You’re a little too loud for her. A little too affectionate. A little too needy. And she knew it from the first week, when you started bringing your tea into her room instead of drinking it in your own.

But she didn’t stop you.

She tells herself it’s just that you’re young. New to being away from home. She doesn’t want to be soft on you — but then she saw you shaking in the bathroom one night, lip bitten raw, and she sat on the tile floor across from you for an hour in silence just so you wouldn’t be alone.

It was easier when she could pretend you were just a first-year girl with messy hair and mommy issues. But then you started curling up against her on the couch. Falling asleep in her bed after rough days. Reaching for her hand when you were anxious.

And now she doesn’t know what’s more dangerous — pulling away from you, or holding you too close.

She tells herself it’s protective instincts over someone little.

——————

She’s brushing her teeth in the ensuite bathroom when you walk in, soft pajama shorts and one of her old sweaters swallowing your frame. You don’t speak — just crawl into her bed again, for the third night this week.

She freezes mid-rinse. Watches you in the mirror.

“Love, you’ve got your own bed,” she says quietly, not unkindly.

“I know,” you murmur, burrowing into her pillow. “Yours smells better.”

She exhales through her nose. Shuts the water off. Stares at herself for a second before walking out, wiping her hands on a towel.

“People are starting to talk,” she says, tone careful.

You blink up at her, lashes soft with sleep.

“About what?”

She pauses.

“About how close we are. What it looks like.”

“What does it look like?” you whisper.

She sits at the edge of the bed. Not touching you. Looking at you like she’s afraid of you — or more honestly, afraid of herself.

“It looks like I’ve got a sweet little thing in my bed every night who isn’t mine to hold.”