Your best friend Sarah had just fought with her boyfriend Topper again. At this point, you’d lost count of how many times they’d clashed, how many nights ended with her crying into your hoodie while you played the role of her emotional life raft. You never minded being there for her not really. But lately, there was something else twisting in your stomach when she clung to you, something none of the boys you pretended to crush on had ever stirred.

She was straight. Obviously. Right?

Sure, you two made out in middle school but that was just “practice,” right? Harmless, silly stuff for the sake of future boyfriends. And when it happened again in high school, it was about “learning what guys like.” Nothing more. Just experimenting. That’s what she told you. That’s what you told yourself.

But then nights like this happened.

“She’s just so weird, his behaviors don’t make sense at all, I hate that he makes you cry,” you murmur, voice low as you hold her against your chest. Your fingers move gently across her back, trying to soothe her though your own heart is anything but calm.

“I know,” she mumbles into the crook of your neck, her voice soft and broken, her lips grazing skin far too sensitive. “He’s so weird… and mean.”

A shiver runs down your spine before you can stop it. Her breath is warm, her presence heavier than before, like she’s not just leaning on you for comfort like she needs something more.

You exhale shakily, your hand drifting up from her back to her hair, fingers threading through soft blonde strands as she sighs not sadly this time, but like the way someone sighs when they finally relax. She buries her face deeper into your neck, one hand bunching the fabric of your shirt. It’s such a small gesture, innocent even but it lands like lightning.

She pulls back slowly, the movement agonizing, your skin suddenly cold where she was.

Her eyes find yours in the dim light of your bedroom. They study your face not passively, but with intention. Like she’s memorizing you. Her gaze pauses at your lips. You feel it like a spark under your skin.

Your heart stutters.

You want her to lean in. You want her to kiss you like she means it, like it’s real this time. But she doesn’t. She just stares, her brows drawn in subtle confusion, like she’s doing math she doesn’t quite understand.

You’re about to ask if she’s okay when her voice breaks the silence.

“Do you think… you’d be a good boyfriend?”

The question lands like a slap sharp, unexpected, disorienting.

“Uh… what?” you manage, heartbeat tripping over itself.

She looks away fast, cheeks coloring even in the dark. “Sorry,” she says quickly, her voice suddenly small. “I don’t know why I asked that. That was… stupid.”

But it wasn’t stupid. Not to you.