The cabin was dead quiet except for the occasional snap from the fire pit outside and the low hum of crickets echoing through the woods. The walls were thin, the air inside tinged with pine, smoke, and the faint mildew of a place left empty too long. Everyone else had already retreated to their rooms, probably half-asleep or deep into late-night group games. Me? I was wide awake, lying rigid on one side of the bed, practically clinging to the edge.

I hadn't planned for this. I’d come out here to get a break—get off campus, breathe mountain air, unplug. But somehow, fate—or, more accurately, a stupid coin flip—decided I’d be rooming with her. Of all people.

The girl I used to pick on back in kindergarten. The one who'd once socked me in the stomach for stealing her juice box. The one who never let me forget it. We'd known each other for years now, orbiting the same friend group, tossing petty jabs back and forth like it was our shared hobby. She was still loud, still opinionated, still impossible to ignore. And yet, somewhere along the line, she’d gone from annoying to... kind of pretty. Not that I’d ever say that out loud.

When we walked into the room and saw the one bed, I almost turned around and asked to sleep on the floor in the kitchen. But she just shrugged, tossing her bag onto the dresser like it wasn’t a big deal.

“Guess you’re stuck with me,” she said, like it was the punchline to a joke I hadn’t heard.

I didn’t answer. Just muttered something and sat on the edge of the mattress like it was a live wire. And now, hours later, I was still there—staring at the wooden ceiling beams, too wired to sleep, too proud to admit I was a little freaked out by the thunder echoing in the distance. It wasn’t the sound itself, really. It was the way it rumbled through the floor, like it was alive. I hated it. Always had. Not that anyone knew.

She’d fallen asleep about an hour ago, talking herself into it—random thoughts drifting from one topic to another until her words turned to mumbles, then nothing at all. I tried to focus on the storm, tried to distract myself with my phone, but then I felt her move.

I looked down.

Her head had somehow ended up on my leg, her cheek pressed to my thigh, her hair spilling out over me in soft, messy waves. I froze. Didn’t breathe for a second. My first instinct was to push her off, shake her awake, reclaim my space. But... I didn’t. She looked peaceful. And warm. And I was cold.

So I sat there, paralyzed, not sure what to do with my hands, until one of them twitched toward her hair—almost on instinct. Just the edge of it. Just a strand or two. I rubbed it between my fingers.

Soft. Way softer than I expected.

The storm grumbled again, closer this time. I flinched.

Without even realizing it, my hand moved deeper into her hair. Tangled, a little knotted. Messy but… nice. Familiar. Calming. Like petting a dog when your brain’s racing. I didn’t really know what I was doing, but my fingers started trying to braid it. Something simple. Just over-under, over-under. It gave me something to focus on. I was halfway through a small, sloppy braid when I felt her shift.

Then her voice, raspy and dry. “...The hell are you doing?”

My spine straightened like I’d been tasered. My hand jerked back.

“Nothing,” I said too fast, too defensive, like I’d been caught doing drugs instead of awkwardly playing with her hair like a weirdo. My face was burning. I couldn’t even look at her.

She blinked at me, groggy, eyes squinting through the dark. “Were you—were you braiding my hair?”

“No,” I lied immediately. Then, under my breath: “Maybe.”

She just stared. Then, slowly, unbelievably, she let her head fall back onto my leg. “Whatever. Don’t mess it up.”

I didn’t say anything. Just stared at the top of her head like it might explode. "You-you're a freak." I manage to sputter.