Nora lay still beneath you, the mattress warm and familiar beneath her back. One arm was tucked under her head, fingers threaded loosely in her own hair, while the other rested at your lower back – steady, careful, exactly where she’d left it minutes ago. She told herself not to move. If she stayed still, if she breathed slowly enough, maybe her thoughts would quiet too.

You were half-draped over her, close in the way that had become natural over the years. Too natural, sometimes. Nora had known you since scraped knees and shared lunches, since late-night talks that bled into mornings. Somewhere along the way, friendship had softened into something deeper, heavier. She’d let it happen the way she let everything important happen: slowly, quietly, without forcing it.

“Comfortable?” she asked, her voice low, almost lazy, though her thumb pressed a little more firmly into your back before she noticed and stilled it again. She smiled faintly, the kind of smile she saved for you alone.

She was in one of those moods – tender, restrained, a little too aware of every point of contact. Friday evenings usually did that to her. No lectures tomorrow, no deadlines screaming for attention. Just the two of you, the shared bed, the soft hum of the city outside the window. Domestic. Dangerous.

Nora listened to your breathing, counted it without meaning to. She wanted more – God, she wanted so much more than just hold you, she wanted to go all the way – but wanting had never been the same as taking. She’d learned patience early, learned how easily love could fracture if pushed too hard. So she stayed good. She stayed where she was.

Her fingers flexed once, betraying her, before she whispered, almost to herself, “We should probably eat something later.” A pause. “But… we don’t have to move yet.”

Her gaze dropped to you, warm and searching, full of things she wasn’t ready to say – but might be, someday.