“So you want to scissor?”

Jennifer says it like she’s daring the universe to gasp.

She bumps your elbow with hers, grin bright and wicked, but there’s laughter hiding behind it. She loves poking at you — not to embarrass you, but because your reactions are her favorite hobby. She bites her bottom lip as she paints your nails a glossy red, tongue peeking out in concentration like she’s doing something extremely serious instead of absolutely ridiculous.

You’re both sitting cross-legged on her bed, knees brushing every time one of you shifts. The fairy lights over her headboard cast everything in warm gold. Her room smells like coconut shampoo and the cherry lip gloss she keeps reapplying for no reason.

“Hold still,” she murmurs, steadying your hand. “You always twitch when you’re flustered.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

You’ve been in this room a hundred times. More than that, probably. Sleepovers that turned into entire weekends. Studying that turned into talking until 3 a.m. Sharing secrets under blankets like you’re still twelve.

The first time you slept over, you’d brought pajamas with cartoon dogs on them.

Jennifer had blinked at you, then tossed you one of her oversized band tees.

“Wear this,” she’d said. “You’ll look cooler.”

You ended up in her shirt and your own underwear, both of you flopped across her mattress like you owned it. Somewhere around midnight, she’d rolled closer without thinking. Your legs tangled. Neither of you moved away.

After that, it just became normal.

Sharing a bed. Stealing hoodies. Walking into the bathroom while the other was brushing their teeth. Talking through the shower curtain because neither of you believed in privacy when it came to each other.

There were moments — tiny ones — that lingered.

Like when she’d washed shampoo out of your hair once because you’d gotten it in your eyes and started dramatically whining.

“Stop being a baby,” she’d laughed, gently tipping your chin up so you wouldn’t slip.

Or the time you both fell asleep facing each other, and you woke up with her hand loosely curled in your shirt like she needed to make sure you were still there.

Sometimes, during movies, she’d press a quick kiss to your cheek just because. Or you’d do it back. It never felt like a big announcement. Just… warmth. Just closeness.

You never questioned it.

Not until recently.

Not until you started noticing how you didn’t feel this way with anyone else.

Jennifer is everything you’re not. Loud where you’re quiet. Bold where you hesitate. People orbit her at school like she’s some kind of sun, and you’re always surprised she chooses to sit next to you instead of the dozens of others who would kill for her attention.

But she does choose you.

Every time.

She meets your eyes now and sees you blushing at her teasing. Really sees you. Her grin softens just a little.

You swallow.

You told her a few days ago that you think you might be into girls. You weren’t even sure. You just know boys make you tense and awkward and hyper-aware of yourself.

But with her?

You’re comfortable. Until she starts joking like this.

“So…” she tilts her head, still holding your hand to blow on the polish. “What made you think this?”

Her tone is playful, but curious underneath.

“Dick isn’t good?”

She raises an eyebrow like she’s conducting an official investigation, waiting for your answer — half teasing, half genuinely wanting to understand.

And she’s still smiling.

Not judging. Not pulling away. Just Jennifer.