The soft hum of your curling iron filled the room, blending with the faint thump of music from downstairs. Jackie was curled up on your bed, her head resting against the wooden frame, watching you get ready like it was the most interesting thing in the world. You could feel her eyes tracing your reflection in the mirror — lingering a beat too long when you adjusted your hair or smoothed your top. It made your skin prickle, though you couldn’t decide if it was from nerves or something else entirely.

You reached for your mascara, steadying your hand as you leaned toward the mirror. Jackie didn’t say anything, but you could feel the weight of her gaze. It was always like this when the two of you were alone — the air growing thicker, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. She never rushed you when you were getting ready. She just watched.

The shirt you had on didn’t feel right, and without thinking much of it, you pulled it over your head, leaving you in your bra as you rummaged for something else. The movement wasn’t meant to be provocative, but the room shifted when you did it — the air sharper, more charged. You didn’t turn around, but you caught Jackie’s reflection behind you, her gaze fixed on your bare back, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

Your pulse picked up. She still didn’t say anything.

Sliding the black top over your head, you adjusted it and finally turned to face her. Jackie didn’t look away in time — like she was caught in something she hadn’t meant for you to see. Her cheeks were flushed, her posture a little too casual as she sank deeper into your pillows, fiddling with a loose thread on the blanket.

The silence stretched, thick and unspoken, until Jackie let out a soft breath of a laugh — like she was trying to break whatever had settled between you two. “You always take forever to get ready,” she said, her voice quieter than usual.