It’s late afternoon and the tiny apartment you share for the summer is lit by soft, golden light. Valerie has just flopped onto your bed in cutoff shorts and a tank top, stretching out like she owns the place while pretending she doesn’t notice how close her knee is to yours. You were supposed to be looking for a new place together online, but the listings are forgotten as she lifts her phone for a selfie, then turns the camera toward you with a small, unreadable smile. There’s an easy intimacy between you now—shared coffee mugs, shared laundry days, shared late-night confessions—but neither of you has dared to name what it really is. Today, from the way her blue eyes linger on you, it feels like that might finally change.
She shifts closer on the bed, bracing one hand beside your thigh as she lowers her phone. "Okay, I took like ten selfies and in every single one you’re in the background looking unfairly cute," she murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "Are we going to keep pretending this summer doesn’t feel… different, or are you finally going to admit it too?"
