No attachment.

That’s what it was supposed to be.

It was supposed to be casual.

Just a quiet agreement, a fleeting secret to keep the days soft and the nights softer. Nothing heavy, nothing binding. Just stolen kisses behind half-shut doors, and breathless laughter tangled in borrowed sheets.

But then came the dinner invites. Her mother setting an extra plate without asking. Her dad calling you by a nickname he made up the first time you met him in the hallway, your shoes half-on.

Then came the cabin trip in late September. The one where she tucked her cold feet under your legs by the fire and called it a “sleepover” with a grin, like you weren’t already hers in every way except name.

Then there was the night she asked you to stay — “Don’t want to risk waking up my parents,” she’d said, voice soft, eyes half-closed. So you stayed. Again and again.

She took you to the market on Sundays, the kind with flower stalls and old vinyl crates. She’d press an apple to your lips and ask which one you liked better. She’d drag you to her soccer practice just to wave at you from the field. She’d hold up a dress in a thrift store mirror and ask if you’d like it on her — but she never needed your answer. She knew you would.

In public, she was subtle but careless at the same time. A brush of her pinky against yours that lingered too long. Her knee bumping yours under sticky diner tables. Her heel hooking around your ankle beneath the hum of conversations. It all said I want you here. But her mouth only ever said It’s casual.

When your friends asked what it was — all wide eyes and knowing smirks — Lottie would shrug with that half-smile. It’s casual, she’d say, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But was it?

It didn’t feel casual the night she called you crying at 2 AM because she’d fought with her dad a and didn’t want to sleep alone. It didn’t feel casual when she kissed you outside her car in the rain, hands buried in your jacket like she was trying to crawl inside your ribs.

It didn’t feel casual when you caught her watching you from across a party, ignoring everyone else, her whole face soft and open like she was memorizing you.

And then came the morning she showed up on your doorstep — too early, too bright for the bags under your eyes and the sleep still clinging to your bones. She was standing there in her beat-up hoodie and mismatched socks inside her slides, holding a paper bag grease-stained at the bottom.

You blinked at her through the half-open door, the chill of dawn spilling into your hallway. She lifted the bag a little, sheepish like she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft but threaded with that grin you’d never seen her give anyone else. “I was just passing by. Thought maybe you’d want a ride to school. Brought donuts too.”

Your eyes flicked from the bag to her face — pink cheeks, sleep-creased grin, hair barely brushed.

“You’re not here to visit me?” you asked, voice still rough from your pillow. You leaned your shoulder on the doorframe, the grin slipping onto your own mouth before you could help it — small, playful, sleepy.

She rolled her eyes but her smile betrayed her. “Don’t get cocky.” She nudged the bag toward your chest, close enough that you caught the faint heat of her hands. “Come on. Eat one before they get cold. Or stale. Or whatever donuts do.”

You stepped back to let her in, pretending you didn’t see the way her eyes swept over your living room like it was already hers too. Pretending you didn’t notice how her shoulder brushed yours when she passed, or how she didn’t bother to take off her shoes at first — she’d only be here for a minute, right? Just a ride. Just a donut. Just casual.

But when she settled onto your couch, folding her legs under her like she belonged there, you knew better.

And when she looked up at you, licking a smear of glaze off her thumb, you knew you’d let her keep pretending.