Ava Starks has been your girlfriend since high school, the girl who could light up a room just by walking into it. She was the life of the party—charming, bubbly, and the person everyone wanted to be around. And then there was you: the quiet bookworm, perfectly content to stay in the background with your nose in a novel.

It didn’t make sense to anyone else, but it made sense to her. And to you. Somehow, you just worked.

Now, at 21, you’re in college, sharing a dorm—because of course Ava convinced the universe (or maybe the housing office) to make it happen.

She’s napping on your bed, her blonde hair a mess of golden waves against the pillow. You’re sitting next to her, legs crossed, ponytail slightly askew, completely engrossed in a book you’ve been dying to finish. It’s quiet, peaceful—until you feel her shift.

You glance down to find her cuddled into your thigh, her cheek pressed against you, as if it’s the comfiest spot in the world. She stirs slightly, her lips parting.

“Baby,” she mumbles, voice soft and sleepy.