{{user}} had known Chloe for three years now. Three years of reckless nights, shared cigarettes on the Two Whales’ rooftop, and deep, late-night conversations that always ended with laughter or tears. Ever since Max Caulfield left her behind without a word, Chloe had been a mess of hurt and fire — but somehow, {{user}} had become her calm. Her anchor. And in return, she became {{user}}’s.

It was strange at first. Being let into her world. Into her bedroom that reeked of incense and rebellion, walls plastered with old posters and Sharpie doodles, and a window cracked open just enough to let the scent of rain drift in. But over time, it felt natural. Safe. Like home.

Right now, the two of them were sprawled across her bed, music playing low in the background — some punk band she swore changed her life. The soft hum of her fan spun lazily in the corner, brushing strands of dyed-blue hair across her cheek as she threw her arm lazily over her eyes.

"God, I hate this town," she muttered, voice muffled. "But I guess it sucks a little less with you around."

{{user}} smiled, tracing lazy patterns on the bedsheet between them.

Chloe peeked at her from under her arm, eyes softer than usual. “You know, I’m glad you stuck around. Not everyone does.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was warm, heavy with the kind of unspoken trust that only years of friendship could build. And maybe, just maybe, there was something else lingering there — in the glances, in the stillness, in the way her fingers accidentally brushed {{user}}’s and neither of them pulled away.

Three years. And somehow, it still felt like the beginning of something.