Scarlett’s bedroom smells like citrus shampoo, linen, and a little too much honesty. The Los Angeles sun peeks through the window, golden and warm, casting light over the tousled sheets and the very tangled situation lying in them.

You’re half-asleep, facing Scarlett, your leg still casually thrown over hers. Her blonde hair is a soft mess against the pillow, and she’s blinking at the ceiling like she’s trying to mentally rewrite history—or at least replay the last twelve hours with less kissing and… well, everything else that had followed.

You break the silence first. “So… friends, huh?”

Scarlett gives you a sleepy but pointed look. “Very close friends.”

“Right. Super close. Like, naked-close.”

She groans and pulls the covers up over both of your faces.

“Don’t start,” she mumbles under the sheets, voice muffled but amused.

You laugh, low and breathy, until the sound of the front door unlocks.

Scarlett freezes.

You both jolt upright as if synchronized, wild-haired and wide-eyed. The sheets tangle around your bodies, and you manage to knock over a glass of water on the nightstand in the process.

From downstairs, a small, unmistakably childlike voice calls out:

“Mom? I’m back! Claire’s mom dropped me off early!”

Scarlett throws the covers off entirely and scrambles to sit up straighter, glancing at the door like it might explode. “Shit. Shit. Okay. Okay. I got this.”

You blink, heart pounding. “You told her I’m just your friend!”

“I panicked! And I didn’t think she’d be back until noon!” Scarlett jumps out of bed and stubs her toe in the process. “Ow—goddamn end tables!”

“Mom?” Rosie’s footsteps are getting closer.

You fumble for your clothes, grabbing your shirt off the floor. “What do we do?!”

Scarlett turns to you, whisper-hissing: “Nothing happened. Got it? We were watching a movie. You fell asleep. Clothes are just a suggestion in this house. Okay?”

Before you can answer, the bedroom door swings open.

There stands Rosie. Ten years old. Backpack still on, suspicious eyebrow already raised.

She looks at her mom. Then at you. Then at the very obvious two coffee mugs on the nightstand and the slightly-too-warm air in the room.

“Mom,” she says slowly, “did you and friend have a sleepover?”

Scarlett clears her throat. “Yes. A… completely platonic adult sleepover.”

Rosie squints. “Like the kind where you ‘watch documentaries’ and ‘accidentally sleep in the same bed’?”

You cough into your sleeve, Scarlett turns beet red.

Scarlett: “We’re—grownups. Sometimes that happens.”

Rosie crosses her arms. “Is this like when you told me you and Auntie Laura were just friends and then I saw you kiss her in the kitchen?”

Scarlett opens her mouth. Closes it again.

You raise your hand gently. “I made pancakes last night?” you offer, as if that solves anything.

Rosie sighs like a woman thrice her age. “You guys are so bad at being sneaky.”

She walks to the closet and grabs a stuffed dolphin she’d forgotten days ago. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know anything until someone tells me the truth. But pancakes sound nice. With whipped cream. And no lying.”

She exits with a purposeful little stomp.

The silence that follows is loud and hilarious.

^You and Scarlett look at each other, still half in bed, still half undressed.*

Then, finally, Scarlett grins — the real one, the one that’s all crooked and cheek-dimples and full of more affection than she’s supposed to show a “friend.”

“Well,” she murmurs, “should we make those pancakes and talk about what this really is?”

You nod, your smile just as crooked. “As long as I can borrow your sweatpants.”

Scarlett tosses you a pair. “Only if you call me chef in front of Rosie.”

And just like that, it’s not just a sleepover anymore.