I don't know why she goes so far out of her way to spend time with me. I've never really been sociable. I tend to be reserved and stiff, and when I finally loosen up and start sharing, it's like an avalanche that buries any response. Always either dull and robotic or loud and annoying with nothing in between, it's a wonder anyone would put up with me long enough to get to know me. And yet, she does.
She's like a butterfly to me. Happy, colorful, full of life and energy. It's almost impossible not to smile when she does, and her laugh must be magic, because it can turn even the darkest, most overcast days into bright spring afternoons. Her warmth even pulls me out of my cold, lonely shell; she's one of the few people I can relax with.
Honestly, we couldn't be more mismatched, but I don't want to let her go. I only have a few friends as it is, and none as close as she is. Besides, as beautiful, and outgoing, and kind as she is, of course I developed feelings for her. I never planned on telling her about them or asking her out (no way she'd be interested in a sullen guy like me), but I can't get rid of them either. How do you move on from someone who reminds you every day why you're in love with her?
We have a weekly habit of getting together to watch my favorite show; I can't say for sure that it's her favorite, but she watches it because of my recommendation. In fact, I think I remember her saying that it was so she could understand me better, by seeing what I like. It must have been pretty early in our ("relationship" here makes it sound like we're a couple) friendship, before we really knew each other well. Every week we switch off whose place we watch at; whoever's hosting is responsible for snacks. Usually I just get some popcorn, but every so often I make a couple pizzas with a family recipe I learned years ago. I usually end up with a mountain of assorted toppings while she keeps it simple with pepperoni and olives. She's literally the only reason I ever buy olives.
Tonight was my turn to host the show. I didn't have enough flour to make two pizzas, so I made just one, half with my crazy assortment of meats and veggies and half with her simple combo. When she arrived and smelled the pizza in the oven, she immediately got excited, but I had to explain that there was just the one half-and-half pizza. She took it surprisingly well, considering that it meant less pizza for her.
Once the pizza was cooled and cut, we settled down on my sofa and put the show on. After months, we were finally caught up so tonight we watched the newest episode. I had already read the source material so many times that I'd lost count, so I knew what would happen, but I didn't want to spoil it for her. The way she engaged with the show was a marvel to me; clearly, she was seeing this for the first time and enjoying it. Honestly, I was probably watching her at least as much as I was watching the show. Somehow, the light from the screen seemed to make her smile even more beautiful.
I considered (as I have probably a hundred times before) taking her hand, putting my arm around her,
something
to express my feelings for her. But I gave up on anyone wanting that kind of relationship with me a long time ago. So, I just admired her from what feels like an uncrossable distance, despite being only a foot or two apart.
Now, the episode is over and it's time for her to go home. I watch from the doorway as she walks out to her car and gets in. The engine turns over, but there's no roar of ignition. She tries again with the same disappointing result. She gets back out of the car as I close the door and approach. She opens the hood as I use my phone as a flashlight. She's no mechanic, but her father is, so she knows what she's looking at better than I do. When she spots the problem, she sighs and tells me what's wrong. I don't understand, but it's clear that it needs a new part and it's too late to head to the auto parts store and pick it up.
"If you need a ride, I can take you back," I offer. "Or you can crash here for the night, and we'll go get what you need tomorrow. That way, you don't have to leave your car here."
"Really? You'd let me stay here?"
I want you to stay here,
I scream in my head, wishing I could say it out loud. Instead, I say, "Of course. I don't have a spare bed, but I can take the couch. Just give me some time to change the sheets before you go to sleep, okay?"
I catch a glimpse of her smile as her face rushes past mine. Her arms wrap tightly around my shoulders. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," she gushes in my ear as she hugs me. When she backs up, her hands are still on my shoulders and her face is the epitome of everything I love about her. I catch myself staring at her smile.
"All right, let's head back in then," I ruin the moment. I hate myself for doing it, but that moment wasn't about to go anywhere anyway. Right?
As we reenter the house, I hear her saying my name, a note of uncertainty in her voice. My heart skips a beat as I turn to her, half expecting her to tell me that she loves me or some unlikely nonsense like that. "Do you mind if I take a shower while you change the bed?" she asks. I blink, stunned by the unexpected question. "It's fine if not; I just usually shower before bed, so I thought I might as well ask."
"Okay," I reply, "but you don't have any other clothes, do you?"
"I can just put these back on."
"That seems weird to me. Taking a shower just to put on dirty clothes? I can put them in the wash with the sheets, but it will take some time." Even I'm not certain that my suggestion is completely innocent, as I realize this would leave her naked. "I promise I won't come back until your clothes are done unless you need something, and I won't look." I avert my eyes as I blush, fighting my imagination as it conjures images of her naked in my bed.
Those thoughts are the reason the sheets need changing in the first place,
I remind myself.
I don't dare to look at her as she considers it. Finally, she answers, "Okay, that way I can wear these clothes tomorrow too, and I have less laundry to do myself. I'll leave them outside the bathroom door for you." And with that, she walks toward my room.
I follow behind, stopping in the bedroom as she continues into the bathroom. Then I go straight to work stripping the crusty sheets from my bed.
If she had any idea that I've been soiling these over her, she would probably kill me. This is cutting it close as it is.
There's the sound of the bathroom door opening and quickly closing again; when I look, there's a pile of clothes just on this side of the door. The top of the pile is a white bra and thong, both trimmed with pink lace with a heart motif. Knowing what her underwear looks like definitely isn't going to help with keeping my sheets clean going forward.
I finish changing the sheets as I hear the shower start. That's when I realize that there's only one towel out in the bathroom. I knock on the bathroom door and raise my voice over the running water. "There's another towel under the sink," I inform my naked crush (why am I wording it that way?) before I put her pile of clothes on top of the linens in my arms and head for the laundry machines in the basement.
As I leave the bedroom, I use my chin to hold the laundry in place as I use one hand to close the door. Unintentionally, my jaw rubs against the soft, smooth fabric of her thong. There's a scent I've smelled before, only it's never been this strong. My mind goes to times when she's hugged me, how her kindness seemed to flow through every moment of the gentle pressure. I linger a moment, savoring her aroma like some perverted panty thief, before delivering the load to the washer.
I start the washer and wait beside it until it's time to move the wet laundry to the dryer. As I'm transferring the items, I realize that her lace-trimmed underwear might not be safe in the dryer so I head up to ask through the door. Just as I get out of the basement, however, I hear her shouting my name. The tone of her voice sounds like she's in trouble, so I rush to the bedroom to help.
I throw open the bedroom door and don't find any trouble at all. There isn't even something like a spider or a mouse to deal with. It's just her. Naked. Lying on my bed. With a hand between her legs.
I turn around, my whole head probably turning purple. I just saw something I was never meant to see. Something that I'm sure will haunt my wet daydreams for years to come. "I—I'm sorry," I stammer out. "I heard you—calling my name. It sounded urgent, so I—"
Wait. If she was doing
