Hold it

She stays there, straddling him, the purple dress bunched at her hips. The music pounds around them but it feels distant, muffled, like she's underwater. His eyes hold hers, and she can see the question in them—the same one burning in her chest.

Her hands are still pressed against his chest. She can feel his heartbeat under her palms, steady and fast. Her own pulse answers in double time.

She doesn't look away. Doesn't laugh it off. Doesn't move.

Her lips part slightly, as if to speak, but no words come. What would she even say? Sorry, I'm your best friend's girlfriend? Sorry, I should get up?

She should get up.

She stays.

The silence between them is louder than the music, charged with everything unspoken—the towel, the hug, the way he looked at her when she answered the door. It all converges in this moment, in this lap, in this stare.

She swallows, her throat dry despite the vodka.

"...Hi."

It's barely a whisper, lost in the bass, but she sees him catch it. A small, breathless smile crosses her lips.