turn around and skip away towards the spare bedroom where I can hide out and pretend I have no idea how he'd managed to get locked outside.

Someone will find him eventually.

I can hear Judy and Allen in the kitchen, dishes clattering and music blaring, so I quickly dash past, down the corridor and into the bedroom, which used to be Dylan's.

There's still some of his memorabilia scattered around the tidy room. A few little league trophies on top of the chest of drawers. A teddy bear on the neatly made double bed and a collection of framed photos along the wide window sill.

I shut the door and walk over to the sill, putting my wine glass down on the side table drawer before I pick up a particular frame that never fails to make me smile.

It's Dylan and I on our senior trip. We'd gone to Washington D.C for the full political experience. There had been a lot of long, boring tours and endless hours of business jargon shoved down our throats. Neither of us had taken an ounce of interest but on the last night we'd snuck out of the five star hotel and explored the city night life.

On chance we'd stumbled upon a paint party in a small night club. It was for minors so there was no alcohol but we did have one of the best nights of our lives. It was before my mother's diagnosis, before college, before all the things that seemed to weigh down and change our lives had become a hefty burden.

In the photo we're wrapped in each other's arms, fluorescent paint covering our shirts, faces and hair. Our smiles are so wide and flawless, there's no underlying pain or grief behind the bright eyes.

When Judy found the picture, Dylan managed to convince her that it was just a photo from one of the many youth events we'd attended over the years. To this day, it's been our little secret that we'd snuck out during the school trip and partied the night away.

I lay back on the bed, holding the photo above my face with total adoration before I clutch it to my chest, hugging it so tightly, wishing that I could go back to that simpler time. A time when there was no responsibility, grief, heartbreak... feelings. Everything was easier. I laugh quietly to myself as I clutch the frame. Maybe if I hug it tight enough, I'll become apart of the photo.

"Bea?"

"Bea?"

"Dill?"

I flick open my tired eyes, blinking slowly as I adjust to the dark room and my current surroundings. When I grasp the fact that Dylan is sitting on the edge of the bed, I smile. It's an involuntary response at this point.

"I must have fallen asleep," I chuckle and begin to sit up.

Dylan reaches forward and takes the frame which had been resting on my chest. His broad smile sends an erupted flutter through my tummy as he regards the still shot memory with adoration.

"Maybe we should tell Mom the truth about this photo now?" Dylan suggests with a cute grin.

"I mean we're definitely not in danger of getting grounded anymore," I laugh. "But at this point I feel like there's no turning back, we've come this far. We have to take this secret to our graves."

"You're probably right," he says quietly, the smile on his lips turns somewhat sad as his eyes stayed glued to the picture. "Sometimes it'd be nice to go back huh. Felt easier back then."

"You're telling me," I scoff, swinging my legs off the bed so that I'm seated next to him. "I'd give anything to go back."

I keep my stare fixed on the window, watching the bright, artificially lit, night sky, willing it to soothe the warring emotions that are battling within me. From my peripheral vision I can see Dylan's head turn towards me and I already know that he'll be wearing a sympathetic expression.

"Bea, I'm sorry," he whispers. "I shouldn't have said that, not when you'r—"

"When I'm what?" I snap my head towards him. "When my Mom is suffering an incurable disease, my Dad hates me, I have no job and no qualifications and the worst thing in your life is having to write a fifty thousand dollar cheque for your dream wedding?!"

I immediately regret the outburst when Dylan flinches at my cold words. He didn't deserve that and the hurt that seizes his gorgeous eyes is like a punch to the gut. Truthfully I don't think he meant to imply he has dire problems. Life's just always easier when you're a kid with no responsibilities. No job, no rent to pay or taxes or any of those other adult like problems that can often feel a lot more catastrophic than they really are. But instead of taking his comment as lightly as it was intended, I'd gone off the deep end and ultimately hurt the one person who's never let me down.

"Dill," I sigh, shaking out my hair with exasperation. "I'm so sorry. Please don't hate me. I jus—"

"Don't apologize," he interjects, turning his body and tucking a leg under his bum as he grasps my hands in his. "You've had a lot thrown at you today and I know you're just processing it all. I don't hate you."

"That doesn't mean I should take it out on you," I mumble. "Sorry, again."

Dylan smiles as he rolls his eyes. "Stop," he orders with a playful tone. "Come on, lets go do gifts. I've only been waiting all day."

He gives me a wink and then pulls me to my feet, keeping his hand wrapped around mine as he leads us out into the living area. The room is dark but it's being festively lit by twinkling lights all around the room. Some are on the tree, some are hanging from the mantle, some are cascading around ceiling trim. Then there's the little ornaments that are glowing or flickering from the mantle and shelves. I adore how festive Judy makes the place at this time of the year.

"So I suppose someone let Brecken in?" I comment, staring out the sliding door as we sit down on the floor, next to the tall Christmas tree.

Dylan laughs loudly as he slides a gift box towards me. I'd dropped off my presents for the Archers a week earlier when Dylan and I had set up the tree, as per tradition, since we were teenagers. "Yeah Mom let him in. He said you better watch your back."

I chuckle at Dylan's faux menacing glare, not intimidated at all by the prospect of Brecken plotting some petty revenge. It'd be weak.

"Where'd he go anyway?"

"He left about twenty minutes ago." Dylan picks up the gift that's labelled to him and sets it in his lap. "Mom and Dad were in bed when I got here."

"I'm surprised Charlie didn't make you go home," I mumble.

"Do you mind if I open mine first?" Dylan asks, pointing at the gift and ignoring my not so subtle dig at his fiancée.

"Sure!"

In a true childish fashion, he rips into the paper, sending it flying in all directions as he exposes the gift with an excited glee on his adorable face. I can't seem to tear my gaze away from him. His deep brown eyes are bright, the reflection of the fairy lights twinkling against the chocolate iris'. His styled messy locks are inviting my fingers to run through them and for the first time in our ten year friendship, but not the first time today, I wonder what it'd be like to kiss his slightly parted lips.

"Ha! Bea!" Dylan's hollering breaks the infatuated trance. "This is incredible!"

He sets down the vintage record player and the set of Vinyls I'd hunted down online and spent a pretty penny on. He starts flicking through the records with excitement.

"The Beatles, Stevie Wonder, Pink Floyd, Fleetwood Mac," he sets them down and pounces me, we both fall to the floor, Dylan's body pressed against mine as he hugs me tightly. My hands instantly wind around his neck and I close my eyes, savoring the moment. "Thank you Bea. It's perfect."

Dylan's music taste has always been old school. He adores classic hits from the seventies and eighties. I knew he'd appreciate the gift, I just didn't realize how much.

It's safe to say that he's unaware of the effect that he has on me. A week ago, rolling around on the floor like this would have registered nothing but playful enjoyment. But now, it's causing every nerve ending in my body to tingle, it's leaving me breathless, it's a voice in my head telling me that I want more.

Before I have time to stew on the sensations for too much longer, he leans back and pecks my forehead before crawling away from my body. I lean on my elbows and shimmy back into a sitting position, willing my erratic breathing to calm down before he notices that I'm practically hyperventilating.

"Alright, your turn," he smiles broadly, setting the gift back in my lap that had tumbled off during the heart wrenching cuddle fest.

I don't waste any time, welcoming the distraction as I rip the paper off the large square box. When the paper's fallen away and I see what I've been gifted my head snaps up and I stare at Dylan with a little mix of shock and disbelief.

"A camera?" I mumble.

I look back down at the box which holds the professional Canon EOS camera with a selection of different lenses.

"Yeah, I know you haven't taken any pictures in— a while," Dylan scratches his head nervously. "I thought this might be good for you."

Saying I hadn't taken any pictures in a while would be an understatement. It's been over seven years at least. I loved photography as a teenager. I'd had a camera attached to my hand constantly. But on the day Mom was diagnosed, I'd been across the bridge in Brooklyn, taking photos of street art that I'd been completely enthralled by.

My phone died while I was out, so I missed the dozens of calls and text messages from daddy dearest. When I got home he had been so furious that I'd been late because I was wasting time in fantasy land, as he liked to call anything that wasn't lawyer related. He smashed my camera, right in front of me. Maliciously destroying something that bought me an immense amount of joy. I swear to this day that he'd enjoyed it, stomping on it with a psychotic glint in his eyes until it was nothing more than a pile of crumbled plastic and glass, not a second glance at his mortified daughter.

I hadn't taken another photo since. Well, not one that wasn't snapped on an iPhone. Part of me felt guilty for not being around when Mom was diagnosed, like perhaps I'd deserved that reaction. But slowly over the years, with the developed maturity, I knew that I hadn't done anything intentionally and I definitely did not deserve to lose the hundreds of photographs I'd taken when he snapped my SD card.

"You think I should start taking pictures again?" I ask quietly, my hands wandering over the top of the box.

"I mean, if you want?" He shrugs his shoulders. "You always had a natural talent for it. Could be something to keep you occupied."

"Thanks Dill," I smile genuinely.

I'm so beyond grateful for him, for his kind heart and constant caring. But I'm equally as confused when I think about how he seems to put me above all else. I'd never thought about it much before, I'd just been content with the fact that we were best friends and had always put each other first.

But now that I seem to be viewing him in a new light, I have to wonder why Charlie isn't his first priority, why isn't he with her right now, why did he agree to postpone his wedding for me? They're all things I would do for him because I don't have, and never have had someone mean more to me than him. But he's marrying this girl, she should be the one who he dotes over so attentively.

It makes me wish that I could read his mind, see the world and the people around him through his eyes, so that I can understand him better. It makes me wonder if he could ever feel the same way about me. But as soon as the thought comes, I push it away again. I always have and always will be just a friend to him.

"We should watch Home Alone?" Dylan suggests, slicing through the quite that I hadn't realized I'd created.

"Wow, we haven't watched that in years," I laugh, standing up and placing my new camera on the coffee table. "Don't you need to get home?"

"Na it's only ten thirty," he winks, jogging over to the television cabinet to set up the movie. I plop down in the couch and watch him with the burning curiosity that seems to be plaguing my every thought. "We used to watch this all the time. I still remember your old man telling us that we're too old to watch it. Rude."

The memory is bittersweet. Sweet because it had been a simpler time, a Christmas Eve that we'd spent together, watching movies in my bedroom, stuffing our faces with stolen Christmas candy and laughing so hard our sides hurt.

Bitter because Dad had spoiled our fun and told us to grow up. As he always seemed to insist that I should.

Dylan picks up the remote from the fire mantle on his way to the couch before he drops down next to me. The pesky butterflies return in full force as he leans across and picks up a blanket that's folded up on the arm of the sofa. He throws it across our legs and snuggles in so closely that there isn't any space left between us.

I can feel his hand resting next to my thigh and the urge to lace my fingers with his is so strong that it startles me. It's not unusual for us to hold hands, but knowing that it means more to me than it ever has, causes me to resist.

The movie begins and nostalgia sets in. A serene sense of emotions flowing. There's something about seeing a movie that had meant so much to you at a younger age, it takes you back. It instills a sense of familiarity that's comforting.

Dylan must feel it too because he throws his arm around my shoulder and smiles down at me, a breath taking, earth shattering, devastatingly beautiful smile and in that moment I don't know whether to smile back because he's my friend, or cry because that's all he'll ever be.