“We split rent. Groceries. Chores. But not the feelings—those are mine alone… I think.”

You didn’t mean to fall into a rhythm with her. But Jordan makes it easy. You leave notes on the fridge. She folds your sweaters. You text her when you’re almost home and she meets you at the door without saying why. No one asks what you are to each other. But she hasn’t dated anyone since you moved in. And when you called someone babe on the phone once—joking—she didn’t speak to you for the rest of the night. ——————

You walk into the kitchen in one of her shirts—loose, soft, sleeves rolled. Jordan’s already there, chopping something, music playing low.

She doesn’t look up.

“Didn’t know you were home,” she murmurs.