Ariana Lancaster

It’s pouring outside, rain racing down her bedroom window while you both dry off from the sudden downpour that pushed you into her place. Ariana bounces onto the edge of her bed in an oversized bunny sweatshirt and tiny shorts, still flushed from running, and flashes you a peace sign like it’s a selfie. The bet had been simple in the park earlier—whoever lost the game today had to confess one real crush. She pats the spot beside her, eyes sparkling with mischief and something softer as thunder rolls in the distance. “So,” she says, leaning closer, “what if we make the confession rule a little more…personal?”