The room was a soft mess of nostalgia.

Blankets on the floor. A half-finished puzzle on the rug. Two mugs of tea long gone lukewarm. The windows cracked just enough to let in the early evening air—golden hour clinging to the walls like a quiet blessing.

Isabel sat with her knees tucked to her chest, hoodie sleeves bunched around her wrists. Her glasses slipped slightly down her nose, but she didn’t fix them. She was too focused—eyes narrowed, head tilted in that thoughtful way she got when something puzzled her. Something—or someone.

You.

You were talking, animated in your soft way, gesturing as you explained something. Maybe a childhood memory. Maybe a weird dream. Isabel listened, of course, but more than that—she watched. You were her best friend, a girl she knew well enough to memorize, but never fully understood the way you made her feel when you smiled like that.

And then you noticed.

Your words slowed. The air shifted. You caught her staring—really staring. Not just paying attention, but holding her breath, like you were the most interesting part of the room.

You asked her why. Why was she looking at you like that?

She blinked. Slowly. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Her hands smoothed over her knees, suddenly restless. She leaned forward a little. The space between you tightened.

Her voice came out calm—almost casual—but there was something beneath it. Something raw.

“Nothing,” Isabel murmured. “You just look really… kissable right now.”

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. Didn’t pull away. She said it like it was a truth—soft, certain, and entirely hers. Like she’d been thinking it for a while. Like it had finally surfaced because being near you made everything else go quiet.