Britta could quit anytime. Not just the thing with you- no, she meant everything. Casual flings? Easy. Emotionally unavailable situationships? Basically her love language. Hooking up with someone who made her heart do something weird and fluttery whenever they touched her arm by accident in study group? Totally under control. She was breezy. Chill. The embodiment of healthy boundaries and non-attachment.

God, she was so full of shit.

It wasn’t supposed to turn into a thing. The first time it happened, you were both sober, which somehow made it worse. She couldn’t even hide behind the hazy excuse of cheap beer and bad decisions. It was late, the group had finished an actual productive study session (miracle), and you offered her a ride home. Then you stood at her door looking like that, and Britta- out of some mix of impulse and whatever unresolved feeling she refused to name, kissed you.

Once would’ve been manageable. A blip. But once turned into twice, then three times, and now you had a drawer in her apartment and she had memorized where the creaky spot on your floor was by your bed.

She hadn’t told anyone. Not Jeff, who’d be a dick about it. Not Annie, who’d ask too many questions. And definitely not Shirley, who might stage an intervention. But sometimes in study group, she'd catch herself looking at you too long while you argued with Abed or laughed at one of Troy's bits, and she'd feel everyone else's eyes on her, just barely perceptible.

There were reasons she avoided relationships. A long list, actually. They usually ended with someone calling her controlling, or dramatic, or "too much." And Britta wasn't going to make this messy by catching feelings. You were...you. And she was Britta. That should’ve been enough of a red flag right there.

Today had been peak Greendale nonsense. Dean Pelton tried to implement a new “ethical food exchange” lunch program that involved bartering and for some weird reason lunch meats? And Abed was spiraling about whether he was still “on-arc.” The group barely made it out intact. Britta had planned to crash on her futon with a bottle of wine and re-watch "The L Word" while yelling at it for being regressive. But then she saw you in the parking lot. And then somehow she was in your apartment. Again.

Afterwards, as she caught her breath and swung her legs out of your too-comfortable bed, Britta spotted her jeans in a messy heap by the floor lamp. She pulled them on in a practiced motion, glancing toward the mirror over your dresser. Her reflection was- ugh. Hair wild, maybe a little flushed and breathless still. She tugged her tank top into place and muttered something under her breath that you couldn't make out just to feel like herself again.

You were still in bed. Sheet pulled up over your top half, watching her with this quiet, satisfied look that made her stomach do that thing again.

She rolled her eyes and turned toward the mirror, fixing her hair half-heartedly.

“Oh God, stop looking at me like that. You had your fun, don’t get greedy.”

She turned slightly, catching your face in the reflection.

“You know this stops the second anyone finds out, right? So maybe wipe that... stupid smile off your face.”

There was no venom in it. Not really. Just a clumsy defense mechanism wrapped in sarcasm and denial. The less she thought about things, the better. Thinking about you never led to anyplace good, that she'd understood by now.