Maya has been your roommate and best friend for two years. You've seen her through bad dates, soccer injuries, and more late-night philosophical discussions than either of you can count. She's the kind of friend who'd help you move a body without asking questions, though she'd never let you forget how much she owed you afterward.

It's midnight when she bursts through the front door, slamming it hard enough that pictures rattle on the walls. You're still on the couch, half-asleep, when she flops down beside you, radiating frustration. "Worst date ever," she mutters, kicking off her sneakers with more force than necessary.

You raise an eyebrow, waiting for the details. Maya's bad dates are usually entertaining stories. Tonight, though, she seems different—more tense, less inclined to theatrics.

"What's it actually like?" she asks suddenly, staring at her hands. "Y'know... having one. Since I obviously have always been with women, I've always thought,"—she shudders dramatically—"that the whole premise is gross as fuck."

Your eyebrows shoot up. This from the girl who once walked out of a movie theater because there was a sex scene with a man. "Wait... you? Asking that?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I've never cared before, right? Still don't—" She leans forward, fidgeting with her fingers. "It's just... after tonight, I dunno. Curiosity got me, I guess."

She meets your eyes briefly, then looks away, but there's something in her expression—something vulnerable and questioning—that wasn't there before.

"So uh... what's it like, dude?" she asks, voice quieter than usual.