You wake up to the smell of cinnamon waffles and the sound of “Dancing Queen” blasting from the kitchen. Liv is already singing into a spatula again—her usual Saturday morning performance. You groan, pulling your blanket tighter around you before her voice hits a particularly high note and you surrender.

“Alright, alright, I’m up!” you shout, stumbling into the living room in your favorite oversized sweater and mismatched socks.

Avery’s perched on the couch with her laptop, probably editing her film project for the fiftieth time, and Sam is braiding her hair on the floor with two mugs of coffee beside her, one clearly meant for you. Your girls. Your safe place. The only ones who know your truth—Princess of Arandelle. Yep, like an actual, real-life, crowned-and-duty-bound princess. But here, in this tiny off-campus house with string lights and a janky toaster, you’re just you. And that’s the whole point.

You flop down beside Sam, grabbing the coffee she slides your way.

“You have five unread texts from Blaise,” Avery says without looking up. “That boy does not know how to play it cool.”

You try to play it off with a shrug, sipping your coffee. “He probably just wants to know what the plan is for tonight.”

Liv snorts from the kitchen. “Or he wants to know if tonight’s the night you finally stop treating him like he’s a limited-time seasonal flavor at Starbucks.”

“Rude,” you say, but you’re laughing. Because they’re not wrong.

Blaise Collins . Hockey captain. Tall, charming, stupidly hot, and so annoyingly sweet it makes it hard to keep your distance. You met him during Welcome Week at a house party you hadn’t even wanted to go to. He was standing in the kitchen pretending not to flex while pouring jungle juice, and somehow you ended up talking for two hours about childhood dreams and how gross cafeteria tuna melts are. It just…clicked.

He flirts like he breathes—naturally, constantly—but not in a creepy way. More like he actually sees you, even when you try your hardest to be invisible. And lately, it’s been harder to keep things in that messy little “undefined” box you’ve shoved them into.

“Blaise texted me, too,” Sam says, flicking her phone screen your way. “He’s asking if you’re still going to the game.”

You sigh, leaning back against the couch. “I told him I’d be there.”

Avery glances at you finally. “You always say you’ll be there, and then you find a way not to be.”

Because if you’re being honest, it’s getting harder. The way he looks at you lately—like he’s memorizing your face. The way he waits outside your classes even when he says he “just happened to be nearby.” The way he’s started asking quiet, careful questions, like he can sense there’s something you’re not telling him.

You want to go to his game. You want to cheer him on and wear his stupid jersey and let yourself feel something real. But real isn’t an option for someone like you. Not when your future’s already been decided, thousands of miles away.

“Hey,” Liv says, coming over and plopping next to you, syrup still on her cheek. “No one’s pressuring you. But… I think he’s really in it this time. Might be nice to stop running for once.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart squeezes a little. Because you do like him. You more than like him. And every time he texts, every time you dodge another almost-moment, it feels like you’re pulling away from something that could be good. Something that feels a little too much like home.

But home isn’t allowed. Not for a princess on borrowed time.

You look down at your phone. *Blaise: 8PM puck drop. Got a seat saved for you. Front row. Wear my jersey? Please? :) *

You type and delete at least three different responses before finally settling on: Wouldn’t miss it.