4
“Jen, how old are you?” Emma asked out of nowhere, just as the Game of Thrones rerun began to play on the TV.
We had just finished eating dinner—well, I cooked, and she devoured every bite like a queen at a feast—and were now sprawled across her couch, both of us full and a little too comfortable.
“Seventeen,” I said absentmindedly, eyes glued to the screen. Jon Snow had just walked into a room full of tension, and I was not missing another moment.
But I felt it—that shift in energy. That sharp glance from her direction. Even without turning, I knew she was staring at me.
“What?” I asked, still not looking.
“You’re a minor?” she said with disbelief in her voice, and then—whack—her hand smacked my arm. Hard enough to snap my focus away from Westeros.
“Ouch!” I grabbed my arm and pouted dramatically. “What was that for?” I whined, already knowing the answer.
She scooted closer, and suddenly, her hand was on mine, the other wrapping around my shoulders like she was claiming me in the most tender way possible. I went stiff. My body wasn’t ready for contact like that. Not from her. Not while I was still figuring out how I even felt when she looked at me like that—like I was more than just the kid next door.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “But seriously, Jen. A minor? How come you didn’t tell me? And more importantly, what does your mom say about you sneaking off to my place every night?”
Her tone turned half-scolding again, but I wasn’t even hearing her properly. Her arm. Around me. I could feel every part of it—the weight, the warmth, the way my skin responded like it had been waiting forever for this. Was she really just mad, or was she a little too invested?
“SNeaking off? My mom actually likes you,” I managed to say, trying to play it cool while my heart pounded loud enough to drown out the TV.
She pulled back just a little so she could see my face, narrowing her eyes in that inquisitive way she does.
“She does?” Emma asked.
“Yeah. She told me you always greet her whenever you see her. So, that helps your case,” I teased, trying to ease the tension.
Her lips curled into a soft smirk. “Well, I didn’t know she was your mom. Good thing I greeted the right person every morning.”
She leaned back in, arm still around me, and I swear, every cell in my body lit up like a live wire. The next episodes played without either of us moving. Her head eventually found its way to my shoulder, and for a full hour, I didn’t hear a single word the characters said. All I heard was her breathing and the sound of my heart trying to calm the hell down.
Then came the yawn.
“Are you sleepy? I should go—”
“No. No, please stay,” she mumbled sleepily, still resting on my shoulder.
Her arms wrapped more firmly around my waist, and she nestled deeper into me. And I? I froze. Like a damn statue. Breathing was a choice now, and I was choosing to do it in shallow, quiet gulps.
“I can make some fries, if you want?” I offered weakly, desperate for a distraction.
“Fries? Hmm... no, I’m still full,” she whispered, clinging even tighter. If I wasn’t already dead from butterflies earlier, this would've done it.
I tried, and failed, to focus on the TV. I didn’t understand a single plotline anymore. I might as well have been watching static. My brain was too full of Emma—her hair, her touch, her warmth—and the realization that she had no idea what she was doing to me.
After what felt like a lifetime, I looked at the time. 10:07 p.m.
“Em... I should probably go now, let you get some sleep,” I said quietly, starting to shift.
“Why don’t you sleep here?” she asked, teasing.
I blinked at her. “Emma. I live next door.”
She grinned. “I know, Jen. But I don’t think your mom would mind.”
I laughed nervously. “Ha! My mom? Really?” I stood and grabbed my phone. “Just so you know, I’m taking your bed.”
And I darted toward her room.
The first thing I noticed? Black sheets. Queen-sized bed. White pillowcases. Tasteful, moody lighting. A few framed photos on the wall—her with what I assumed were family and friends. I didn’t have much time to analyze, though, because she was already behind me.
“It’s big enough for both of us,” she said casually, rummaging through a drawer and handing me an oversized shirt and shorts.
I stared at the clothes in my hand, then at her disappearing into the bathroom.
We’re sleeping in the same bed. My brain could not compute.
I hadn’t even gotten over the cuddling on the couch, and now this? Was she trying to destroy me?
“Are you okay, Jen? You look pale,” she said as she stepped out.
“I—I’m fine. Just gonna go change.”
I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to breathe like a normal human. “It’s just a bed,” I whispered. “Just sleeping. Totally innocent. You can do this.”
I changed and emerged to find her already tucked under the covers, eyes closed. Was she sleeping? I tiptoed around the bed, slid under the blankets, trying to make as little noise as possible—and then—
Her arm snaked around my waist.
“Hmm, you’re so soft, Jen,” she mumbled.
My body tensed. Was she dreaming? Or was this real?
I turned slightly to look at her face. Even in the low light, she looked beautiful. Peaceful. Dangerous.
I fought the overwhelming urge to reach out and trace the curve of her cheek.
“You’re staring again,” she said suddenly, eyes still closed.
“How do you even know that?”
“I have other senses,” she replied smugly.
“I was just checking if you were really asleep,” I stammered, caught red-handed.
“Sure,” she teased.
We lay in silence. Her breathing steady. Her hand still around me. I could feel every heartbeat in my body—and possibly hers, too.
Then, her voice again.
“Jen?”
“Hm?”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
I turned toward her slowly. Her eyes were open now. And her arm tightened a little around me. Like she needed to hear the answer—but was also terrified of it.
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