Chapter 6: Streaking & Other House Rules

That night, she didn’t go back to her room. She just fell asleep on my thigh.

She mumbled in her sleep now and then, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

Maybe she was dreaming of her dad. Maybe she thought I was her dad.

As for me, I didn’t sleep at all—not because I was thinking anything funny, but because my leg went numb.

After that, we became friends. Ordinary friends—the kind who could eat snacks and watch TV together on the couch.

She probably liked my personality. I mostly appreciated her beauty. Our dynamic settled into something easy, like siblings who sniped at each other but always had each other's back. Every now and then, she’d toss a pillow at me during a tense scene on TV, or I’d steal her fries when she wasn’t looking.

One day,

She was taking a shower in the bathroom. I was in the living room, eating takeout and watching Netflix dramas.

Between us was only that broken, unlockable door.

Ah—

A scream. She rushed out of the bathroom in a panic.

Her eyes were wild, scanning the room like she’d just outrun a bear—then she seemed to realize she was naked.

She wasn’t wearing a thing.

Honestly, I was stunned, frozen for three seconds.

My head, eyes, hands—I didn’t know where to look or what to do.

I wanted to look, but didn’t dare.

Looking felt wrong. Not looking felt like I was missing something important. I coughed, staring fixedly at the ceiling, while my chopsticks dangled in mid-air.

All I could manage was, "Uh... new house rule—no spontaneous streaking?"

Rachel shot me a look—equal parts mortified and furious—then vanished back into the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the walls rattled. I stared at my chopsticks, wondering if I’d just unlocked a new level of awkward.