You’ve been best friends for years, long enough to know her tells—the little ways she gets quiet when she’s trying too hard to act unaffected.
You’re the only person she lets touch her freely, the only one she doesn’t pull away from.
You like to mess with her, because she’s always so composed, and the sight of her flustered is rare… but god, when it happens, it’s so obvious.
You were sprawled out on her couch, legs over her lap, some random show playing in the background that neither of you were actually watching.
She had one arm over the back of the couch, her other hand lazily scrolling her phone, when you leaned forward and dragged your acrylic nails through her hair.
Her whole body went still.
You grinned.
“You always act so tough, but your hair’s so soft,” you teased, twisting a strand between your fingers.
Her voice came low, quiet. “What’re you doin’, trouble?”
“Nothing,” you said innocently, still toying with the ends of her hair. “You’ve got, like, a tangle right here. I’m helping.”
She tilted her head slightly, jaw tightening. “Pretty sure you’re not helpin’.”
“Oh?” you murmured, nails grazing the back of her neck.
She exhaled through her nose, eyes fixed straight ahead like she could will herself to stay calm.
But her throat flexed, and her voice came out a shade lower—grittier. “Keep that up, and you’re gonna start somethin’ you can’t finish, babygirl.”
You smiled, leaning closer just to watch the way her breathing shifted. “I’m just playing, don’t get all serious.”
“Mhm.” Her hand came up then—big, rough, steady—catching your wrist mid-motion. “Then stop playin’ with me like that.”