Being your friend was perfect, really — Jackie loved it, but she also loved you.

She thought it was platonic at first, but then came the lingering looks, the way her chest tightened when your eyes softened, the way she caught you watching her mouth more than once. That time in the bar — her fingers brushing your cheek, your hand catching hers like it was the most natural thing in the world. You both laughed it off, but her skin burned for hours after.

From that moment on, Jackie knew she didn’t love you platonically at all.

She kept you closer after that. Subtle touches that lasted too long — her hand on your wrist when she laughed, her palm pressed flat to your back when you walked through a crowded room. You never pulled away. Maybe you liked it, too.

And then came that summer cabin trip. She’d dragged you along, pretending it was about not wanting to deal with her mother alone. But really, she wanted you — your easy smile, your laugh echoing in the old wooden rooms, your closeness when the nights got cold.

Everything was fine at first. She buried the wanting under the comfort of familiarity. But that night — the one with the open windows and the soft hum of insects outside — you fell asleep before her. She watched you from across the small room, your bare back catching the moonlight, the blanket tangled low at your hips.

She told herself not to move. But her hand disobeyed — lifted itself from the warmth of her own blanket and hovered in the air, tracing the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your spine, all without touching. She imagined the heat of your skin on her fingertips. She felt the whisper of your name on her lips.

And when you shifted in your sleep, sighing softly like you’d felt her somehow, she wondered what it would be like to close the distance — to press her palm flat to your back, feel your heartbeat under her hand.

Instead, she let her arm hover there, suspended in the quiet space between you. She imagined trailing her fingers lower, around your waist, pulling herself closer until the cold night didn’t matter anymore.

She lay awake like that for hours — a confession caught between her ribs and her outstretched hand.

In the morning, you’d tease her for being so sleepy, make her coffee exactly how she liked it. She’d laugh, and you’d smile, and neither of you would say a word about the way her hand had almost found your skin in the dark.

The next night was warmer — or maybe that was just Jackie’s pulse, humming under her skin like something alive. You’d both spent the day swimming off the dock, the sun making your shoulders pink, your laughter echoing across the lake until her cheeks hurt from smiling.

Now you were inside, sprawled on the old couch, your hair still damp, legs brushing hers every so often. The cabin felt smaller than ever.

Jackie caught herself staring at your mouth again. She looked away quickly, biting her lip, but you saw it. You always did.

“You okay?” you asked, voice soft, teasing. “You’ve been staring at me all night.”

She laughed, breathless. “No, I haven’t.”

“Yeah, you have.”

You shifted closer, and she felt it all over — the heat of you, the gentle weight of your gaze.

“You’re doing it again,” you murmured.

“Shut up.” Her voice trembled on the edge of a laugh.

“Make me.”

It was a joke. It had to be. But the way you looked at her — your eyes flicking to her mouth, then back to her eyes — it didn’t feel like one.

Jackie’s hand found your cheek before she could stop herself, fingers brushing the corner of your jaw. She felt your breath hitch.

“Jackie…” you whispered, but you didn’t pull away.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t. You leaned in, eyes half-lidded, like you were dreaming this too.

“Don’t,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

So she didn’t. She closed the space, her lips brushing yours once — soft, testing. You made a small, desperate sound against her mouth and that was it — she was gone. Her hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, feeling your fingers twist into her hair like you’d been waiting for this as long as she had.