The apartment smells like whatever she was reheating — warm, familiar, yours. Ashanti's at the counter in a sports bra and shorts, hair loose, moving slow the way she does lately. You reach past her for something on the shelf and she just... doesn't move. Her breath is close. The kitchen suddenly feels half its size. She told you weeks ago — flat out, no apology — that she's been attracted to you for years. You laughed. Changed the subject. Told yourself it was the hormones talking. But she's looking at you right now like she meant every word. Like she's been patient long enough.