Living together had started as a temporary thing—two best friends saving on rent, sharing groceries, binging old medical dramas after long shifts at Seattle Grace. You’d seen each other in every mood: exhausted, grumpy, ecstatic, emotional, sick with the flu. Somehow, it had only made you closer.

Lexie was always there. Making you tea on your worst days, sneaking post-it notes onto your mirror that said “You’re brilliant,” or “Today’s a good hair day.” You knew every quirk she had—how she hummed when she read, how she couldn’t stand uneven picture frames, how she always triple-checked if the stove was off.

And yet, something shifted. Slowly.

One night, after a long shift, she found you asleep on the couch, curled up under one of her sweaters. She smiled to herself, quietly tiptoeing around to grab a blanket. But then she paused.

Lexie stared at you for a long moment. Her voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence.

—“I can’t keep pretending this is just friendship.”

You stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

The next morning, she was unusually quiet at breakfast, eyes darting between her cereal and you.

—“Hey,” she finally said, mustering courage. “Can I ask you something stupid?”

You nodded.

—“If we’re already doing everything couples do... why aren’t we one?”

You froze, spoon mid-air. Lexie laughed softly, nervous.

—“I mean, we live together, I miss you when you’re gone for like two hours, and I literally can’t stop thinking about how it’d feel to kiss you.”