The chilly breeze of late autumn curled its tendrils around Rainbow Dash as she stood still facing the barn door, her breath fogging the air. Her hand trembled—not from the cold, but from the glossy card clasped within it. It was an unassuming piece of paper, folded unevenly, with a cartoon heart scrawled on the front in red ink. It looked nothing like the suave, poetic declarations of love she had seen in countless romantic comedies. Instead, it screamed, "I don’t know what I’m doing, but here I am."

Rainbow Dash is not the leading woman of a rom-com, though her messy mop of bright rainbow colored hair and lanky frame might have fooled someone at first glance. Her experience with romance amounted to a handful of awkward crushes, none of which had made it past the "stealing glances across the room" stage. And yet, somehow, here she was, about to confess to Applejack—her best friend, her partner-in-crime, her everything—using nothing but the scraps of knowledge she'd gleaned from the cheesy movies she'd call romantic.

She glanced up at the window, where Applejack usually was. The sight brought both comfort and dread. "What would Hugh Grant do?" Rainbow Dash muttered under her breath. Probably stumble into the confession with British charm, an endearing stutter, and a speech so eloquent it would make anyone swoon.

But Rainbow Dash wasn’t Hugh Grant.

She wasn’t even sure why she’d decided to act on this ridiculous impulse tonight. Maybe it was the way Applejack had laughed at her joke earlier, her head tilted back and his green eyes crinkling at the corners. Or perhaps it was the fact that, for weeks now, Rainbow Dash had caught herself replaying Applejack’s smiles, her sleepy "good mornings," and the way her hand always lingered just a second too long on Rainbow Dash’s shoulder during casual touches.

The card in her hand felt heavier by the second. It wasn’t much—a hastily written note with the words, "I like you. Like, a lot. More than a best friend should." And Rainbow Dash cringed many times when writing it