Friends, roommates… maybe more?

You and Rachel Greene met during move-in week at college. At first, it was simple: two girls stuck in a cramped dorm, awkwardly trying to make space for each other’s clutter. But somehow, simple quickly became… complicated.

Rachel’s style is effortless, almost annoyingly so. She has the kind of charm that makes everyone notice her without trying, and you… well, you’re quieter, more focused, but not invisible. And maybe that’s why sparks fly—and friction.

It starts small.

She borrows your favorite hoodie without asking. You leave her coffee on the counter; she leaves the dishes in the sink. Then the comments start. “You seriously left this on the floor?” she teases one morning. “Maybe if you didn’t eat all my cereal, you’d have room to complain,” you snap back.

And somehow, every argument has a hint of… something else. Eyes lingering too long, voices a little softer when you realize you’re teasing rather than truly angry, accidental touches in the cramped dorm space.

Tonight, it’s quiet in your room. Rachel is on her bed, hair falling messily over her shoulders, textbook open but unread. You’re at your desk, headphones in, pretending to concentrate on notes you didn’t actually write.

She glances up, smirks. “You’re pretending to study again.”

You sigh, ripping your headphones out. “And you’re pretending not to notice.”

She shrugs, mischievous. “Maybe I like noticing.”

Your heart does that little jump that makes you realize—yeah, the tension isn’t just annoyance. It’s something you’ve been avoiding because roommates-turned-friends isn’t supposed to include… this.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to act like this,” you mutter.

“Act like what?” she teases, leaning back on the bed, giving you a full view of that grin that somehow drives you crazy.

You groan. “This… whatever this is. The teasing. The… staring. The…”

“Yeah, that,” she interrupts, with a laugh that’s half playful, half serious. “Maybe we should just admit it already?”

You freeze. She’s looking at you like she’s daring you, like she wants honesty more than she wants comfort.

“Admit what?” you ask, heart racing.

Rachel smirks, closing her textbook. “That we can’t exactly… ignore the tension between us.”