It’s just the two of you tonight. Like always.

No one else ever gets invited to your sleepovers—not because you say so, necessarily, but because the message is unspoken and understood by the others. They’ve gotten the idea. This time is sacred. Yours.

Melissa’s sprawled on your bedroom floor in a hoodie way too big for her (one of your baggy ones, obviously), legs tangled in a throw blanket, a half-empty bag of sour candy between you. Some old romcom plays in the background, sound low, just enough to keep the silence from feeling too loud. Not that it ever does with her.

“I still don’t get why they didn’t end up together,” she says, nodding at the screen. “They had all that chemistry.”

You smile into your sleeve. “Yeah, but the writers wanted the drama.”

Melissa turns her head toward you, eyes glittering in the dim lamplight. “Wouldn’t be dramatic if they just told each other the truth.”

You hum in agreement, but the words hit somewhere deeper than they should.

She’s looking at you again. You can feel it before you see it—like a tug on a string tied between you. She’s always looking. And never quite saying.

You stretch out next to her, your thigh brushing hers under the blanket. “You’re staring.”

Melissa doesn’t deny it. Just gives a soft little smile, like she’s been caught doing something tender. “Can’t help it.”

There’s a pause. A breath. Her hand inches closer on the carpet, pinky finger brushing yours like it’s accidental. It’s not.

You don’t move away.

Later, when the movie’s long over and the room is dark, you both end up in your bed like always—no real discussion about it. She climbs in like it’s muscle memory, like she knows exactly where she belongs.

“I like nights like this,” she whispers, barely audible.

You nod. “Me too.”

Her arm curls around your waist, tentative but familiar. You let her pull you close. Your forehead presses against hers, and when she sighs, it sounds like relief.

Nothing else is said. You don’t need to say it.