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She pulls away, a smirk playing on her lips. Her signature look. The same way Romy looks at me when she’s horsing around, playing off inside jokes and teasing me. It sends the strangest shiver down my spine. I feel like I’ve pulled myself back from the edge of a cliff—one I was willing to jump down, sure. I thought everything would have to be different. That me being Romy’s girlfriend meant the girl devouring the friend. But maybe not.

I shrug, a grin on my lips. “Which pizza spot are we ordering from?”

Romy laughs, pulling back to a friendly distance. She claps loudly and laughs even harder when I flinch more than the move deserves. “Hell yeah.”

And, honestly, we get through the ordering, the flipping through streaming services as we wait, and the actual dinner the way we always get through our nights together. Work bitching, unemployment bitching, eagerly anticipating movies or activities we could do that weekend. I recount what she missed with me and Valeria. It’s one of the most peaceful dinners we’ve ever had, but I can’t help the knot forming in my stomach.

But by the time Romy’s breaking down the pizza box and I’m stuffing leftovers in bags destined for the fridge, I don’t holdback. I guess that’s what’s different now—I’m trying not to hold these feelings in.

“Is there a point when everything’s changed?” I ask. I manage to keep the question airy, conversational.

Romy stiffens from her space by the garbage. Then her expression becomes downright unreadable, like her brain is a computer running a million programs at once. But I catch her gaze and it all melts. It’s like I’ve walked to the edge of a volcano, and there’s nothing left but the smoldering of her eyes as she looks at me. That heat shocks my system.

Romy slides over to me, her soap-wrinkled fingers falling right to my waist. And I’m the one jolted from the fever of her touch, the deliberateness of where she puts her hands. She’s never touched me there before. She lingers, sliding along my hips, which are covered in two too many layers of clothing. Then, like she’s somehow able to sense it, she leans into me just as my heartbeat starts to thrum.

“What’s changed?” she asks, teasing. Her breath is hot against the shell of my ear. “Should something be different?”

She leans her whole body into me, collarbone against collarbone. Her own heart slams back against mine. It’s…comforting in a way I didn’t anticipate. It tells me that maybe she’s as nervous as she is excited. That she’s unraveling this yarn ball of emotion the same way I am.

But I’m the one whose breath hitches when her fingers find the skin between my blouse and the top of my pants. “We could…touch each other differently,” she says.

I can’t help but giggle as color stains my cheeks. I love the way I sound, laughing with her. “Well, you know, as long as it’s nothing that couldn’t be misinterpreted as BFF roommates just being extra-special friends.”

Romy pulls back, and I can see the tiny sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She sways against me, gaze on my lips. But she keeps her distance. “Sweetheart, we could fuck each other all night and someone would still say we’re just being gal pals.”

Sweetheart. The word sends crackles of light through the tension growing below my stomach, from my chest to my fingertips. I already want to bottle up the way she says it, the way she says my name, the way she says everything.

I cock my head a little, playing along, even though I’m quivering from the anticipation. “Is that what we’re gonna do?” My voice dips lower, scratches the words.

I love the way Romy looks at me, like she’s starving and only having me will sate her. I’m trying to linger on this, pull the anticipation almost to its breaking point, but I don’t have the strength to resist anymore. I grab her by the hand and head to her bedroom, already imagining what her skin tastes like. I flop onto her bed so she gets another chance to drink me in before joining.

And god, does she drink me in. “You’re so gorgeous,” she says, almost under her breath.

“You are too.”

She climbs into her bed, her cleavage on full display as she crawls over to me.

“No pressure,” she says. She brushes a hair out of my face. “If you don’t want to.”

I pull her down to meet my lips. “I do.” I pause, though, as I take in the hair now falling into Romy’s face, my fingers running along the short part in the back. “I told you my limits, but I don’t know yours. Is there anything I should know? What you like, don’t like, language?”

She breaks eye contact for just a moment, gaze on her fingertip as it traces the sensitive skin on my wrist. “Activity-wise, no. You can touch me anywhere. Language-wise, I’ve made peace with the word tits. But I prefer to use more general terms about down below. Junk or bits is fine.” Her lashes flicker, gaze back on me. “But if you need”—she smiles—“specific anatomy lessons, you can say the names of body parts.”

But once the limits are set, I’m downright surprised when Romy jumps out of bed.

“Wait, did I—?” I say.

Romy rummages through a side table. “No, just setting the mood.”

She pulls out an Apple TV remote first. Clicks on the twenty-four-incher mounted on the wall and opens Spotify. “Name a musician that you hear in your sleep.”

It’s such an odd question, but I have an instant answer. “Halsey?”

Romy grins. “Ah, yes, the quintessential gay fucking soundtrack.” She clicks Badlands. “I’m going retro, but let me know if you want to change.”

Halsey’s haunting croon fills the room, lowering the volume on the thoughts in my head.

I find myself smiling. “No one’s ever asked me about music.”