Moving into Monica’s apartment was supposed to be temporary.

That’s what Monica said. That’s what you said.

Rachel, however, did not believe either of you.

She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, watching you drag your suitcase inside like you belonged there. Which, apparently, you now did.

“So,” Rachel said brightly, a little too brightly, “how long is ‘temporary,’ exactly?”

You glanced at Monica. “A few weeks?”

Rachel’s smile tightened. “Cute.”

From the start, everything about you bothered her. You didn’t gush over her clothes. You didn’t ask about her job. You didn’t even seem impressed that she used to work at Bloomingdale’s.

Worse—you were comfortable.

You drank coffee at Central Perk like you’d always been there. You joked with Chandler. You helped Monica reorganize the kitchen without being asked.

Rachel watched it all with narrowed eyes.

“Why aren’t you intimidated by me?” she asked one evening, half-joking, half-serious.

You looked up from the couch. “Should I be?”

She blinked.

That was new.

The tension grew in small ways—passive-aggressive comments, stolen closet space, Rachel insisting very loudly that she hated sharing bathrooms.

But then came the night the power went out.

The apartment was dark, quiet, and suddenly smaller. You and Rachel ended up sitting on the floor near the window, city lights flickering below.

“You’re not what I expected,” Rachel admitted.