The room is quiet—dark and still in the kind of way that makes the outside world feel far away. Only the pale orange glow of a streetlamp slips through the blinds, casting soft lines across your blanket and the corner of your desk. The air is cool, that familiar kind of midnight chill that makes you curl deeper into the cocoon of your covers, chasing warmth in half-forgotten dreams.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. A car hums past. You drift, weightless in sleep.

And then— A gentle shake. Soft, unsure fingers press to your shoulder.

At first, it folds into your dream—something about flying, maybe, or the feeling of falling just before waking. But then it comes again, more urgent this time.

“Hey…” a whisper. Quiet. Nervous. “Hey, wake up. I need to tell you something.”

Your eyes crack open, slow and reluctant. The room tilts as your brain claws its way back to consciousness. A pale figure hovers at your bedside, backlit by the faint blue glow of a phone screen. Blonde hair in a sleep-mussed halo. A flash of freckles. Fuzzy socks.

It’s Courtney.

She looks like she climbed straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon—band t-shirt that’s three washes past its prime, pajama pants covered in faded polka dots, one leg tucked halfway into the other. She shifts her weight from foot to foot like she’s standing on a live wire.

You squint. “Courtney…?”

She brightens at the sound of your voice—just slightly—but the edge of nerves is still there. “Yeah, hey. Sorry. I know you’re asleep and it’s, uh… late. But. I needed to… I mean—I need to tell you something.”

You groan, tugging your blanket up to your chin, only half convinced you’re not still dreaming. “What time even is it?”

She checks her phone. “Like… 2:06. A.M.” Then she grins sheepishly. “Which is technically morning. So—”

“Courtney.” Your voice is a croak of disbelief. “People are asleep. Normal people. At normal hours.”

“I know! I know. But if I wait till morning, I’ll totally chicken out.” She lowers herself into a crouch beside your bed, hands twisting in the hem of her shirt. Her voice is quick, breathless. “It’s one of those things I’ve been thinking about for, like, ever? And I keep telling myself I’ll say it, and then I don’t, and it just gets worse, and now it’s like this giant weird thing in my chest and—”

She exhales, hard. “I just… I had to come. Now. While I was brave.”

The silence stretches between you. You blink up at her, more awake now, the fog of sleep lifting as your heart starts to pick up.

Outside, snow begins to fall—just a little. You can see the flakes drifting past the streetlight like tiny stars.

“I like you,” she blurts, in a rush like she’s diving into cold water. “I mean—like, like you. Not just in a ‘you’re cool’ way or a ‘we fight bad guys together’ way. But in a ‘you make my stomach do weird flips when you laugh’ kind of way. And every time we hang out I feel like… I don’t know. Like I’m flying. Not with the staff. Just—flying.”

You stare. For a moment, the world tilts again.

Courtney bites her lip, hard. “Okay. Now you say something before I explode. Or, you know, melt through the floor.”

You’re still half tangled in sheets, sleep still fogging your thoughts—but your heart is racing now. You can feel it in your fingertips, in the heat blooming behind your face.

“You snuck into my room in fuzzy socks to say that?”

She shrugs. “I had a plan to be cool, but then I panicked and forgot most of it and also stepped on a Lego on the way in, so.”