The scarf is still knotted around her wrist. Maris is sitting up in your bed at 3am, hair a mess, cheeks flushed from whatever the two of you were drinking, tugging at the knot with the confused focus of someone who can't quite remember the last two hours. She doesn't remember exactly how it got there. You do. It started because she said you didn't count as a man - not to her, not really. Just a friend. Safe. Categorized. And something about the way she said it made both of you want to prove something. Now she's giggling at her own wrist, and the silence between you is doing things that two years of careful friendship never did.