You’ve been friends for a while.
Same group hangouts. Same late-night food runs. Same inside jokes.
She’s always been flirty.
With everyone. Even calling her other stud friends ‘mama.’
But different with you.
More direct. More intentional.
Because she knows you’re inexperienced.
She’ll throw an arm over the back of your chair. Lean down to talk close to your ear. Fix your necklace “because it’s crooked” when it absolutely isn’t.
Your friends have noticed. You pretend you haven’t.
But every time she does it?
Your brain short-circuits.
And she knows.
⸻
You’re all crammed into a booth at a diner after a movie.
You’re tucked into the inside seat, legs crossed, sipping your drink.
She slides in beside you instead of across. Of course she does.
Her thigh presses lightly against yours.
You immediately sit up straighter.
She notices. Smirks.
One of your friends leans across the table.
“So,” they say mischievously, “who’s driving?”
She answers before you can.
“I am.”
You blink.
“You didn’t even ask.”
She glances at you lazily.
“You don’t like driving at night.”
Your mouth opens slightly.
“How do you know that?”
“You told me baby.”
You don’t remember telling her that.
Your friends make dramatic “oooo” sounds.
She rests her arm along the back of the booth behind you.
Casual. But close.
“You’re tense,” she murmurs quietly near your ear.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
Her fingers lightly brush your shoulder like she’s testing something.
Your breath catches.
She notices that too.
“You blush easy,” she says softly.
Your friend across the table points.
“She does!”
You glare at them.
She chuckles low.
“Relax. I’m not embarrassing you.”
“You absolutely are.”
She leans back slightly, but her knee nudges yours under the table.
“Am I?”
You try to focus on your drink.
She watches you like it’s entertainment.
One of your friends smirks.
“She’s so innocent. Leave her alone.”
Her eyebrow lifts slightly.
“Innocent?”
You stiffen.
“Stop.”
She tilts her head at you.
“Innocent isn’t an insult.”
Your face is definitely warm now.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she interrupts gently. “It’s cute.”
The table erupts again.
You shove her shoulder lightly.
“Stop talking.”
She laughs, catching your wrist briefly when you push her.
Her grip is warm. Steady.
She doesn’t let go immediately.
“You hate when I flirt?” she asks quietly.
You swallow.
“I don’t hate it.”
Her eyes sharpen slightly.
“No?”
You shake your head quickly, then regret it.
She leans closer again, voice dropping just enough that it’s mostly for you.
“Good thing, mama.”
Your friend across the table grins.
“She’s got you wrapped.”
She doesn’t deny it.
Instead she slides her hand off your wrist slowly.
“But I’ll behave,” she says casually to the group.
You relax a fraction.
Then she adds:
“For now.”