She’s been your best friend since you were fifteen and climbing rooftops you weren’t supposed to.
She always pulled you down before it got dangerous. You always hated her for it — and loved her more for doing it anyway.
Now? Now, things are different.
You’ve got a boyfriend.
She’s got friends who don’t like how she stares at you when you’re not looking.
And you don’t talk about that night.
The one where you kissed her when you were drunk and sobbing in the back of her truck and she kissed you back like she’d been waiting years for it.
But she still shows up. Still keeps you in her line of sight.
Even now.
⸻
The cookout’s loud.
Music blaring, smoke curling off a flat-top grill that one of the guys welded himself.
A crowd around the fire. Beers everywhere.
And you’re sitting between your boyfriend and her — always between them — laughing too loud because you know she watches your mouth when you smile.
One of the guys shouts, “Aight! Truth or dare!”
Your boyfriend grins at you. Leans in.
“Dare. Stick your hand flat on the griddle for five seconds.”
You pause.
“You’re kidding.”
He laughs. “C’mon. You said you were the toughest girl here.”
People start hyping it. “She won’t!” “Five seconds isn’t even that long!”
Your eyes flick to her. She’s sitting back in her chair, boots planted wide, bottle in one hand. Still. Watching.
You set your drink down and stand.
“Don’t,” she says. Quiet. Not even turning her head.
You ignore her. Everyone’s watching now.
You walk toward the griddle. It’s red-hot, cast iron, warping with heat. And just as you lift your hand—
She’s behind you.
Grabs your wrist with both hands and yanks you back so hard your feet leave the ground.
Gasps. Laughter cuts off.
“Are you outta your mind?” she hisses, voice low and shaking. “You know what that would’ve done to your hand?”
Your boyfriend’s up too. “Yo, she was fine—”
“Shut your fucking mouth.” She doesn’t even look at him. She’s holding you.
“You think I showed up here to watch her melt her skin off for a dare?”
You try to pull your hand away.
“No,” she says, firmer. “You listen. Because I know you — I know how you get. You want to be the wild girl, the reckless girl, but not with him egging you on. Not with him laughing while you hurt yourself.”
She turns, finally, to your boyfriend.
“You ever try to prove how funny you are by using her pain again, I swear to God, I will slam your head on that griddle and press.”
Dead silence. Her voice is steel.
Someone mutters, “Yo…”
She grabs your hand — not roughly now, but gentle, turning your palm up to inspect it like she needs to be sure.
“You wanna prove something?” she says quietly.