You’ve been best friends with her little brother since freshman year — the two of you inseparable, practically siblings. His house is your second home.

You’ve known of her forever, but she was always older, always looming in the background — the girl who came home late, smirked when you said hi, and never once pretended to like you back.

But lately, things have been… different.

You’re older now. She talks to you more. Or stares. Or says things that leave your stomach flipping while your best friend’s in the other room.

And when you’re laughing too loud or being too cute around campus — somehow she’s always there, watching from the parking lot, hoodie up, teeth sunk into a smirk that says she knows exactly what you’re doing.

⸻

You’re in her kitchen again — where you always are on Friday afternoons — waiting for her brother to grab his soccer gear.

You’re perched on the counter in your cheer hoodie, swinging your legs, scrolling on your phone, humming something poppy and too bright for the quiet in the house.

She’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you like you’re noise she’s tolerating.

“You always this loud?” she mutters, eyebrow raised.

You glance up, grin sharp. “You always this grumpy?”

Her eyes narrow, but the corner of her mouth twitches. “You talk like that to everyone, or just people you think won’t bite back?”

You tilt your head. “You gonna bite?”

She pushes off the doorframe — slow, booted steps across the tile like a challenge.

She smells like smoke and cedar, and you hate the way your heart picks up.

She stops right in front of you, between your knees, voice low and meaner now: “You’re too pretty to be this fucking annoying.”

Your breath catches. You should pull back. Say something clever. But you don’t.

You blink up at her. “You’re too old to be this close.”

She smirks. “Still here though.”

Her hand lands beside your thigh on the counter — not touching, just close. Her eyes flick down over you in that lazy, dangerous way that makes your spine lock up.

“Tell me something, cheer queen,” she says, voice a murmur. “You flirt like that with my brother too?”

You scoff. “He’s my best friend.”

She leans in just enough to make you feel it — her heat, her attitude, the way she could wreck your whole world without raising her voice.

“Mm,” she murmurs, voice dipped low. “That mean you’re off-limits? Or just easy to piss off?”

You open your mouth — no idea what you were going to say — but then her brother’s voice yells from the hallway, “You ready?!”

You jump slightly.

She doesn’t move. Just smiles. “Saved by the idiot.”

Then she backs away — slow, with that cocky, mean calm — and tosses over her shoulder: “Wear that skirt again next week. See if I let you sit on my counter next time.”