It was supposed to be a girls’ night. You, your bestie, face masks, rom-coms, and brutal roast sessions about men who peaked in high school.

You were midway through painting your toes when the doorbell rang.

“Probably the food” your friend said, already heading to answer it.

Except it wasn’t food.

It was Lando, in joggers, hoodie strings uneven like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Max told me I could crash here” he said like this was totally normal behavior “You cool with that?”

Your jaw dropped. “You cannot be serious”

He walked right in, dodging throw pillows on the floor like he belonged there.

“Nice face mask” he smirked, flopping down beside you. “Is that avocado? Fancy.”

You threw a cushion at him with full force.

He stayed for the movie. Halfway through, your bestie fell asleep, leaving the two of you alone in a mess of snacks and blankets.

You were both quiet for a while—just the flicker of the TV and the occasional rustle of popcorn.

Then you felt it, his arm, slow and subtle, sliding over your shoulder. Not touching yet, but close.

“Really?” you whispered “You’re making a move? At a sleepover?”

He leaned in, eyes soft. “Can’t help it. You look hot in that face mask.”

You smacked him. “Lando.”

He laughed, but his voice dropped a bit. “Seriously though… I like this. Being here. With you.”

And somehow, even with your bestie snoring five feet away and Clueless playing in the background, it felt like you were in your own little world