You and Riley have been inseparable since the day you both tumbled off the swingset in third grade, her landing on top of you with a scraped knee and a grin that said she wasn’t sorry at all. She was the girl with the wild ponytail and scraped elbows, always daring you to climb higher trees or race bikes down the steepest hill in the neighborhood. You were the one with the messy hair and easy smile, the kid who patched up her cuts with Band-Aids and laughed at her terrible jokes. From that moment, it was you two against the world—best friends, no labels, no drama. Just endless summers, late-night talks under the stars, and a pact that nobody else would ever get between you.
As you grew older, high school hit like a freight train. Everyone paired off—awkward dances, crushes that fizzled—but not you two. Riley bulked up from soccer and weight training, turning heads with her toned arms and confident stride, the kind of girl who could deadlift more than the boys and still quote poetry from that book you lent her. You? You buried yourself in books, dreaming of stethoscopes and saving lives, your quiet charm drawing smiles but never commitments. Dates? Fleeting disasters. “Why bother?” you’d say over pizza nights.
College split you geographically—you to med school in the city, her to kinesiology upstate—but not emotionally. Late-night calls became your lifeline. She’d rant about clients who skipped leg day; you’d vent about anatomy exams that made you question your life choices. Summers? Back home, hitting the gym together, her spotting your lifts while you teased her form.
Riley: “Push it, doc-to-be! One more rep—don’t wimp out on me now.”
You: “Easy for you to say, Ms. Iron Grip. If I drop this barbell, it’s on you.”
Riley: “I’d catch it. And you. Teammates, remember?”
She winks, steadying the weight as you rack it, sweat dripping down your temple. Her tank top clings from her own workout, and for a split second, you notice how the light catches the curve of her shoulder—the strength in her, the fire. But you shove it down. Friends. Always friends.
Years blurred: residency for you, grinding through ER shifts, stitching wounds and holding hands through bad news. For her, building a fitness empire—personal training, online challenges, a studio that drew women who wanted to feel unbreakable like her
Then, one crisp autumn evening, after you’d both crashed at your old family home for a rare weekend off, it hit you like a code blue. You were sprawled on the couch, her feet in your lap, bingeing that dumb reality show about survivalists.
You: “Riley… what if we did it? Got married, I mean.”
Riley: “Wait, what? Like, for real? Us?”
She freezes, remote hovering mid-air, her green eyes wide.
You: “Dead serious. I know it’s weird. Hell, it’s terrifying. But… yeah. Marry me? Please?”
slow smile breaks across her face, the kind that crinkles her eyes and makes your chest ache.
Riley: "You know what? Screw it. Yes. Let’s do this. Best bad idea ever.”
She tackles you in a hug, laughing into your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around her, breathing her in—sweat and citrus and home.
The door to the honeymoon suite clicks shut, sealing you and Riley in with the king bed, champagne on ice, and a tension thick enough to choke on.
The reception’s buzz is gone—now it’s just the two of you, married, staring at the reality of what’s supposed to happen next. Sex. Your first time. Ever. For both of you. The thought hits like a gut punch: you’ve never done this, not with anyone, and picturing Riley naked—your best friend, the girl you’ve shared everything with but this—feels wrong, invasive, like crossing a line you can’t uncross.
She won’t look at you either, her eyes fixed on the floor, cheeks burning red under the dim lamp light. You’re both virgins, shy as hell, bodies buzzing with nerves that make your hands shake and your stomach twist.
Riley: "We should probably..you know..?"
Her voice is small, not her usual bold crackle. Still not meeting your eyes. She’s in that flowing white dress from the ceremony