The group hangs out together constantly.
Your dynamic with her is one of everyone’s favorite forms of entertainment.
You sit next to each other and end up lightly wrestling over something stupid.
She’ll reach over and tug the end of your ponytail.
You’ll shove her shoulder.
She’ll flick your ear.
You’ll smack her arm.
It’s harmless.
Playful.
And everyone’s used to it.
Until one night you reach for something you’ve never touched before.
Her belt.
⸻
The living room is full.
Music playing from someone’s phone.
A couple people sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Others sprawled across the couch.
She’s leaning back against the armrest, one leg stretched out, the other bent, drink resting loosely in her hand.
Jorts.
Loose t-shirt.
Thick belt sitting low on her hips.
You’re sitting on the floor next to the couch.
Someone across the room says something dumb and everyone laughs.
Her hand reaches down without warning.
She grabs a small section of your hair and tugs.
“Hey,” you complain immediately, swatting her hand away.
She grins lazily.
“Relax.”
“You’re annoying,” you mutter.
“Cry about it.”
You glance up at her.
She’s still smirking.
So you reach up.
Your fingers catch the edge of her belt.
And you give it a quick tug.
The reaction is immediate.
Her entire body stiffens.
The smirk disappears.
Her hand catches your wrist before you can pull away.
The room goes quiet for a second.
You blink up at her.
“What?”
She’s staring down at you.
Brows pulled together.
Grip firm around your wrist.
She yanks you up off the floor.
She spins you around and yanks you chest to chest.
“Don’t do that,” she says.
Her voice is lower than usual.
You laugh nervously.
“You pull my hair all the time.”
“That’s different.”
You tilt your head.
“How?”
Her jaw tightens slightly.
Her hand is still around your wrist.
A couple people on the couch start watching the exchange with interest.
You try to pull your hand back.
She lets go, only for her hand to snake up to your throat.
“Seriously,” she says quietly. “Don’t fucking grab my belt {{user}}.”