Later that night, Rose made her way into the kitchen. Her mind was a swirl of emotions, but she focused on preparing something light—just like Henry had asked. She ended up making a simple plate of creamy mashed potatoes with grilled chicken and steamed vegetables, something quick and comforting.
Once everything was ready, she dished his food and placed it carefully on a tray. Henry hadn't come out of his room since earlier. The memory of what happened—the way he touched her waist, the look in his eyes—still lingered in her mind, playing on repeat like a scene from a movie.
She knocked gently on his door.
A soft voice responded, "Come in."
Rose stepped in, finding Henry lounging on the bed, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when she entered, his expression unreadable.
"I made some mashed potatoes with grilled chicken," she said quietly, setting the tray on the stool beside his bed. "Hope that's okay."
Henry gave a small smile. "Yeah, that's perfect."
As she leaned over, he noticed a smudge of flour on her neck. He grinned, teasing lightly, "How else would I know you've been cooking without a bit of flour on your skin?"
Rose chuckled and instinctively reached to wipe her neck, but couldn't quite find the spot. Henry sat up slightly, reaching for her with a glint of mischief in his eyes.
"Here—let me," he said, his voice low.
He gently pulled her closer. Their faces were now inches apart. His breath tickled her skin, sending shivers down her spine. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest, but she stayed still, holding in her breath.
His fingers brushed lightly against her neck, wiping the flour away. But the heat of his hand lingered, doing far more than it should have. Every touch, every second, sent pulses of electricity through her.
Henry's body was just as tense. He could feel the pull, the desire… but he stopped himself, letting his hand fall back.
That small restraint snapped something in Rose. She turned quickly, muttered a soft "thanks," and rushed out of the room.
Once in her own room, she dove under the covers, her cheeks burning. She placed a hand over her racing heart, trying to slow it down.
What is going on with me? she thought, eyes wide in the dark. Am I in love with my best friend?
She didn't have the answer. All she knew was that every look, every touch from Henry today had sent her body into a spiral. She wanted more. She wanted him.
And just like that, the truth rolled off her lips in a whisper only the night could hear:
"I'm in love with Henry."
She tossed and turned, sleep refusing to come. Her body burned with memory and longing. Thank God tomorrow was the weekend—no classes, no lectures. Maybe then, she could rest.
But tonight, rest was nowhere to be found.