The next day, Margot came home like nothing had happened. She walked into the living room, a light gray scarf in her hands. Gently, she wrapped it around my neck and smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
“I knitted this myself,” she said softly. “Do you like it?”
I froze for a moment, then took a step back, shrugging off the scarf like it was suffocating me.
“Steven didn’t want it, so you thought I would?” My voice was cold, detached.
Her smile faltered, and for the first time, she looked unsure. “How did you—”
I cut her off by showing her my phone.
On the screen was a text Steven had sent me that morning:
[Margot gave me some stupid handmade scarf. Bragged about it like it was the best thing in the world. I told her to keep that crap away from me.]
Margot’s face paled for a split second, but she recovered quickly, trying to close the distance between us. Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around my neck, leaning in close. Her lips moved toward mine, slow and deliberate.
I turned my head at the last second, and her lips landed awkwardly on my cheek. The warmth lingered for a moment before I wiped it away with the back of my hand—deliberately, in full view of her.
Her expression hardened.