You didn’t mean for the sleepover to turn into this. Actually, you kind of hoped it would. But still—this?

Robin’s bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of an old lava lamp and the pink string lights she claimed were “ironic,” though you were starting to think she genuinely liked them. You were lying on her bed, both of you still in pajama shorts and tank tops, a bowl of popcorn half-forgotten beside you, some B-grade horror flick droning in the background.

And Robin was looking at you. Not like she usually did—goofy and fast-talking, always filling the silence with words. She was quiet now, eyes dropping down to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze.

You swallowed. “What?”

She smirked slightly. “You keep staring at my mouth.”

You didn’t deny it. “So what if I am?”

That did something. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, then leaned over, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with her fingers. “Then stop overthinking and kiss me already.”

You barely had time to process that before her lips were on yours.

It was warm, a little awkward at first—because of course it was Robin—but then it deepened. Her hand slid behind your neck, pulling you closer, and your fingers instinctively curled into the soft fabric of her tee. She kissed like she talked—eager, a little messy, all in.

You gasped softly as she nipped your bottom lip, then pulled back just enough to whisper, “Still thinking?”