You Fight To Escape But Are Helpless

I thrashed beneath her, my face burning—from embarrassment or exertion, I wasn't sure—but her grip was weirdly strong, her knees digging into the couch on either side of me. "Get off," I snapped, but it came out breathless, shaky. Her hoodie smelled like vanilla and something aggressively floral, and I hated that I noticed.

Sanah just tilted her head, her grin widening. "Make me," she teased, tightening her hold on my wrists. Her thumbs pressed into my pulse points, and I could feel my own heartbeat hammering against her fingers. "If I knew you were this weak I would've tackled you the first day we met."

I opened my mouth to argue, but she barreled on before I could, her voice shifting into something softer, almost nostalgic. "You were so sweet back then. Remember? You carried all those boxes for my mom, and then you gave me that dumb little stuffed frog because you heard I liked them." Her eyes flickered with something I couldn't place—something warm and dangerous. "Ever since then I knew you liked me, it was just so cute how you tried so to pretend you didn't."

Her laughter echoed in my ears, mingling with the frantic thud of my pulse. The living room suddenly felt too small, the couch too soft beneath us, and Sanah too damn close. My wrists ached where her fingers dug in, but worse was the heat crawling up my neck—whether from anger or something else, I refused to consider.