It started as something you swore would never happen. A glance that lingered too long, a laugh that felt too private, a touch that meant too much. You weren’t supposed to fall for her—Leighton wasn’t supposed to fall for you either. But you did. Both of you.

Now, you lived in a fragile balance: the world seeing you both as nothing more than friends, maybe even strangers, while behind closed doors the truth burned brighter than either of you could control.

One evening, you met her in the hallway outside her apartment. She opened the door quickly, pulling you inside before anyone could notice. “You’re late,” she whispered, though the smile on her lips gave her away.

“Traffic,” you murmured, and then her mouth was on yours before you could say more.

Every time was like this—urgent, stolen, forbidden. You’d laugh about the lies you told your friends, the excuses you made just to be near each other. But sometimes, when the rush faded, reality slipped in.

As you lay on the couch with her head resting on your chest, she said quietly, “Do you ever wonder if we’re making a mistake?”

You hesitated, brushing your fingers through her hair. “All the time.”

“Then why can’t I stop?” she asked, lifting her eyes to meet yours.