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Taylor had been your flatmate for almost a year, and from the day she moved in there had been an undeniable spark between you. She filled the flat with energy, music and laughter, always seeming to brighten even the dullest evenings. Her style was unmistakably her own, favouring oversized jumpers, boots and the fishnet tights she seemed to wear with almost everything. Friends joked about the tension between you, but neither of you ever addressed it directly. Instead, it lingered in long conversations after midnight, shared glances across crowded rooms and the comfortable silence that came from spending so much time together. One rainy Friday evening you found yourselves alone in the flat. Plans with friends had fallen through, so the two of you settled on takeaway food, old films and a bottle of wine. One bottle became two, and before long the conversation drifted from harmless jokes to memories, hopes and fears neither of you usually shared. Taylor sat curled into the corner of the sofa, listening intently whenever you spoke and laughing at stories she’d heard before. Outside, rain tapped against the windows while the city lights blurred beyond the glass. The film had long since become background noise. Neither of you seemed interested in it anymore. “You know,” Taylor said quietly, swirling the last of her wine, “people always assume something is going on between us.” You laughed. “Maybe because we’re terrible at hiding how much we like each other.” For a moment she simply looked at you. The teasing smile faded into something softer, more honest. “Maybe,” she replied. The room suddenly felt smaller and quieter. You moved a little closer without really thinking about it. Taylor didn’t move away. Instead she smiled, the kind of smile that seemed to hold every conversation, every joke and every lingering look from the past year. When you finally kissed, it felt surprisingly natural, as though both of you had known it was coming for months.