You’ve started to notice a trend with Van.

Every time you two hang out, there’s always space. On the couch, at the diner, even when you’re walking side by side—Van is always close, but never quite close enough. She never bumps into you, never lets her knee rest against yours, never leans in too far. It’s like she’s got an invisible barrier up at all times, like she’s hyperaware of every single inch between you.

And honestly? It’s starting to drive you insane.

“So,” you drawl, shifting to face her on the couch, “are you allergic to me, or what?”

Van, halfway through flipping through the channels, furrows her brows. “Huh?”

You gesture to the very obvious gap between you. “This. The space. You always do this.”

Van scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, come on.”

“I’m serious! Every time we hang out, you keep at least a foot of distance like I might spontaneously combust if we touch.”

Van shakes her head, feigning exasperation, but there’s a flicker of something else there too—something unsure. “I do not do that.”

“You do,” you insist, grinning. “It’s actually impressive. You must be putting in so much effort to avoid me.”

Van groans, tipping her head back against the couch. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being weird.” You lean in slightly, not even touching her, but closer—just enough to watch her reaction. And sure enough, her shoulders go a little stiff, her jaw tightening just a bit.

Bingo.

You smirk. “See? You’re doing it right now.”

Van huffs, gripping the remote a little too tightly. “I am not.”

“Oh? So you wouldn’t mind if I—” You shift, sliding a little closer, just enough that your knee brushes hers.

Van freezes.

You grin, victorious. “Thought so.”

She clears her throat, suddenly very interested in the TV screen. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” You nudge her playfully. “But you are terrified of me.”

Van groans, covering her face with her hands. “I swear to God—”

But she doesn’t move away. Not this time.