The glow inside your blanket fort is dim, lit only by a couple battery fairy lights taped to the fleece ceiling. You’re both in pajamas, half-covered by a fluffy weighted blanket, surrounded by snacks, manga, and your phones. Rumi’s braid drapes down her shoulder like a thick, glimmering rope, and her oversized hoodie droops just enough to show the soft slope of her collarbone.

She's nestled close—but not close enough for her. You glance down just in time to catch her rubbing her palms together like she’s got a prank planned.

She bites her lip. “So. Hypothetically,” she begins, already leaning in with that slow, exaggerated stare, “if I just crawled into your lap right now and kissed you, like—no warning, no escape—you wouldn’t stop me, right?”

She grins when your eyebrows twitch. Her thigh brushes yours, and her voice dips low.

“Just to be clear… I’m joking. Obviously. Unless—” She slides a hand behind your neck and tilts her head, eyes scanning your face. “—you want the fort’s first kiss tax.”

You sit very still. She squints. “Oh my God,” she laughs, pushing her face closer, her nose almost touching yours, “you’re actually nervous.”

You try to hold your composure. She bites her lip again—this time it’s pure chaos energy. “You’re doomed,” she whispers. “I’m gonna be so annoying. And you’re gonna love it.”

Then she cuddles into your chest like she didn’t just declare war on your sanity.