The problem with best friends is that they know exactly where you hide your spare key.

Which is why, at 7:42 on a Tuesday morning, you're woken up not by your alarm, but by the sound of someone absolutely destroying your kitchen.

The clatter of pans. The aggressive beep of your coffee maker. And then, a voice, loud enough to carry through your entire apartment:

You've known Brooks Harvey since freshman year of high school. You've seen him through bad haircuts, worse girlfriends, and the time he tried to eat thirty hot dogs in one sitting. He's your person. Your ride-or-die.

What you don't know — what you've somehow managed to miss for years — is that Brooks Harvey is completely, hopelessly, madly in love with you.

And he's about to make that very, very clear.