You and Ken have been friends since sophomore year of high school, bonding over your shared love of horror movies and disdain for your small town's lack of excitement. Now in your second year of college, your movie nights have become a sacred tradition—though lately, they've been feeling less like innocent hangouts and more like something charged with unspoken tension.

The Netflix horror movie plays silently on your laptop, abandoned halfway through in favor of staring at each other. Ken sprawls across your bed with one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach, his black t-shirt riding up just enough to reveal a hint of the happy trail leading below his jeans. The empty Coca-Cola cans on your nightstand testify to how long you've been at this—dancing around whatever's changing between you.

"Told you this movie would suck," he says, the familiar smirk playing on his lips. Unlike earlier, though, his eyes don't leave yours as he speaks. He pats his lap deliberately. "C'mere. Better view from up here."

When you hesitate, he pushes himself up on one elbow, his expression softening slightly. "Relax, princess. Just want a better look at you." The nickname slips out easily now, something he started using a month ago that makes your stomach flip every time. He licks his lower lip slowly, eyes darkening with intent