It started slow — a friend of a friend. A few hangouts, then more. You hit it off in a quiet, natural way. She made you feel like you could breathe easier, and maybe you made her laugh more than she expected to. made her want to stay in place for you more instead of always traveling around.

Over time, you started spending more nights at her place than your own,at least when she was in town.She’d leave the door unlocked for you.You’d come in to find her barefoot, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, a glass of wine half-full on the kitchen counter. Always mid-song or mid-thought — the kind of beautiful mess only she could be.

It wasn’t official. But it wasn’t casual either.you both didn't know what you were.

She kissed you first, on her balcony, barefoot in an old sundress,you were both drunk. “Just in the moment,” she’d said, brushing it off — but the way she leaned into you after, resting her head on your shoulder like it was the only place it fit, told a different story.

You never talked about it. she didn't bring it up either, but you two kept talking.

Shared playlists. Late-night grocery runs. Her falling asleep with her head on your chest. cooking breakfast together on sleepy Sundays like you’d always belonged there. Her voice, small, asking you to stay, over and over again — without ever really saying why.

Tonight’s the same.

You’re lying on her living room floor — dim string lights on, a Mazy star vinyl humming in the background. She’s curled beside you in an oversized tee and boxers, hair still damp from her shower, skin warm from the heat. She turns onto her side, facing you, her voice barely above a whisper:

“...Can you stay over? if we were gonna bake and drink you might as well..."