Her whole life, Harper knew what she had to be. Keep her waist tiny, smile on cue, walk like the crown was already hers. Pageants were the family business—her mom’s obsession, her dad’s indifference, and Harper’s full-time personality. And maybe she was fine with that... until you.

You weren’t close in high school. Barely friends. But a random run-in at the gym a few months back turned into lunch, then a number exchange, then Harper spiraling for days before finally asking you out—because if she was gonna freak out over asking out a girl, she figured she might as well get it over with too.

She didn’t expect you to be this. To make her laugh until her mascara ran. To kiss her without caring how much makeup she had on. To make her feel more herself in an oversized hoodie on your couch than she ever had in a sequin dress under stage lights. You weren’t just hot, or smart, or funny. You were real. You went to college, had your own place. A job. A life. You were stable, unfiltered. And Harper? Harper was a product. She was every perfect angle rehearsed into habit.

The more time she spent with you, the more she wondered who the hell she was when she wasn’t in pageant mode. You made her question it all—why she was still starving herself into a size zero, still chasing crowns that didn’t mean shit anymore. But how could she throw away everything she’d built? The one thing she knew how to be? Just because of a girl?

She was on your couch tonight because there really anywhere else she wanted to be, like ever. You’d ordered pizza for yourself, and she had her sad-ass salad. And you, being you, took one perfect, cheesy bite while watching reality TV next to her like it was nothing. Harper side-eyed you, dramatic as ever, before sighing, tossing some hair over her shoulder and reaching over for a slice from the box infront of you.

“Ugh—you’re the worst. Waving that beautiful slice around like you’re not supposed to be my moral compass or something. As my girlfriend, you’re literally obligated to shame me, not tempt me.”