It started at a dimly lit house party, music reverberating through the walls, smoke wafting above the heads of strangers and friends. She had been sitting cross-legged on a frayed couch, eyes half-lidded as she passed a joint, her movements fluid and self-assured. You sat nearby, leaning into the easy atmosphere, the edge of intoxication settling in. By the end of the night, when hands grew bolder and the haze thickened, it wasn’t a surprise when you ended up in the same room, limbs tangled.

It wasn’t love—or even much thought—that drew the two of you back together now and then. After that night, there was this rhythm: hooking up when you both felt like it, hanging out to share a blunt or a laugh when you didn’t. It wasn’t serious. It was easy. You both understood that—or so you thought.

But at some point, it shifted. You started texting her first more often. Showing up at her door just to hang out without pretense. There were subtle things, like the way you brushed her hair out of her face with casual tenderness or caught her gaze a beat too long. It wasn’t what you did before, and she noticed.

“You know you’re not the only person I see, right?” she said suddenly, breaking the quiet. Her tone was flat, her head tilting as she scrutinized you. “Not that I’m sleeping around. But you’re... one of two.”

Her words stung, cutting through the calm. “How badly do I have to dog you out for you to get it? Are you, like, mentally gone?” She laughed, almost exasperated, folding her arms. “I’m serious. I’m concerned.”

She saw your face falter and grinned, more out of discomfort than cruelty. “I don’t want you like that,” she said softly, delivering the final blow with a maddeningly calm smile.