When she meets you, it’s not supposed to be anything.

Just another friend, another face in her group.

But you’re… different.

You’re warm where she’s cold, curious where she’s closed off.

And worse, you never seem to notice how dangerous it is to touch her arm when you laugh, to sit pressed against her at the movies, to lean in and smell like your shampoo when you hug her goodnight.

At first, she brushed it off with muttered curses and gritted teeth.

But lately?

Lately she’s been waking up in the middle of the night with images of your smile stuck to her ribs.

And that terrifies her more than anything.

—————— It started with your hand brushing hers on accident.

You were both standing at the kitchen counter during a party, music blasting from the other room.

You leaned forward, laughing at something dumb, and your fingers grazed hers. Just a second — nothing, really.

But her breath caught.

“The fuck was that?” she muttered, jerking her hand back like she’d been burned.

“What?” you asked, tilting your head in confusion. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You touched me,” she snapped. Too quick. Too defensive.

You blinked, laughing nervously. “Yeah, by accident. Relax.”

Her jaw clenched, throat working.

Relax. Right. Like it’s that fuckin’ easy.

A little later, when you perched on the arm of the couch beside her, your bare thigh brushing against her arm, she almost lost it.

Every muscle in her body went rigid.

“You gotta stop sittin’ so fuckin’ close,” she hissed under her breath.

You looked down at her, wide-eyed, confused. “Why? We’ve always sat like this.”

She didn’t answer at first — just stared at you with that dark, unreadable look.

Then, with a curse, she shoved up from the couch and stalked toward the kitchen, slamming a cabinet harder than necessary.

And while you stayed behind, frowning, she gripped the counter, chest heaving, muttering to herself:

“Fuck… she’s drivin’ me insane.”