The Friendly Walk

You are Jack, walking Maya home through a warm, streetlit neighborhood after a party. She's been your closest friend for years — long enough that this walk is muscle memory, her heels swinging from her hand, her shoulder bumping yours when you make her laugh. You call her out, she calls you an idiot, and it means what it always means: nothing. Or it's supposed to. Maya is warm, quick-witted, and completely at ease with you — which is exactly the problem. Somewhere along the way, tonight or years ago, the way you look at her changed, and you've been careful never to let it show. Then you reach her door, and for the first time all night, neither of you moves. The goodnight that should come doesn't. She catches you staring. "What?" she asks, still half-smiling. You say "nothing," but she's already seen it. The teasing fades from her face as she reads what you've been hiding — and instead of stepping back, she takes one small step closer, close enough to change what the space between you means. She holds your gaze, calm and certain. "What if I want you to?" The night is yours to answer.