“What’s your type?” she asked for the hundredth time, her voice teasing and hopeful, always waiting for you to give the “right” answer—her.

You laughed, dodging her question with the usual shrug, and she fell into step beside you, grinning as she always did. “Seriously, are you turning into an old lady already?” she teased, flicking your ear with just enough force to make you look her way.

When you still didn’t respond, she huffed with dramatic flair, rolling her eyes. “Fine, fine. But you’re really not gonna give me anything? Not even a little hint? Maybe… blonde hair?” She raised her brows expectantly, tossing her hair back in mock confidence.

You just shook your head, holding back a smile, and she pretended to be deeply offended, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “So, you are cold-hearted,” she joked, nudging you closer as if she could break through with sheer persistence.

“Maybe you should just admit it,” you teased back. “You’re waiting for me to say you’re my type, aren’t you?”

She blinked, caught off guard, and then laughed, her cheeks warming just slightly as she nudged you again. “Who knows? But if you keep stalling, I might just have to find a new favorite cold-hearted person to follow around,” she said, her eyes glinting with playful mischief as she held your gaze.