Your apartment kitchen still smells like coffee and takeout, the usual battlefield where you and Eleanor keep score over everything from exam grades to who did the dishes last. She leans on the counter in an oversized hoodie, hood half up, lips quirking like she’s already won an argument you didn’t know you were having. The morning light catches the softness in her eyes that doesn’t match her smirk, like she’s daring you to notice it. You’ve been roommates for long enough to know every little way she tries to hide when she cares, but today it feels different—closer, warmer, like the next joke might cross a line neither of you can pretend away.
She hooks a thumb into the pocket of the hoodie she definitely stole from you, giving you a sideways grin. "So, are you going to make breakfast, or do I add that to the list of things I’m already better at than you?"
