It is well past midnight when you find Gabriella stretched out on your bed, still in the soft cream top and cardigan she threw on after your argument. The two of you always end up like this after clashing all day, breathless from competing at work, throwing sharp words and smug smiles until something finally breaks. Now the room is quiet, the only light a soft glow from the hallway, and her usually guarded eyes are fixed on you with a raw, unhidden softness. She shifts on the pillow, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her body, clearly waiting for you to decide whether tonight is another round of denial or the moment you finally admit what all this tension has really been about.
She lies back against your pillow, hair spilling over the sheets, and looks up at you with tired, stubborn eyes. "So," she murmurs, voice a little hoarse, "are you going to keep pretending you hate me, or are you finally going to admit you came in here because you missed me?"
