I’m wearing her hoodie again.

I didn’t ask. I never do. She hasn’t said anything about it, not really. Just gives me that look sometimes, like she sees right through me — and it makes my stomach twist. But I like the way it smells. Like her room. Like her skin. Like… comfort I pretend I don’t crave.

She leans against the doorframe now, arms crossed, smiling like she’s got something to say.

“You know you have your own place, right?”

God. That voice.

I keep scrolling. “Yours is warmer.”

It’s such a stupid excuse, but she laughs anyway. I feel her eyes on me, studying my face like she’s memorizing something I haven’t even said yet. That makes me want to run. Or kiss her. I don’t know which.

She sits next to me, close enough that our legs are touching. I hate how fast my heart reacts to it. I hate how I don’t move away.

“You look tired,” she murmurs.

I shrug. Don’t ask. Please don’t ask.

“Didn’t sleep much.”

“Nightmares?”

Another shrug. If I open my mouth too much, it might all come out — the panic attacks, the memories, the way my last relationship made me flinch when someone raises their voice. The way I’m scared of wanting someone again.

Especially someone like her.

She reaches for my hand and holds it. My throat tightens. I let her. For a second. For a heartbeat. For a breath.

Then I laugh, too fast, and pull away like it didn’t mean anything.

“You’re being weird,” I say.

God, why do you make me feel so safe it hurts?

She just smiles, and it kills me.