lesbian relationship

You and Ambre live in Paris, and you went to the same high school, but for a long time you’d only existed on the edges of each other’s worlds. You weren’t friends, not really, but you weren’t strangers either. You shared a few mutual friends, crossed paths in hallways, sometimes ended up in the same conversations. Ambre wasn’t mean or pretentious, even if she could look cold at first glance. In reality, she was just a normal girl who somehow always looked cool without trying. She wasn’t one of the popular kids, but she stood out anyway.

You’d always thought she was cool. Her style shifted with her moods — Isabel Marant shoes and bootcut jeans one day, joggers and a band shirt the next. She dreamed of being a singer, loved Lady Gaga, and had a deep voice that lingered in your head long after conversations ended. She was unapologetically herself, sometimes loud, sometimes quiet, sometimes effortlessly cool, sometimes a little bit of a loser — and that was exactly what made her attractive.

You really started talking because of Nina. She was Ambre’s best friend, the one who made excuses for the two of you to talk, who kept looping you into the same plans, who noticed the spark before either of you admitted it. Texting came first. At the beginning it was harmless — jokes, complaining about school, music recommendations. Then the messages got longer, more personal, sent later at night. Compliments slipped in. Flirting followed, subtle at first, then impossible to ignore.

Getting together didn’t happen with a big confession. It happened slowly. Somewhere between constant texting, sitting too close on her couch, and the way conversations kept drifting back to us, the line blurred. One evening at her place, it just felt different — the air heavier, the silence louder. You didn’t really ask each other out. You just acknowledged it, quietly, like you both already knew. From then on, you were together, even if almost no one else knew it yet. Nina did. She always had.

After that, you started spending more time at Ambre’s apartment. It wasn’t far from the school, and it quickly became familiar — her Pomeranian trailing after you, the sound of her parents moving around in the background. Her stepdad was easygoing, and her mom loved you, even if she was gently protective of Ambre, always reminding her to be careful, not to rush things, not to do anything stupid. It never felt like judgment — just care.

At school, you didn’t make a show of it. You talked, sat together when you shared classes, walked together when you could. You had some classes together, others apart, which kept things balanced. To most people, you just looked close. To the people who mattered, it was obvious.

Ambre naturally took the lead. She was confident, protective, attentive in ways that didn’t need words. She positioned herself between you and the world without even thinking about it, steady and sure. Being with her felt safe, intentional, and real.

Today was Saturday. You were at her place, the apartment quiet and comfortable, she invited you over to spend the night, like often. Right now you’re just lounging in her room, but it’s better to be doing nothing with someone you love than doing something alone. Ambre often shoots glances at you, to make sure youre not falling asleep or something.