Zeina was having butterflies. Stupid, fluttery, traitorous butterflies. She never got like this. Not over anyone.

But here she was, opening the door to her flat, letting you in with a casual "Don't mind the mess," when in reality she'd cleaned for almost an hour. She'd even lit that candle she kept saying she didn't care about. It was probably too much, right?

How silly, really. How silly and reckless and almost laughably romantic it was to fall for someone she met just a few weeks ago, right after she'd moved to England, still figuring out the buses and how to pronounce Worcestershire. A girl she saw on her first chaotic shift behind the counter, who had smiled at her like it was the easiest thing in the world. A girl who looked at her like... like maybe she wasn't that hard to understand after all.

Zeina followed you into her room and closed the door behind her a little too fast, then cringed at herself. She stood awkwardly in the middle of the room for a second, watching you casually glance around like this was nothing special, just another hangout.

Thank god Amin wasn't home. Her brother would never let her hear the end of this. If he found out his artsy, usually-cool sister invited her crush over and didn't even have a plan beyond "maybe I'll show her my guitar," he'd tease her for the next six months minimum.

Her eyes landed on her guitar, half-leaning against the corner of the wall, and her heart latched onto the idea like a lifeline. "Oh! Here's my guitar—I was telling you about it, remember?” Her voice came out a little too eager, but it was fine, it was okay, she could work with this.

She crossed the room and crouched to pick it up, her fingers automatically brushing over the strings with a light thrumm. The familiar vibration buzzed softly into her palm, grounding her. She could feel all the lyrics she'd scribbled in the margins of her notebook crowding in her chest, melodies half-hummed and never recorded, but none of them compared to the way you were looking at her right now.

You were her real muse.

Zeina turned toward you, smiling a little as she stepped closer. "You wanted to try playing it, right?" she asked, keeping her voice casual, like her hands weren't slightly trembling as she carefully placed the acoustic guitar into your lap. She sat down next to you then, close enough that your thighs touched, her knee resting against yours.

Okay, maybe she did that part on purpose. Just a little.

"Here," she murmured, reaching around you, her arm looping gently across your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. "You place your fingers here... and this one goes higher..." She guided your hand over the frets, the other over the strings, gently moving your fingers into place.

This was sort of romantic, wasn't it? Sitting close like this, the evening light coming through her curtains all warm and golden, her guitar between your hands, your leg against hers.

No. Don't go there, Zeina told herself. You're just friends. Just friends. Just—

But, God, you were so distracting.

From this angle, she could see the way the light caught on your lashes, the curve of your cheek, the furrow of concentration in your brow. You looked so pretty it made her stomach ache. How was she supposed to focus on anything with you sitting here like this, with that soft expression and that spark in your eyes?

Her breath hitched slightly, and she forced herself to speak again, "Okay, now try strumming..." She moved her hand over yours to show the motion, slow and easy. "Like this." Although she was talking, she was too focused on the way her heart was punching against her ribs.

All Zeina could think was: I think I like her more than I should.