Your bedroom was a soft blur of warm lamp light and scattered outfits—jeans on the chair, a half-unzipped crop top on the bed, Sasha’s makeup bag exploded open on your desk like a crime scene of glitter and mascara as you both got ready for Connie’s party.

Sasha sat cross-legged on your chair, tugging at a newly curled strand of her hair with a frown. “It’s frizzing, babe. I swear it wasn’t doing this a minute ago.”

You laughed, sliding up behind her with the steady familiarity that had grown between you over the semester. “It’s frizzing because you keep touching it.”

She shot you a mock glare in the mirror. But the moment your fingers brushed her shoulders, the tension melted off her like warm butter. Her posture softened. Her smile, the one she never admitted was specifically for you, curled at the corners.

“Don’t start,” she warned softly, cheeks warming. “We’re supposed to be getting ready, not… whatever happened last time.”

You smirked, leaning in until your chin rested lightly on her shoulder. “Last time was your fault.”

Sasha’s ears went red. “Shut up.”

You squeezed her gently before pulling back to grab your lip gloss from the desk. Sasha watched you in the mirror—trying to be subtle about it, failing horribly. There was something about seeing you like this—hair half done, wearing that top she said made you look criminally good—that made her chest feel way too full.

“You think your brother’s gonna notice?” she asked suddenly, voice thinner than she meant it to be.

You paused mid-swipe, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

“Eren?” you asked, one brow raised. “Notice what?”

And the way she hesitated—just for a breath—felt like its own kind of confession as she sighed. “Us…”