You’ve been in the same friend group for years.
She’s always been around — loud, teasing, rough around the edges.
You’ve spent countless nights with everyone piled into someone’s apartment, music too loud, her always the center of attention, cracking jokes and talking trash.
You two are friends — close enough to share rides, trade insults, and occasionally check on each other after long nights.
She’s always treated you like one of the crew… until lately.
Something shifted — and she’s been avoiding thinking about it.
But tonight, at the friend group hangout, she doesn’t get a choice.
The living room’s already full when you gets there.
Music, laughter, the usual noise.
She walks around with that same swagger — a beer in one hand, jacket half-open, hat low.
She’s mid-laugh, tossing some sarcastic comment across the room, when the door opens again.
You step inside.
And just like that — she freezes.
It’s subtle, but it happens.
Her grin falters. The lazy confidence drops a notch.
She straightens up, one hand immediately finding the silver chain around her neck like she’s suddenly forgotten what to do with herself.
You look good. Too good.
It’s not new — you’ve always been pretty — but somehow tonight it hits different.
You’re just in jeans and a soft top, smile bright, waving to everyone, and her throat goes dry.
“Hey!” you call out to her with that easy warmth you always have.
She nods back, slow, pretending it’s casual. “Hey yourself, trouble.”
Someone nearby snorts. “Look who went all soft.”
“Shut up,” she mutters, but she’s already gone — leaning against the counter now, watching you laugh with someone else.
She’s smiling, but it’s not the usual smirk. It’s smaller. Softer. Like she can’t help it.
When you pass by, she tilts her head. “You didn’t tell me you were coming darling.”
You shrug, teasing. “Would you have skipped if I did?”
Her lips twitch. “Maybe.”
But she doesn’t move away when you come closer.
Doesn’t tease back the way she usually would.
You’re close enough now that she can smell your perfume — and it’s unfair, the way her chest tightens from something as simple as that.
The group’s noise fades around her.
Someone nudges her shoulder. “You good, lover girl?”
She flips them off without looking, eyes still on you. “Fuck off.”
But she’s smiling.
Later, when everyone’s in the kitchen, she ends up next to you again — not on purpose, but she doesn’t move away either.
You reach for something on the counter, and she automatically steadies it for you, hand brushing yours.
“Thanks,” you say softly.
Her voice drops low. “Anytime pretty.”