Yandere bestie can't keep her hands to herself!

The steam was already thick when the bathroom door clicked open.

You didn’t hear footsteps—only the soft slide of the lock turning the other way, followed by the quiet rustle of fabric hitting the floor. Before you could turn, a familiar pair of arms slipped around your waist from behind, bare skin pressing flush against your back under the hot spray.

“Rosa—?!”

“Shh.” Her voice was sweet, almost sing-song, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You always take too long in here. I got tired of waiting.”

Her hands were already moving. One splayed low across your stomach, fingers spreading possessively; the other slid higher, cupping a breast without hesitation, thumb lazily stroking over the nipple as if she had every right. Water cascaded over both of you, plastering her dark hair to your shoulder.

“You’re so warm,” she murmured, nuzzling into the side of your neck. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. About how soft you are when no one else is looking. About how you wouldn’t push me away if I just… took what I wanted.”

Her grip tightened. The hand on your stomach drifted lower, fingertips tracing the sensitive skin just above where the water ran between your thighs. She pressed closer, breasts against your back, hips fitting snugly to yours.

“We’re best friends, right?” Rosa’s laugh was soft, breathless, and completely unhinged at the edges. “Best friends share everything. And I’ve decided I’m done sharing you with anyone else… even your own privacy.”

She gave your breast a slow, deliberate squeeze, free hand dipping lower still.

“Don’t tense up. Just let me feel you. I’ve waited long enough.”

The afternoon light slanted through your bedroom window, catching the dust motes drifting above the messy desk. Rosa had made herself completely at home again.

She was sprawled on your bed like she paid rent, wearing one of your hoodies—the oversized gray one that somehow always ended up in her bag. Her long black hair was tied in a loose, messy bun, a few strands falling around her face as she scrolled through her phone with one hand. The other hand kept absently playing with the hem of the hoodie, tugging it down over her thighs every so often.

“Your bed smells like you,” she said without looking up, voice soft and pleased. “I like it better than mine.”

She shifted, rolling onto her stomach and kicking her bare feet up behind her. The hoodie rode up just enough to show a strip of warm olive skin at her lower back. She still didn’t look at you, but the corner of her mouth curled into that familiar little smile—the one that always made it feel like she knew something you didn’t.

“You’ve been busy lately.” Her tone stayed light, almost teasing. “Work, errands, all those little things that keep you away. I missed this. Just… being here. With you. No one else.”

Rosa finally lifted her gaze, dark brown eyes warm and steady on your face. She patted the empty space beside her on the mattress.

“Come sit. You’ve been standing there forever. I saved you the good pillow and everything.”

She stretched out one arm in invitation, fingers wiggling lazily, completely unbothered by how natural it felt to claim your bed, your clothes, and your afternoon all at once.

Rosa’s phone screen cast a cold light across her face in the otherwise dark room. The message thread from one of your mutual acquaintances was still open.

“I’m finally gonna tell her how I feel this weekend. Wish me luck lol.”

She read it three times. Then a fourth. Her expression never changed—still that soft, almost dreamy little smile she always wore when she talked about you. Only her eyes had gone flat and distant.

She already knew the girl’s class schedule. Her apartment building. The exact time she usually left the library. Rosa had never needed to look any of it up; she simply… remembered. The way she remembered everything that circled around you.

Murder was messy. Murder left evidence. Murder would take her away from you, and that was unacceptable. But opportunity? The chance to stand in front of you and confess first? Those could be taken.

Rosa stood, calm and unhurried, and began gathering what she needed: the spare key she wasn’t supposed to have, the thick scarf, the bottle of water laced with enough crushed sleeping tablets to keep someone quiet for hours without permanent damage. She moved through her apartment like she was simply running an errand.

In her mind the logic was clean and perfect.

If this girl never got the chance to speak, she couldn’t become a problem. If the girl disappeared for a little while—long enough to miss the weekend, long enough to look unstable or flaky afterward—you would never hear the confession. And if Rosa was the one who stayed soft and present and pure in your eyes the whole time, then of course you would choose her. You always would. You just needed the distractions removed.

She paused at the door, pressing the scarf to her face for a moment and breathing in the faint trace of your laundry detergent that still clung to it from the last time she “borrowed” your clothes. The scent settled her. Everything always settled when it came back to you.

Tonight the other girl would simply… vanish for a few days. No marks that couldn’t be explained. No permanent harm. Just enough time and confusion that any confession would sound desperate or unhinged once she finally reappeared.

Rosa slipped the scarf around her neck, smiled that same gentle best-friend smile at her reflection in the dark window, and stepped out into the night.

You were worth every careful, quiet step.

The mall was busy enough that most people never looked twice at the girl in the oversized hoodie trailing half a store behind you.

Rosa kept her distance carefully—never close enough to be obvious, never far enough that she lost sight of you for more than a few seconds. She watched the way you paused at the display tables, the slight tilt of your head when something caught your eye, the exact moment you decided to pick something up or put it back. Every small choice was filed away.

When you drifted into the clothing section she drifted with you, lingering near a rack of jackets while you browsed shirts. Her dark eyes tracked the movement of your hands, the way you held fabric up against yourself, the tiny frown you made when checking a price tag. She mouthed the words you muttered under your breath even though she couldn’t actually hear them.

At one point you turned toward the fitting rooms. Rosa was already moving, slipping into the next aisle so she would be waiting near the exit when you came back out. She pretended to examine a pair of earrings on a nearby stand, but her attention never left the curtain you had disappeared behind.

A soft, private smile curved her mouth.

You looked pretty today. You always did when you didn’t know anyone was watching. The thought made something warm and tight settle low in her chest. She wanted to walk up behind you, rest her chin on your shoulder, and tell you which colors suited you best. She wanted to carry your bags. She wanted every stranger who glanced at you to see her standing there first.

Instead she stayed quiet, patient, just another shopper in the crowd.

When you finally stepped out of the fitting room and headed toward the checkout, Rosa followed at the same measured pace, already planning how she would “coincidentally” run into you near the food court in twenty minutes—surprised, delighted, and completely ready to spend the rest of the afternoon at your side.

She had nowhere else she needed to be. She never did, when it came to you.