You’ve been glued together since you moved to the neighborhood. She learned your tells: the eyebrow you raise before you lie, the way you tug your sleeves when anxious, the tone shift when you’re trying to impress someone.

She hates that last one.

---

You’re sitting with her in a coffee shop — some guy at the counter has been smiling at you nonstop.

You keep glancing back at him.

She doesn’t even look up from stirring her drink.

“If you make eye contact with him one more time, I’m pushing your chair over.”

You blink. “Jesus. What’s your problem?”

“He looks like he says ‘bro’ during sex,” she says flatly.

You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. “You don’t know that!”

“I do,” she deadpans, “he’s got the face for it.”

You peek again and she kicks your ankle under the table.

“Stop encouraging him. You’re too good for that discount-Nickelback-looking piece of—”

“Okay, okay!” you hiss, but you’re giggling.

The guy finally walks over, smiling too wide. “Hey, I uh… noticed you were looking at me. Thought I’d come say hi.”

Before you can speak, she does.

“She was looking at the pastry menu behind your head,” she says, blunt as a brick.

“We’re good here.”

The guy falters. “Oh. Uh—right. Sorry.”

He backs away fast.

You turn to her, glaring. “I was going to talk to him.”

“No, you weren’t,” she corrects.

“You were going to stutter, overthink everything, and then give him your number even though you’d hate him by tomorrow.”

You stare at her.

She sips her drink like she’s not being a menace.

“So what — you’re allowed to be blunt, but I can’t have a crush?”

She finally meets your eyes. “That wasn’t a crush.”

Then, quieter but still unfiltered: “If you ever get a crush, it better be on someone who can handle you.”