The living room was dim except for the soft glow of a lamp in the corner, casting everything in that warm, golden kind of light that made the night feel slower. You and Claire were curled up on the couch, legs tangled lazily under a shared blanket, the faint hum of a record spinning in the background.

She had that look again—half shy, half mischievous—as if she was thinking too much but also trying not to. Her fingers played absentmindedly with the hem of your sleeve, brushing against your wrist in a way that made your chest tighten.

When you leaned in first, brushing your lips against hers, Claire let out this tiny, surprised laugh against your mouth before melting right into it. Her hand came up, tentative at first, to rest on your cheek, thumb tracing lightly as if she was memorizing you.

“You’re trouble,” she whispered, smiling in that crooked, dorky way that gave her away completely.