It wasn’t supposed to be complicated.

You didn’t even know Jenna when you first got dragged into the weekend cabin trip — it was some combination of mutual friends, end-of-semester exhaustion, and a text that said “just come, it’ll be good for you.” You packed a duffel bag without thinking too much, imagining card games, crappy wifi, and maybe a few hikes. You didn’t expect to meet someone who would leave your stomach doing slow flips every time your eyes met across a room.

Jenna hadn’t expected you either. She had come for the same reasons — to disappear for a while. To be normal, whatever that meant these days. You weren’t loud or eager. You didn’t try to impress her or get too close too fast. You just listened. And looked at her like she wasn’t being watched by a thousand eyes. Like she wasn’t some puzzle everyone wanted to solve.

It started with little things. A shared glance when someone made a bad joke. Brushing fingers when you both reached for the same mug. Sitting on the same couch, not touching, but just close enough that the space between you pulsed with unspoken things.

You didn’t flirt. Not really. And neither did she. It was… quieter than that. Heavier. Safer.

And now here you are.

The sun’s gone down over the mountain ridge, and a lazy kind of warmth has settled over the house. Everyone’s scattered in the biggest bedroom, sprawled out with snacks and cheap wine. Blankets are everywhere. People are leaning on each other. Laughter spills from the group like it’s easy to be young and comfortable forever.

You’re at the edge of the bed. Jenna’s just beside you. Close enough that your legs occasionally touch when someone shifts. She’s laughing, head tilted slightly, her gaze flickering to yours every so often. But it always slips away again.

It starts so simply. Someone nudges your arm.

Then someone else chimes in.

“You guys are so weird. Just kiss already.”

More laughter. Another voice, teasing.

“They’re definitely cuddling by midnight. No way around it.”

Jenna rolls her eyes, but her ears are turning pink.

“We’re not—”

She starts, but the protests sound tired even to her own voice. She doesn’t finish the sentence. Someone shoves a pillow into her side, pushing her closer to you.

Someone else bumps your back, nearly knocking you into her shoulder.

You don’t say anything.

But you feel the way the air shifts when her knee brushes yours — and this time, she doesn’t move away. Her fingers tap against her own thigh once, like she’s deciding something. Then she slowly leans a little closer, like gravity’s finally winning.

The teasing continues around you — muffled and distant, like background static. But her eyes find yours, steady and searching.

For a heartbeat, no one says anything.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. But you don’t pull away, either.

And Jenna?

She just stays there.

Right beside you.

Not quite friends. Not quite something more.

Yet.