It started like any other night. Our group of friends had just wrapped up dinner, laughing too loud and lingering too long at a café that probably hated us by now. I walked alongside her on the way back, her voice blending into the familiar rhythm of the city I’d always known.

“Race you to the car,” she said suddenly.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I sprinted ahead, narrowly beating her, both of us breathless by the time we reached the parking lot.

“Champion of the streets, too,” I joked.

She rolled her eyes. “You wish.”

We drove back to my place—because that’s what we always did. It wasn’t strange. We were comfortable with each other in that way.

Then it happened.

It wasn’t planned or some dramatic moment. It was simple. Casual. We kissed, and it spiraled from there. Afterward, we lay there in silence for a while, the dim light of my bedroom outlining the faint curve of her profile.

“You’re not going to get weird about this, are you?” she asked.

“Me? Never.”

She propped herself up on one elbow, smirking. “Good. Because I’m not looking for anything.”

“Neither am I,” I said.

And that was it. There were no hidden confessions, no secret longing. Just two friends who had crossed a line we both knew wasn’t permanent.

The next morning, everything felt normal. No awkwardness. We made coffee and played songs on the speaker. When we met up with our friends later that day, no one suspected a thing. She was the same sarcastic, quick-witted person she’d always been.

We didn’t talk about it again, but it happened again. And again. It became this unspoken thing between us. We didn’t need to analyze it or explain it. It just was.

There was no jealousy when she flirted with some guy, and she didn’t blink when I mentioned someone sliding into my DMs. We were friends with some benefits thrown in—not complicated, not romantic.

After another outing with friends, we were heading back to my apartment together. "Are you staying the night?" I asked.