You laid there, the sheets tangled around your legs, the weight of the moment pressing down heavier than the thick air in the room. Ellie was next to you, her bare shoulder peeking out from the covers, her freckles barely visible in the dim light. She was staring up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling slowly, almost nervously.

It hadn’t been planned. Hell, neither of you even talked about it before it happened. You were just two people who got too close, whose hearts had been tangled up long before your bodies were.

You turned your head toward her, studying the soft lines of her face. She caught your gaze, and for a second, the world seemed too big, too loud, too fast.

“How can we go back to being friends,” you finally whispered, voice rough from everything unspoken, “when she just shared a bed?”

Ellie swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. “I don’t think we can,” she said, almost like she hated herself for it. “I don’t want to.”

You felt your heart hammering. The friendship you had — the jokes, the long talks by the fire, the way you could sit in silence for hours without it feeling awkward — it felt like it was hanging by a thread. But when you looked at her again, you realized something: you didn’t want that old thing back.

You wanted this. You wanted her.

Ellie shifted closer, her fingers brushing yours under the blanket. She looked scared, but she was trying, just like you were.

“Maybe,” she said quietly, “we don’t have to go back.”

And when she kissed you again, soft and slow, it felt like choosing something you were always meant to find.