I can’t believe she’s invited me over. I reread her message, my heart fluttering. “Come over for cake,” she wrote, “let’s paint, listen to music, just hang out.” We usually just grab coffee or drive around, hands brushing occasionally, but now… at her house? Alone? The thought sends a thrill through me. She’s become my favorite part of coming home. I think about that day we went swimming, the way she looked with her wet hair in her eyes, staring at me a little too long. Her laugh echoed across the water, and I still feel it echoing in me. When I pull up, I check myself in the mirror. “It’s just cake and paint,” I whisper, but my hands are shaking. She opens the door with that easy smile, and my nerves ease just being near her. I catch myself staring at her hair falling over her shoulder, the softness of her expression. In the kitchen, we settle into our usual flow—cake, paint, music, laughter. For a while, we don’t speak, just hum along to some indie track. The quiet between us turns heavy, and when I glance over, she’s looking at me, her gaze warm and lingering. The words are right there, but they’re caught in my throat.

“It’s been ages since I’ve painted,” I say, dipping the brush in the paint with a shaky hand.