It started with a drunken dare and a shared cab ride home. Nothing romantic, nothing serious. Just two friends crossing a line and agreeing it didn’t mean anything.
"No strings," Ivy had said, breathless, shirt half-off, eyes daring.
"No expectations," Jay had replied, pulling her closer.
That was the rule.
And for a while, it worked.
They kept it quiet. Casual. A few stolen nights between stressful workweeks, laughter that lingered a little too long, touches that drifted into slow familiarity. They were still Ivy and Jay—best friends since college, competitive, sarcastic, always there for each other.
Only now, they kissed.
They touched.
And sometimes, Ivy caught herself watching him sleep, wondering what it would feel like if he were really hers.
She told herself not to be stupid. He didn’t want that. Neither did she. Right?
Until the night he didn’t leave.
They were wrapped in blankets on her couch, a movie playing, popcorn spilled everywhere. She fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. When she woke up, it was 3 a.m., and he was still there, arm draped around her, steady breathing in sync with hers.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t want to.
"You're still here," she whispered.
"Yeah," he said. "Guess I didn’t feel like going."
And neither of them mentioned it again.
But everything changed after that.
The touches lingered longer. The texts grew softer. He brought her coffee just because. She picked up snacks he liked without thinking. And when she laughed, he looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time.
They never said it.
Not until she saw him with someone else.
It was just drinks. A date. Nothing serious.
But it felt like being punched in the chest.
She didn’t text him that night. Or the next.
Jay noticed. Showed up at her door, confused.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," she lied. "Why wouldn’t I be?"
"Because you always call when you’re not."
"Maybe I don’t want to be that girl anymore."
He frowned. "What girl?"
"The one you come to when you’re bored or lonely or between dates."
Silence.
Then, carefully: "Is that what you think this is?"
She laughed, bitter. "Isn’t it? That’s what we agreed."
"Yeah," he said. "That’s what we said. But that’s not what it became. At least… not for me."
Her heart pounded.
He stepped closer. "I love you, Ivy. I don’t know when it changed. But it did. And I’ve been too scared to say anything because I thought you didn’t feel the same."
"I didn’t mean to fall for you," she whispered.
"Neither did I. But here we are."
She closed the distance between them. Rested her forehead against his.
"So what now?"
He smiled. "Now we stop pretending."
Because friends with benefits only works until it doesn’t.
Until hearts get involved.
---
**Two Months Later**
The transition wasn’t smooth.
They argued about everything—labels, commitment, space. They spent a week not speaking after Ivy said she wasn’t ready to meet his mom. Jay spent two nights on his brother’s couch after Ivy said she needed room to breathe.
But they always came back.
Because when it was just the two of them, everything still made sense. When he kissed her forehead before bed or she held his hand at the grocery store—those little things felt like home.
One night, they sat in bed, pizza between them, movie half-played.
"Do you regret it?" she asked.
Jay looked up. "Regret what?"
"Crossing that line. Starting all this."
He shook his head slowly. "I regret not doing it sooner."
She smiled. For the first time in weeks, the uncertainty faded.
"Me too."
And maybe it hadn’t started the right way. Maybe they fumbled and fought and feared their way into something real.
But real it was.
More than this.
Exactly this.
