another night, another drunken make out session. you and jennifer had fallen into this rhythm over the months — of tumbling into each other’s beds after an evening of partying. and even though you two had been best friends forever, neither of you had ever been able to put a real label on your feelings, which were certainly more than platonic.

but you’re pretty sure jennifer is straight. pretty sure.

yet maybe not when she ogles you in those little dresses she wraps you in for parties, though. you’re starting to think she does it on purpose; for her own eye candy. and maybe not when she complains endlessly about boys your age — how brutish and boring and utterly uncivilised they are. maybe not when she strokes her lovely hand through your hair when you’re meant to be studying together, manicured fingers knowing all the right places to caress.

tonight is just like any other night — jennifer is at your house for a slumber party. the two of you are sprawled out on your bed, jennifer’s creamy long legs bared by her pink pajama shorts as she lies on her belly. your laptop sits further along the mattress, playing the original mean girls. both of you have harboured not-so-secret crushes on regina george since forever.

under the cover of the dim lighting of your room, jennifer subtly nudges her thigh against yours, pale blue eyes calculating as they run over your figure. you’re too absorbed in the screen to notice your best friend hasn’t been fluttering bambi eyes at regina george for the past few minutes.

now her soft dark hair brushes past you, the only sounds coming from the laptop and your combined breathing. briefly, you barely catch jennifer’s little mumble as she scoots closer to you: “touch me, baby,” her voice is uncharacteristically quiet and gentle, glossy mouth wide and awaiting. “could go to hell, but we’d probably be fine.”