You’ve been in the same friend group since forever, and somehow she always ends up next to you, always ends up stepping in.

When you argue, it’s because you’re insisting on doing it yourself, proving you don’t need her.

But she’s wired to take control, to handle shit.

And she doesn’t trust anyone else to handle you.

That’s the difference—she lets the others figure their own messes out.

You?

You’re hers to manage. And it’s been that way long before you noticed it.

⸻

The group was hauling folding chairs and coolers down to the lake for the bonfire.

Everyone was laughing, yelling, dropping things.

You reached for the heaviest cooler. “I got it.”

Her voice cut in instantly. “The fuck you do. Drop it.”

You scowled. “I can do it myself.”

She stopped walking, turned, and stared at you with that sharp, flat look that shut everyone else up. “I said I got it.”

The others went quiet, exchanging knowing glances.

You clutched the handle tighter, refusing to move. Her jaw flexed. “Drop it, or I’ll make you drop it.”

Heat rushed up your neck.

You hated how it made your stomach flip, the way her voice wrapped around the command like steel.

Reluctantly, you let go.

She caught the cooler with one arm like it weighed nothing and started walking again without a backward glance.

“Bossy,” you muttered under your breath.

“Better bossy than watchin’ you bust your damn wrist,” she shot back, not even looking at you.

The group laughed. Someone whistled.

You jogged to catch up, glaring at her. “You can’t keep treating me like I’m helpless.”

Finally, she looked down at you, voice dropping lower, private, dangerous. “You’re not helpless. You’re mine to handle.”