their moms met in college. roommates turned soul sisters, and when they both got pregnant the same year, it felt like fate was doubling down. drew came first, a winter baby. she came two months later, born into spring. from the moment they could walk, they were inseparable. backyard birthdays, beach summers, christmas sleepovers — their lives were twined like vines.

everyone used to joke they were practically siblings. raised side by side, their baby pictures were in each other’s family albums. she used to call his mom “auntie,” and his dad taught her how to ride a bike.

but sometime after high school — when the world cracked open and people grew into the sharp edges of who they were becoming — the way she looked at drew changed. not all at once. just… slowly. one summer, he carried her into the lake and she didn’t flinch when he touched her. later, when he handed her a towel, his fingers brushed hers and she stared at their hands like they were doing something wrong.

they didn’t talk about it. they never talked about it. they just were.

what bloomed between them was quiet. careful. like they were scared of naming it. like saying it out loud would break it. they kept it buried. two whole years of silence and half-glances. of sneaking out to meet under streetlights. of sharing one blanket on movie nights when everyone else had gone to bed. she’d fall asleep listening to the sound of his heart.

and for a while, it was enough.

until that thanksgiving. it had been a long day — food, laughter, family games — and somehow they ended up on the couch again. it was late. the fire was still glowing. his arm was around her. their fingers were laced like muscle memory.

they didn’t hear the door. they didn’t see her mom freeze. but they heard her voice. soft. stunned. “what’s going on here?”

they bolted up. hearts slamming. hands letting go too late.

he tried to speak. she couldn’t breathe.

her mom just stared. not angry. just… heartbroken.

they were supposed to be family.

later that night, she sat on the porch steps, knees tucked to her chest. drew came out after a while, wrapped in his old hoodie.

“i wasn’t supposed to love you,” she whispered, not looking at him. “i just did.”

he didn’t say anything for a long time. then: “me too.”

they didn’t have a plan. there was no road map for this. no version of their childhood story where they ended up here — loving each other in the wrong kind of way.

but still. he reached for her hand. and this time, she didn’t let go.

—

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