𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓮𝓹𝓱𝓸𝓷𝓮

The Chapel was a sanctuary of polished oak and whispered prayers, Tuesday afternoon, the hour reserved for the Altar Society’s maintenance duties. You were alone in the quiet, the only sound the soft swipe of your cloth over the dark wood of the lectern, your own sigh.

You liked this work. It was simple, physical, and it left your mind clear. You didn’t have to think about the upcoming theology exam, or the strange, quiet ache that sometimes settled in your chest when you watched the other girls laugh together in a way you never quite managed to join. 

The peace shattered with the sharp click of the chapel’s side door opening.

“Y/N!”

Your name echoed in the hollow space. You turned, Sophia stood in the doorway, her uniform pristine, her dark hair perfectly pinned and her smile that could look genuinely sweet if you didn’t know better. 

“Hi Sophia. What is it?” you asked.

Sophia stepped forward, her heels tapping on the stone floor. “There’s a new transfer. Lara Raj. Tamil girl. Her mother contacted Sister Irene directly. Said she was… having problems. Thinking unholy thoughts.” Sophia’s eyes gleamed with gossipy delight, she did a quick, performative cross over her chest.

You squinted at her. You’d never said a word about what you saw last semester, Sophia and Manon, tangled together in Sophia’s dorm room bed, mouths locked, hands roaming under uniforms. You’d prayed about it for weeks. 

“And why do I have to know this?” you asked, folding your cleaning cloth.

“Sister Irene wants you to show her around,” Sophia said, crossing her arms. “She trusts you.”

You almost laughed. Sister Irene, head of campus discipline and spiritual guidance, did not trust you, she tolerated you. Her golden girls were Wonyoung, Karina, and Sophia herself, polished, eloquent, publicly devout. You were the girl who didn’t cause trouble, and whose faith was assumed but never celebrated. Sister Irene had never once asked you to mentor anyone.

“Fine,” you sighed. “Where is she?”

“Main office. Waiting.” Sophia’s smile widened. Manon appeared fully then, slipping an arm around Sophia’s waist, that simple action made your stomach tighten.

“Go on, Y/N,” Manon said, her voice, soft and sickly sweet. “Lara’s waiting.”

Before you could protest, their hands on your back and shoulders, pushing you out of the chapel doors. You glanced back once, the chapel doors were already swinging shut, and you knew exactly what Sophia and Manon would be doing inside now.

You straightened your blazer, smoothed your  skirt, both felt suddenly too tight, but you made your walk toward the main office. You hated meeting new people, the forced pleasantries, the inevitable disappointment when they realised you weren’t interesting.

You pushed open the heavy glass door of the office.

And there, in one of those chairs, was the new girl.

Lara Raj.

She had her back to you initially, looking at a pamphlet on campus rules. Her hair was black, straight lines to her mid back. A small, gold hoop glinted in her nose. Your eyes caught on it immediately, a violation. Then you saw her hands. On the knuckles of her right hand, delicate, intricate tattoos. On the left, a script in a language you didn’t recognise. Holy shit, you thought, the unbidden curse startling you internally.

She turned her head then.

Her skin was a rich, warm brown. Her eyes met yours, they were brown, but had flecks of amber and green made them look hazel in the office light. They weren’t gentle eyes. They were enticing, and sharp.

Your breath hitched. A hot flush climbed from your neck to your cheeks, a stupid, uncontrollable reaction. You turned quickly away from her, facing the blank office wall, and closed your eyes. Lord, give me strength. Calm my mind. Help me to be a good guide. The prayer was automatic.

You turned back.

She was staring at you now, one eyebrow arched, a faint smirk playing on her full lips. She hadn’t moved from the chair.

“You know you aren’t supposed to have nose piercings,” you said, an accusation from the rulebook, your only defence.

Lara scoffed. It was short, a derisive laugh. “Sister Irene tried that on me already. I’m not taking it out.” Her voice was low pitched, and smooth.

Then she stood up.

It was like watching a panther rise. Her uniform was a mess. The skirt was shortened, her blazer was gone, tossed over the chair beside her, the white button up shirt was undone at the top two buttons, exposing the base of her throat and a hint of collarbone. The fabric was thin, almost sheer. Under it, you could clearly see the lace pattern of a bra, black and frilly.

Your eyes stuck there for a second.

“You gonna show me around,” Lara said, not moving toward you but holding your gaze, “or are you gonna keep looking at my tits?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She picked up her blazer, slinging it over her shoulder, and walked past you out of the office door.

“I wasn’t looking!” you blurted out. Your face was burning now.

She was already in the hallway. You hurried after her, the glass door swinging shut behind you with a thump.

Lara stood waiting for you, looking at you, that same brow raised expression on her face.

“Right,” you said, swallowing, trying to force your voice into something normal. “We should start with the campus layout.”

“Lead the way,” Lara said. She fell into step beside you. Her presence was overwhelming. She smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap, spicy perfume and another series of violations. You could feel the eyes of other students on both of you, on her.

You walked stiffly, pointing out buildings as you passed them. “That’s the library. Theology department is in the east wing. The dormitories are past the green…”

Lara listened, but her attention seemed elsewhere. She’d look at a group of laughing boys and her smirk would deepen. She’d glance at a poster for a chapel choir concert and roll her eyes.

“So,” she said after a few minutes of your monotone recitation, cutting you off as you described the cafeteria meal plan. “You’re the good girl, huh?”

“What?” You stopped walking.

“The one Sister Irene sent, the reliable one. The virgin saint.” Lara’s tone wasn’t malicious, it was curious. Her hazel brown eyes scanned your face. “You embarrass easy. You pray in public. You follow the rules.” She gestured at your perfectly hemmed skirt, your fully buttoned shirt, your lack of any adornment. “You’re what they want everyone to be.”

“I try to live a faithful life,” you said, the standard answer.

“Bullshit,” Lara said softly.

You stared at her.

“Everyone tries something,” she continued, starting to walk again, forcing you to follow. “You’re not trying. You’re just being… boring.”

Anger sparked in your chest, hot and unfamiliar. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you saw my bra and got so flustered you had to pray to your god for help,” Lara said bluntly, not looking at you. “I know your friends, the Filipina and the Swiss girls, pushed you out because they wanted to fuck in the chapel without you watching. I know you didn’t tell Sister Irene about them, even though you probably saw them. How sinful”

Each sentence was a punch. They were crude, vulgar, and so accurate it made your skin crawl. How did she know? Did she see it?

“Why are you here?” you asked suddenly, the question escaping you. “If you hate all this so much?”

Lara stopped by a large window overlooking the campus courtyard. She leaned against the wall.

“My mother thinks I’m possessed by devils,” she said, “She thinks the tattoos are curses. She thinks my… thoughts… need to be purified by holy environment.” She laughed again, but this one was bitter. “She paid a lot of money to get me in here. A last ditch effort to save my soul from eternal fire.” She finally looked at you. “So I’m here to prove to her that it won’t work.”

“What thoughts?” you asked, before you could stop yourself.

Lara’s eyes locked on yours. The hazel flecks seemed to glow in the afternoon light. She didn’t answer for a long moment. Then she shrugged.

“The usual unholy ones,” she said vaguely but, her gaze didn’t waver. It felt like she was talking about you, about the way you were looking at her now, about the heat still lingering in your cheeks.

“We should see your dorm assignment,” you said weakly, needing to break the intensity.

“Sure,” Lara said, straightening up.

You led her to the residence office, got her key. Room 214 in St. Agnes Hall, ironically named after a virgin martyr.

St. Agnes Hall was old, stone walled, smelling of mildew and floral disinfectant. You walked up to the second floor. The hallway was quiet, most girls were still in classes.

You stopped at the room and Lara unlocked the door and pushed it open.

It was a standard single room, a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a small window overlooking a narrow alley.

Lara walked in, tossed her blazer onto the bed, and turned to you. You were still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“You can come in,” she said. “It’s not a chapel.”

You stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. The room felt smaller with both of you in it.

Lara sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back against her hands. She looked at you standing there, rigid.

“You’re nervous,” she observed.

“I’m not,” you lied.

“You are.” She sighed, as if bored by your denial. “Look, I’ll make it simple, you can be my guide, show me where shit is and, fuck right off back to your polishing and praying. But if you stay…” She paused, her eyes traveling slowly down your body, then back up. “…you might see some things that’ll make you pray a lot harder.”

It was explicit, an invitation of corruption.

Your mouth was dry. The image of Sophia and Manon flashed again in your mind, but this time it was overpowered with Lara. Her hands, her mouth, her dark lace bra.

“Sister Irene expects me to help you integrate,” you said finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lara smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Good,” she said. “Then let’s integrate.”

She stood up from the bed and walked over to the wardrobe. She opened it, looked at the empty space, then turned back to you.

“First rule of integration,” she said. “Don’t report me for the shit I’m going to do.” She pulled a small, sleek black case from her bag and opened it. Inside was a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a few small, sealed bottles of what looked like liquor.

“Second rule,” she said, pulling out a cigarette and placing it between her lips without lighting it. “If you’re going to stand there watching me with that hungry little look on your face, you might as well admit what you want.”

You couldn’t move. The cigarette between her lips was another violation, another sin right there in the virgin martyr’s dorm room. The “hungry little look” what did that mean? Was your face showing something you didn’t even understand?

Lara watched you struggle, “You’ve never even kissed anyone, have you?” she asked, the question so crude and direct it felt like a physical touch.

You shook your head slightly.

Lara took the unlit cigarette from her mouth and held it. “Thought so,” she said softly. She stepped closer to you. Not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat from her body, smell the smoke and spice on her skin.

“This place,” she said, her voice low now, almost a whisper meant just for you in the empty room, “is going to eat you alive if you stay the way you are. All that wanting… all that watching… with no way to let it out.” She tilted her head. “I can show you how to let it out.” She didn’t move to touch you.

What did you want?

The dorm room smelled of Giselle’s expensive perfume and NingNing’s strawberry scented vape smoke. You’d been pacing a trench in the thin carpet for ten minutes.

“NingNing, I can’t show her around,” you blurted out, stopping in front of her desk. She was painting her toenails a shocking, iridescent purple, a color that would get her detention if any nun saw it.

“Why not? She got two heads?” NingNing’s voice was light, amused.

“She’s… she’s corrupted,” you said, the word feeling dramatic.

NingNing finally glanced up, a smirk playing on her lips. She blew on her toenails. “Oh, come on. If you steer her in the right direction, she’ll be okay. That is your job, isn’t it? Be a good little influence?” Her tone wasn’t mean, just dismissive, like she was talking to a kid.

“But what if she…” you trailed off, the fear a hard knot in your stomach.

NingNing raised her eyebrow. “She what? Corrupts you back?”

You nodded, your face heating with shame at the admission.

NingNing snorted. “Please. You’d have to have something in you to corrupt first. You’re like a blank sheet of paper. She’d just get bored.”

The bathroom door opened then, steam coming out followed by Giselle. Her dark hair was wrapped in a towel, another smaller one cinched around her body. Droplets of water gleamed on her collarbones.

“What’s her problem?” Giselle asked NingNing, as if you weren’t there.

“The new transfer. Scared she’s gonna catch the gay or something,” NingNing said, capping her nail polish.

Giselle’s eyes landed on you. She walked over to her dresser, the towel riding high on her thighs. “Look,” she said. “What I suggest is you go sleep on it. Say three Hail Marys, pray for her soul or whatever, and get out. We need to sleep.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but Giselle was already crossing the room. She put a hand on your shoulder. Her grip was firm, her skin still warm from the shower. She guided you firmly to the door, opened it, and pushed you out into the hallway.

“Night,” she said, and the door clicked shut in your face. You stood there, hearing the faint sound of NingNing’s laughter from inside before it was muffled. The whole school was full of them. Full of girls who knew things, who did things.

You didn’t say three Hail Marys. You lay in your own narrow bed in your own silent room and stared at the ceiling. 

The next morning, the chapel was its usual self, cold, quiet, smelling of wax and dust. You slipped into your usual pew in the middle, the wood smooth and familiar under your thighs. You were early. You needed the quiet, or you thought you did. You knelt, clasped your hands, and tried to find the prayerful silence. Instead, you got the memory of Lara’s smirk.

The side door creaked open. Footsteps, treaded on the stone floor. You didn’t want to look, but you did.

Lara. She was in full uniform today, though the blazer was unbuttoned and the shirt was still open at the throat. She walked down the side aisle, her eyes scanning the empty pews before landing on you.

A flicker of something passed over her face. She didn’t come to your pew, she went to the very front row, the one usually reserved for the chapel choir or visiting priests, and slid in. She knelt. You watched the line of her back, the fall of her dark hair. She clasped her hands together on the pew in front of her and bowed her head.

Your own prayers were forgotten. You just stared, was she actually praying? The posture was perfect, but everything else about her screamed performance. After a few minutes, you found yourself moving. You gathered your things and walked quietly up the aisle, slipping into the pew behind her. You could smell her now, that same scent of spice, like clove cigarettes.

“Let me guess?” you whispered, the sound too loud in the hollow space. “Sister Irene made you?”

Her shoulders tensed slightly, but she didn’t turn. Her voice, low and clear. “Said I can’t skip chapel. She’d send Karina or Wonyoung to check if I’m actually praying.” She unclasped her hands and sat back on the bench, half turning to look at you over her shoulder. Her hazel eyes were flat.

“Well, are you?” you asked, it was a stupid question the second it left your mouth.

A slow smile spread across her face. “Praying to get the fuck out of here? Yeah.”

You flinched. The curse word hit the sacred air like a thrown rock. It was so visceral, so deliberately offensive. “You can’t—” you started, a reflex.

“I just did,” she said, turning fully now to face you. She rested her arm along the back of the pew, her tattooed knuckles right there in the holy light filtering through the stained glass.

Automatically, your hand rose. You made the sign of the cross in the air in front of her, your thumb brushing your own forehead, chest, shoulders. “No cursing in the chapel,” you whispered, your voice tight.

Lara watched you do it, her expression unreadable. She looked fascinated, like you were a peculiar insect performing a ritual. Her eyes followed the path of your hand.

“Why?” she asked, her voice dropping to match your whisper. “You think God’s in here and he’s got sensitive ears? That he’s gonna smite me for saying ‘fuck’ but he’s just fine with all the other shit that happens in this place?” Her gaze flickered past you, towards the doors, towards the dorms. 

“It’s about respect,” you hissed, feeling your cheeks burn again. You were always burning around her.

“Respect,” she repeated, tasting the word. She leaned forward, closing the space between you. Her scent intensified. “You want to know what I respect?” she murmured, her eyes locked on yours. “I respect honesty. That thing you’re not doing. You followed me up here. You’re watching me like I’m a puzzle you need to solve, you’re so fucking tense you might break. That’s honest. Your little cross in the air? That’s bullshit.”

You were frozen. Her words were stripping you bare, right there in God’s house. She saw everything.

“What do you want from me?” The question escaped, raw and desperate.

Lara’s smirk returned. She leaned back, breaking the intensity, but her eyes never left you. “I don’t want anything from you. But you…” She let the sentence hang. The chapel bell began to toll for the start of morning prayers. 

“You should go back to your seat,” Lara said, turning to face the altar again, dismissing you. “Wouldn’t want anyone to see you talking to the corrupted girl. Might ruin your reputation.”

The dismissal stung more than her curses. You stood up, your legs shaky, and retreated to your pew in the middle. As the other girls filed in, filling the chapel with soft rustles and whispers, you kept your eyes straight ahead on the crucifix above the altar.

But your entire awareness was a laser focused on the back of Lara Raj’s head in the front row. She didn’t kneel again. She just sat, slouched slightly, a dark spot of defiance in the sea of navy blue and bowed heads. And you knew, that she was right. You were lying about everything and, she was the only one who could see it.

You walked alone in the hallway after chapel ended. You stared straight ahead at the lockers, the bulletin boards plastered with announcements for choir practice and charity drives, but you didn’t see them. Your vision was blurred, your mind filled with one frequency.

Lara Raj.

The name echoed in your brain, a mantra that wasn’t holy. Her face, the smirk that seemed to know the secrets of your spine. Her hands, the tattoos and the foreign script on her knuckles. The black lace you’d seen through her shirt, a detail you’d memorised like a verse from scripture. The way she’d leaned close in the pew. 

Something was wrong with you. A sickness, a fever. Your skin felt too tight. Your uniform, the same one you’d worn for two years without a second thought, now felt like a lie. Your heart wasn’t beating right.

You were supposed to be thinking about your next class. You were supposed to be mentally reviewing the arguments on natural law. Instead, you were thinking about Lara’s lip when she said “fuck.” You were thinking about the way her eyebrow arched. You were thinking about the sheer, terrifying possibility that she might be right. That all your prayers, your polishing, your quiet obedience, was just a cover for something else. 

A hand coming down on your shoulder.

It was Karina. Her grip was firm. She had a face like a porcelain doll, perfect and cool, but her eyes were always calculating.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice smooth. “Sister Irene wants to see you in her office. Now.”

Your stomach dropped. “Why?”

Karina’s smile was thin. “I’m just the messenger. But I’d guess it’s about your new charge. Lara Raj.” She released your shoulder. “She was in chapel. I saw her. And I saw you talking to her.”

There was no accusation in her tone, just a fact, but it felt like an accusation.

“I was just…” you began, but Karina cut you off.

“Sister Irene’s office. Now.” She turned and walked away.

You stood there for a moment, feeling exposed. Karina had seen. What had she seen? You talking? You making the sign of the cross over Lara? Your face, which was probably confused panic? You walked toward the administration wing, your earlier feverish thoughts now chilled by dread.

Sister Irene’s office was at the end of a quiet corridor, away from the student noise. You knocked.

“Enter.”

You opened the door. Sister Irene sat at the desk, her posture rigid, her hands folded on a ledger.

“Y/N,” she said. “Sit.”

You sat in the visitor’s chair, feeling like a defendant.

“You were assigned to assist Lara Raj in her orientation,” Sister Irene began, not looking at you, but at something on her ledger. “A simple task. One of compassion and guidance.”

You nodded.

“Karina informs me that Lara attended chapel this morning,” Sister Irene continued, her eyes now lifting to meet yours. “And that you were engaged in conversation with her during a time of silent preparation for prayer.”

“I… she was cursing,” you said, the words tumbling out. “I was reminding her of the rules.”

Sister Irene’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “And how did she respond to your reminder?”

“She… didn’t listen.”

“I see.” Sister Irene leaned forward slightly. “Y/N, Lara Raj is here under… special circumstances. Her mother is a devout woman, worried for her daughter’s spiritual welfare. Lara herself presents a significant challenge. She is resistant, confrontational, and openly disdainful of our community’s values.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “Your role is not to be her friend. Your role is to be an example. To demonstrate, through your own conduct, the peace and grace that comes from a life lived in accordance with God’s will. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Do you believe you are capable of being that example? Given your… interaction this morning?”

The question hung in the air. You thought of Lara’s voice, “That’s bullshit.” You thought of your own frantic, secret thoughts after you left her dorm room. You weren’t an example, you were a cracked mirror.

“I believe I can try,” you said, the weakest possible answer.

Sister Irene studied you for a long moment. “Try,” she repeated, as if the word itself was suspect. “Very well. You will continue to assist her. You will report to me each Friday on her progress, her attendance, her attitude, her adherence to the rules. This is a responsibility, Y/N. Not a privilege. Her soul may depend on the influence you bring.” She said it with absolute conviction. “Do not fail.”

“I won’t, Sister.”

She nodded, dismissing you. You stood up, your legs shaky again, and left the office. The door closed behind you with a solid, final sound.

You stood in the empty corridor, the weight of the assignment crushing you. Report on her progress. You were now officially a spy. The thought made you sick.

But another thought, underneath, it meant you had to be near her. You had a reason to seek her out, to watch her.

You walked back toward the classrooms. You turned down a different hallway, one that led to the older, less used part of the school. You needed to be alone. 

You found an empty alcove near a fire exit, a small space with a window overlooking a neglected courtyard. You leaned against the cold wall, pressing your forehead to the glass.

Your mind circled back to Lara.

What did you want?

You wanted her to look at you again with that intense gaze. You wanted her to say something crude and true that would shatter the quiet inside you. You wanted to touch the ink on her knuckles. You wanted to see the black lace bra again, not through a shirt but without anything over it. The thought was so blasphemous, that a hot wave of shame washed over you.

You were corrupted. She hadn’t even done anything to you, and you were corrupted. Just by existing near her, by speaking to her.

A sound made you turn.

It was the click of a lighter, then the soft, distinct inhalation of someone smoking.

You knew who it was before you saw her.

Lara stood in the shadowy corner of the courtyard below your window, partially hidden by a overgrown rhododendron bush. She had her back against the stone wall of the building. She wasn’t looking up, she was just staring out at the dead grass and broken benches.

She’d found a place to hide, to break the rules and, you’d found her.

You watched her. You imagined Karina or Wonyoung finding her here. They’d report her immediately, with cold efficiency. You were supposed to report her. Sister Irene’s orders were clear.

But you didn’t move.

Lara lifted her head then, as if sensing something. Her eyes scanned the windows above, and they landed on you. There was no surprise in her face, She saw you there, watching her smoke in secret. She didn’t hide the cigarette, she just looked back at you, her gaze steady through the grimy window pane.

Then, slowly, she lifted her hand, the one with the angel tattoo, and beckoned you with a single curl of her finger. 

Your heart hammered against your ribs. You could turn away, go to class, and later report her for smoking on campus. You could fulfill your duty to Sister Irene.

Or you could go down.

You looked at Lara’s face, she was waiting. She knew exactly what you were thinking, what you were feeling, she’d known since she first saw you in the office.

Without another thought, you moved. You pushed open the fire exit door and stepped out into the cool, damp air of the courtyard. The door closed behind you with a heavy thud.

Lara watched you approach. She took another drag from her cigarette and waited.

You stopped a few feet from her.

“Sister Irene wants me to report on you,” you said bluntly. The words came out flat.

Lara’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Report what?”

“Your attendance. Your attitude. Your adherence to the rules.” You gestured weakly at the cigarette in her hand.

Lara laughed. “So you’re my probation officer now. Cool.” She flicked some ash onto the ground. “And you came down here to get your first report? ‘Subject was found smoking in a deserted courtyard. Subject did not repent.’”

“No,” you said, your voice quiet.

“No?” Lara prompted, her eyes sharpening.

“I came down here because you gestured for me to come.”

Lara considered this. She took a final drag from the cigarette and then dropped it, stomping it out with the heel of her shoe. “I gestured because I knew you were watching. You’re always watching.” She stepped closer to you. “So what’s your report going to say, Y/N?”

You looked at her.

“It’s going to say I couldn’t find you after chapel,” you said. The lie felt both dangerous and exhilarating.

Lara’s smirk returned, wider this time. “A lie. In your first report. That’s a bad start for a good girl.”

“I’m not a good girl,” you said, and it was the most honest thing you’d said all day.

Lara’s expression changed. The smirk softened into something more genuine, more curious. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I know.” She reached out then, not to touch you, but to pluck at the lapel of your blazer.

“What do you want me to do?” you asked, the question barely a whisper.

Lara let go of your lapel. She looked around the deserted courtyard, then back at you. “For now? Nothing. Just keep lying for me.” She paused. “It gets easier after the first time.”

She turned and walked away from you, heading toward a side path that led back toward the main buildings. She left you standing there in the cold courtyard, surrounded by the smell of crushed cigarette and damp leaves.

The laundry room smelled of industrial bleach, and cheap lavender detergent. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a flickering hum.

You pushed through the heavy double doors, “Sophia?” Your voice sounded small, “Sister Irene wanted to know if the wash for the altar servers is done yet. She needs the surplices for tomorrow’s—”

You saw them.

They were between two giant, shuddering dryers. Sophia was pressed back against the chipped yellow paint of the wall, her head tilted back, mouth open in a silent gasp. Her uniform skirt was hitched up around her hips. Manon stood pressed against her, one hand tangled in Sophia’s perfectly pinned dark hair, the other was buried, knuckle deep, under the hem of that skirt. You could see the tense line of Manon’s forearm. Sophia’s knees were trembling.

A string of saliva glistened between their mouths before Manon sealed them together again with a wet, open mouthed kiss that was all tongue and teeth. Sophia moaned. Manon’s fingers moved and Sophia’s whole body jerked, her hips stuttering forward against Manon’s hand.

Your own body reacted before your brain could catch up. A hot, immediate clamp of muscle low in your gut, a pulse of sensation so sharp it was almost painful. You squeezed your thighs together tightly, the rough wool of your own skirt scratching your skin. Your breath hitched, stuck in your throat. You weren’t supposed to be seeing this. You were supposed to be asking about fucking surplices.

You couldn’t move. Your eyes were glued to that hidden, working hand, to the desperate, hungry way Sophia moved against it. This was what Lara had talked about. This was the “other shit” that happened here. It was wet and probably smelled like sex and laundry soap. 

Manon’s half lidded eyes, drifted from Sophia’s face and landed right on you. She didn’t startle. She didn’t stop. Her fingers kept moving, and Sophia whimpered, oblivious. Manon just held your gaze over Sophia’s shoulder, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across her kiss swollen lips. 

Your cunt throbbed. You were supposed to say something but, you just stood there, frozen in the doorway.

You stumbled back, your shoulder hitting the heavy laundry room door with a dull thud that was lost in the industrial roar. The image burned behind your eyelids like a negative. You turned and pushed through the doors.

You clumsily staggered. Your vision was blurred. You bounced off the rough cinderblock wall, the impact jolting your shoulder. Your shoe caught on a raised piece of linoleum and you pitched forward, hands shooting out to brace against a metal janitor’s cart. You needed to get out. You needed to be anywhere but this damp, subterranean throat of a hallway. You turned a corner, aiming for the stairwell door at the far end.

You didn’t see her.

You walked right into a solid, warm body.

The impact wasn’t hard. Your forehead knocked against a collarbone. You inhaled sharply, and the scent that hit you was so familiar, so utterly her, that it short circuited the last of your coordination.

Hands came up, gripping your upper arms to steady you.

“Whoa. The fuck are you doing down here?”

You looked up. Of course it was Lara. She stood there, her head was tilted, those sharp, hazel brown eyes scanning your face with unnerving speed.

She took you in, your wide, startled eyes, your flushed cheeks, your parted lips as you tried to catch your breath. Her gaze dropped for a split second to where your hands had instinctively come up to her waist during the stumble, then back to your face. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, “Or… something else.” Her thumbs moved slightly where they gripped your arms.

You tried to step back, but her grip tightened, just for a second, holding you in place. “I… I was just… looking for Sophia,” you stammered.

“In the basement?” Lara’s eyebrow arched. Her eyes flicked past you, down the hallway toward the laundry room door. A slow, knowing smile touched her lips. “Find her?”

You swallowed, your throat dry. You shook your head, a tiny, jerky movement.

Lara’s smile widened. She released one of your arms, but only to bring her hand up. She didn’t touch your face. Instead, she reached out and brushed a fingertip across the lapel of your blazer. “You’re shaking,” she observed, her voice dropping to a murmur that seemed to vibrate in the space between you. “And you’re all… keyed up. What did you see in there, good girl?”

The crude, question. A small, choked sound escaped your lips.

Lara’s eyes darkened. The smirk faded. She leaned in closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper against your ear. You could feel her breath, warm on your skin. “Was it the Sophia and her Swiss pet? Were they fucking in the laundry room? Is that it?”

You flinched. 

“Did you watch?” she breathed, the question a hot brand. “Did you stand there and get wet watching them?”

“Stop it,” you gasped, but it had no force. It was a plea, not a command.

“Why?” Lara pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes again. Her gaze was relentless. “You liked it. I can tell. Your heart’s going crazy, you’re breathing like you just ran a race.” Her hand, the one still on your arm, slid down to your wrist, her fingers circling it. Her thumb pressed against your frantic pulse. “See? You’re a terrible liar.”

You were trapped by the truth, by the aching, throbbing need between your legs that her words were stoking into a blaze.

“They… they were…” you tried, but couldn’t finish.

“Yeah,” Lara finished for you, her voice thick with a kind of grim amusement. “They were. And you wanted to be her.”

You shook your head again, helplessly.

Lara studied you for another long moment, the hum of the lights the only sound. Then she sighed, a short, impatient exhale. She released your wrist and took a half step back. “You’re a mess,” she stated. “You’re gonna walk upstairs looking like this, and someone like Karina is gonna take one look at you and know exactly where you’ve been and what’s in your head.”

The thought was terrifying.

“Come on,” she said, turning and nodding down the hallway. “There’s a storage closet down here. Old choir robes. No one ever goes in there. You can… pull yourself together. Or not.” She glanced back at you. “Your choice. Stand here and get caught, or follow me.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. She just started walking, her footsteps echoing softly on the linoleum. She knew you’d follow. You always did.

You followed her.

Your legs felt like wood, your movements stiff. The space where her hands had gripped your arms still tingled. She walked, not looking back, knowing you were there. The sound of your own footsteps was too loud.

Lara stopped at a nondescript door, its paint peeling to reveal grey metal beneath. A sign, handwritten on yellowed cardstock and taped crookedly, read, Choir Robes - Seasonal. Do Not Remove. She tried the handle. It was unlocked, with a soft click, she pushed it open and slipped inside.

You hesitated. It smelled of old fabric, cedar mothballs, and dust so thick it was tangible.

A hand shot out of the darkness, fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulled you. You stumbled forward into the void, and the door swung shut behind you with a muffled thud.

The darkness was complete. Your other senses sharpened to a painful degree. You could hear Lara’s breathing, somewhere close in front of you. You could smell her. You could feel the heat coming off her body.

“Relax, your eyes’ll adjust.”

Slowly, shapes began to emerge from the gloom. Tall, hulking racks crammed with hanging garments. Lara was leaning against a rack, arms crossed, watching you.

“So,” she said. “Laundry room. Give me the details.”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Bullshit,” she said, simple and blunt. “You’re bursting with it. It’s all over you. You’re gonna explode if you don’t let it out. We’re not leaving, you’re not about to have a fucking panic attack in the hallway.”

The vulgarity  in her tone, stripped away the last pretence.

“They were… against the wall. Manon had her hand… inside her. Under her skirt. Sophia was… she was…” You couldn’t find the words. “She was making noises.”

“She was coming,” Lara said, her voice utterly matter of fact. “Or getting close. Was she wet?”

The question was so crude, so specific, it stole your breath. “I… I don’t know.”

“You could see, though, couldn’t you? The way Manon’s hand was moving? Fast? Hard?” Lara’s voice was closer now. She’d taken a step toward you. 

You nodded, then remembered she couldn’t see. “Yes,” you whispered.

“And you liked it.”

It wasn’t a question this time.

A hot tear, escaped and traced a path down your cheek. “It’s wrong,” you choked out.

Lara let out a humourless laugh. “Who gives a fuck? Your body doesn’t think it’s wrong. Your body knows exactly what it wants. It’s your brain that’s all fucked up from this place.” She was right in front of you now. You could see the faint gleam of her eyes in the near dark. “You squeezed your legs together, didn’t you? When you saw it. Tried to make the feeling stop.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

“Did it work?”

“No.” 

“Of course it didn’t.” Her hand came up. You flinched, expecting a touch, but she just gestured vaguely in the dark. “That ache? That’s want. Plain and simple. You want to feel what she was feeling. You want someone’s hand on you, in you. You want to make those noises.”

You were trembling, a shake you couldn’t control. The ache between your legs was a persistent,  impossible to ignore.

“It’s a sin,” you breathed.

“Sin,” Lara repeated. “They’ve got you so twisted up. Listen to me.” Her voice dropped, forcing you to lean in to hear. “There is nothing in that Bible, in any of Sister Irene’s lectures, that can make what you’re feeling right now go away. You can pray until your knees bleed. You can polish every fucking pew in that chapel. It’ll still be there.”

You were crying silently now, the tears hot and shameful. She was articulating the terrifying truth you’d felt for months, years maybe.

“What do I do?” The question was a plea.

For a long moment, Lara was silent. You could hear the soft rustle of her clothes as she shifted. Then her hand came up again, and this time it did touch you. Her fingertips, cool and dry, brushed the wet track of a tear from your cheek.

“You have a choice,” she said, her fingers lingering for a second before dropping away. “You can keep lying. Go back upstairs, wash your face, and spend the night on your knees begging a god who doesn’t give a shit about your cunt to make you pure. Or.” She paused. The word hung in the dusty dark, heavy with implication. “You can admit it, accept what you are, and what you want.”

“And then what?” you whispered.

“Then the game changes. Then you’re not their good little girl anymore. You’re just… a girl. With needs. And there are ways to meet them. Even in this shit hole.”

“I’m scared,” you admitted, the truest thing you’d said all day.

“I know,” Lara said, and for the first time, there was no mockery in her voice. “It’s scary as hell. But being this?” She gestured at you, at your trembling form in the dark. “This is a slow death. You can feel it, this place is eating you from the inside out.”

You could. You’d felt it for years. A numbness, until she arrived, and suddenly all the hollow places were filled with a terrifying awareness.

“I don’t know how,” you said.

Lara moved then past you, her shoulder brushing yours. She felt along the wall until her fingers found a switch. A single, bare bulb hanging from a wire in the centre of the closet.

The harsh light was a shock. You blinked, your eyes watering. Lara looked utterly out of place.

She leaned back against a rack of robes.

“You don’t have to know how,” she said. “You just have to say yes. Say you’re done lying. To them. To yourself.” She crossed her arms. “That’s the only thing I need to hear.”

You looked at her, the nose ring, the tattoos, the defiant set of her jaw.

You took a deep, shuddering breath that tasted of dust and mothballs and possibility.

“Yes,” you said.

Lara didn’t smile, she didn’t look happy. She just nodded, once. “Okay,” she said, pushing off from the robe rack. “Then we start now.” She walked toward the door, then stopped and looked back at you. “First lesson. Stop hiding the evidence.”

She reached out and, with a startling intimacy, used the pad of her thumb to wipe away the last of the tear tracks from your cheeks. “Your face is a mess. Go to the bathroom. Splash water on it. Then meet me after dinner. Behind the old greenhouse.”

“What for?” you asked, your voice still unsteady.

“For lesson two.” She turned the handle and pulled the door open, letting in a slash of the hallway’s greenish light. “And Y/N?” she said, pausing in the doorway. “Don’t wear those granny panties. Wear something you wouldn’t want Sister Irene to see.”

She was gone then, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving you alone in the buzzing, dusty silence under the single bare bulb. 

"You want a thong?" Ningning asked you, you nodded, "Why?" she questioned, Giselle looked at Ningning like the question was obvious, because it was,

"Look she clearly wants a thong because she's gonna get her cherry popped, just give her one so we can get ready for dinner," Giselle said, "Cherry popped?" you said quietly to yourself.

The words felt foreign and crude in your mind. The idea was so absurd, so far from the reality of your life, that it almost made you laugh.

Ningning rifled through her top drawer, past the lacy things she wore for her own mysterious reasons, and pulled out a small, black triangle of fabric with a string.

She tossed it onto the bed. It looked like a spider's web. "Here. The least slutty thing I own." She went back to drawing, her attention already gone.

Giselle watched you, her arms crossed. "What? You thought you were gonna meet her in your granny panties? The ones that come up to your navel? She'll take one look and run the other way." She sighed, a dramatic sound. "Jesus, Y/N. It's like dealing with a child."

You picked up the thong. The material was slick, almost cold in your hand. It felt impossibly small. You couldn't imagine wearing it. The string would sit right... there. 

"Go on," Giselle said, nudging you toward the small bathroom attached to your dorm room. "Put it on. See how it feels. You're supposed to be meeting her soon, right?"

You nodded, clutching the tiny garment, and retreated into the bathroom. You locked the door behind you. You looked at yourself in the mirror over the sink. Your face was still a little pale, your eyes wide and dark. You looked like a startled fawn. A fawn about to go meet a wolf.

You took off your cotton underwear, the kind your mother bought for you in bulk at the beginning of each semester.

You stepped into the thong. It settled into place, a thin, unfamiliar pressure against your skin. It was... strange.

You felt exposed, even fully clothed. You pulled your skirt back on. When you looked in the mirror again, nothing looked different. But everything was.

You came out of the bathroom. Ningning and Giselle were already slipping on their shoes. "Well?" Giselle asked, her eyes scanning you critically. "Does it feel like your soul is damned yet?"

You just shook your head, your throat too tight to speak.

"Good," she said. "It shouldn't. It's just underwear. Now go. Don't keep your new devil waiting." She pushed you gently toward the door. 

The door clicked shut behind you, and you were alone in the quiet hallway. The dining hall was still noisy with the last of the dinner rush, but you were heading in the opposite direction. The air grew cooler as you walked away from the main buildings. 

The old greenhouse was exactly as Lara had described, a derelict skeleton of glass and rusted iron frame, half swallowed by overgrown ivy.

Most of the panes were cracked or missing entirely, and the ones that remained were coated in grime.

You saw her before she saw you. She was leaning against the crumbling brick wall at the back of the structure, smoking a cigarette.

She wore her uniform, but the blazer was nowhere in sight, and her shirt was unbuttoned even lower than before, revealing the sharp lines of her collarbones and the delicate shadow between her breasts.

You stopped a few feet away, your hands clasped nervously in front of you.

"You came," she said. It wasn't a question. She took a final drag from her cigarette and dropped it, grinding it out with the toe of her shoe. "I was half expecting you to be on your knees in the chapel right now, begging for forgiveness for even thinking about it."

"I said I would come," you replied, your voice quiet.

Lara pushed off the wall and walked toward you. "So you did." She stopped in front of you, closer than she had in the closet.

Her eyes, those hazel brown eyes, scanned your face, then dropped, very slowly, down your body and back up again. The look was so deliberate, so possessive, that you felt a blush creeping up your neck.

"Did you wear them?" she asked, her voice low.

You nodded, unable to meet her gaze.

"Let me see."

"What?" Your head snapped up. "Here?"

"No, dumbass. In the middle of the fucking quad. Yes, here." There was a smirk playing on her lips. "Lift your skirt."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. The request was obscene. It was everything you'd been taught was wrong, a violation not just of the rules, but of decency itself. 

With trembling fingers, you reached for the hem of your skirt. The wool felt heavy. You took a shaky breath and slowly lifted it, just a few inches, exposing your thighs.

"Higher," Lara commanded.

You obeyed, pulling the fabric up until it was bunched around your hips. You stood there, exposed in the dying light, the cool evening air on your skin. You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for her to say something, to laugh, to do anything.

You felt her fingers against your hip. They traced the line of the thong's string. You flinched at the touch, a jolt of electricity shooting through you.

"Open your eyes," she said.

You did. She was kneeling in front of you, her face level with your hips. She wasn't looking at your face. She was looking at the scrap of black fabric. Her expression was one of intense curiosity. 

"There," she said, her fingers still tracing the string, following it down, down, until they brushed against the fabric covering you. You gasped, a sharp, helpless sound. "That's not so bad, is it? Being seen?"

You couldn't answer. Your throat was thick with a mixture of fear and a feeling so intense it was almost pain.

"It's just a body," she said, looking up at you then, her eyes dark in the twilight. "It's just skin and nerves and wanting. There's no god here. No sin. Just this." Her fingers pressed, a firm, deliberate pressure against your core, through the thin fabric. 

A whimper escaped your lips. Your hips jerked forward, a movement you couldn't control, chasing the pressure.

Lara smiled, a real, genuine smile this time, and it was the most terrifying thing you'd ever seen. "See?" she whispered, her fingers still working in a slow, maddening circle. "Your body knows what it wants. It's been waiting."

She stood up, pulling her hand away. The sudden loss of contact left you feeling empty, aching.

"Pull your skirt down," she said.

You fumbled with the fabric, your hands shaking so badly you could barely manage it.

"Lesson two," she said, her voice back to its usual flat, unimpressed tone. "Don't be a fucking coward. Don't close your eyes. Don't pretend it's not happening. When someone touches you, you watch them. You feel it. You own it. Understand?"

You nodded, your eyes wide.

"Good." She glanced up at the sky. "It's getting dark. Curfew's soon. We should go back."

You started to walk, but she caught your arm.

"One more thing," she said, pulling you back toward her. She leaned in close, her lips brushing against your ear. "Next time," she breathed, "I'm gonna make you make those noises."

The dorm room was quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of the cotton nightgown as you pulled it over your head. It was a sensible garment, long-sleeved and plain, the kind you'd always worn. Tonight, it felt like a lie. 

The fabric was soft, but it felt rough against your skin, which was still humming, still awake. You sat on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under your weight. Giselle and Ningning were already in their beds, their breathing soft and even in the dark. You were alone with your thoughts.

And your thoughts were all Lara.

Her words echoed in the silence of your mind, a litany of blasphemy and truth. "Your body knows what it's waiting for." "Next time, I'm gonna make you make those noises." The memory of her fingers, the firm, deliberate pressure through the thin fabric of the thong, sent a fresh jolt of heat through you. You squeezed your thighs together, but the ache was still there, a low, persistent thrum.

When was next time?

The next day, the chapel was cold. It was always cold, but today it felt like the stone was leaching the heat right out of your bones. You went straight to the front, to the first pew, and knelt, the hard wood pressing into your kneecaps, and stared up at the crucifix. Jesus looked down, his face a mask of suffering that you suddenly found utterly meaningless. You weren't praying for forgiveness. You were just… looking. And the tears came anyway.

The side door creaked open, the sound slicing through the thick silence. You didn't turn. You knew that sound, the soft, wet smacking that followed it.

You wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand and pushed yourself up, your knees cracking. You turned. Manon had Sophia pressed against the stone wall right beside the confessional, her hand up Sophia's skirt. Sophia's head was thrown back, her mouth open, her eyes squeezed shut. They hadn't even bothered to find a new hiding spot.

"You guys should be more careful where you do that," you said quietly.

They broke apart. Sophia's eyes flew open, wide with a panic that quickly morphed into annoyance. Manon just looked bored, slowly pulling her hand out from under the navy wool and wiping her fingers on her own skirt.

"What are you doing here?" Manon snapped, her voice sharp in the sacred space.

You looked at Sophia, at her flushed face and swollen lips. "Lara," you said. "Yesterday. She… she made me wear these lacy panties. black ones, and she had me lift my skirt. Behind the greenhouse."

Sophia’s expression shifted. The annoyance faded, replaced by curiosity. She tilted her head, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. "You liked it?" she asked. "And don't fucking lie. Manon told me you stood there and watched us in the laundry room for a solid minute before you ran away like a scared little fawn.”

"I…" you started, the old shame trying to creep back in. "But what about Sister Irene?"

Sophia actually laughed. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her," she smirked one that reminded you of Lara. "Just ask Ningning and Giselle. They've been getting away with shit for years. It's not about being good. It's about not getting caught."

"But-" Manon cut you off, her hand grabbing your face, "No buts, nothing can stop the way you feel, that's how life is," she said, her fingers pressing into your cheeks. "Live a lie or go to Lara, you choose," and she pulled Sophia's hand into the closet, leaving you alone.

The confessional door clicked shut behind them, leaving you standing there in the dim light filtering through the stained glass windows. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, so hard you could feel it in your throat.

You thought about Lara. The way her eyes had looked when she made you lift your skirt behind the greenhouse. 

The wooden floorboards creaked as you shifted your weight. 

From behind the confessional door, you could hear them. Soft sounds. Whispers. A muffled gasp. Sophia's voice, saying something you couldn't quite make out, followed by Manon's low laugh. 

You turned on your heel and walked out. The cool afternoon air hit your face, making you realize how hot your skin had gotten.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

The main building was quiet, most girls still in their afternoon classes. Your footsteps echoed on the linoleum floors as you made your way down the east wing. Lara's room was at the end of the hall, the one with the frosted glass window that always looked like it was covered in condensation. You stood in front of her door for a long time, your hand raised to knock but not quite making contact.

Your knuckles finally made contact with the wood. The sound was loud in the empty hallway. You almost turned and ran, but then you heard footsteps from inside. The lock clicked. The door swung open.

Lara stood there, leaning against the doorframe. She wasn't wearing her school uniform, just a simple white t-shirt, black shorts and black glasses. Her hair was messy, and she had a book in her hand. She looked you up and down, her eyes lingering on your flushed face and the way you were twisting the hem of your skirt in your hands.

"Well?" she asked, one eyebrow raised. "Are you just going to stand there looking like a lost puppy, or are you coming in?"

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "I..." you started, but the words wouldn't come out.

Lara smirked. "Let me guess. You've been a bad girl again?"

You could only nod, your eyes fixed on the floor.

"Good," she said, stepping aside to let you into her room. "I was getting bored."

"Lara.. can we talk first?" you asked her. She stared at you for a bit, her head tilted. "Sure," she finally said, her voice a low purr.

You perched on the very edge of her bed, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. The room smelled like her perfume. "I don’t know if i can do this, it’s a sin, I..." you cut yourself off, the words catching in your throat.

"It’s not a sin if you keep your cross on," Lara said, her finger pointing to the silver chain around your neck. 

"Really?" you asked, a flicker of desperate hope in your voice.

She nodded, smiling at you sweetly. It was fake, but you didn't notice it, too focused on her eyes, the way they seemed to see right through you. She moved closer, kneeling on the floor in front of you. Her hands came to rest on your knees, her thumbs stroking the fabric of your uniform.

"See? God can't see what he doesn't want to see," she whispered, her breath warm against your leg. "And right now, he's looking the other way. He understands."

Her hands started to slide up your thighs, slowly, pushing your skirt up inch by inch. You watched, frozen, as the navy wool bunched up around her wrists. The lacy light pink panties you were wearing were completely exposed now.

"These are pretty," she said, her finger tracing the edge of the lace. "Did Ningning pick them out for you?"

You could only shake your head, your mouth too dry to speak.

"Ah," she said, her smile widening. "So you picked them out yourself? Wearing them just for me?"

Her other hand came up to your face, her fingers tilting your chin up. "Look at me," she commanded, and you did. "There's nothing wrong with wanting something. With wanting someone. That's not a sin. That's just being human."

Her thumb brushed against your lower lip, and you felt a shiver run through you. "But Sister Irene says..."

"Sister Irene says a lot of things," Lara interrupted, her voice dropping lower. "But she's not here right now, is she? It's just you and me, and God's not watching."

Her hand moved from your thigh to the waistband of your panties, her fingers hooking under the elastic. "Just relax," she whispered, her lips so close to yours now that you could feel her breath. "Let me show you how good it can feel to be a little bit bad."

You closed your eyes, your heart pounding in your chest. As Lara's lips finally met yours, soft and demanding, you knew you weren't going anywhere.

Lara's lips moved against yours, soft at first, then harder, more demanding. It wasn't like any kiss you'd ever imagined. Her was hungry, like she was trying to devour you. Her tongue pushed into your mouth, and you froze, not knowing what to do. Lara’s hand tightened on your chin, holding you in place.

"Relax," she murmured against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak. "Open your mouth."

You did, and her tongue slid in again. Her other hand was still hooked in your panties, and you could feel the heat from her fingers burning through the lace. Your hands were clenched into fists in your lap, your knuckles white.

She pulled away from the kiss, her breathing a little uneven. She looked at you, her eyes dark and intense. "You're still thinking too much," she said, her voice low. "Stop thinking."

She stood up, pulling you with her. Her hands were on your waist, turning you around so your back was to her. "Unbutton your shirt," she commanded, her lips right next to your ear.

Your fingers shook as you fumbled with the small buttons of your uniform blouse. You could feel her eyes on you, watching your every move. You managed to get the first button undone, then the second. Her hands came around your waist, sliding up under your shirt to rest on your stomach. Her skin was warm against yours.

"Keep going," she whispered, her thumbs stroking circles on your stomach.

You undid the rest of the buttons, your hands trembling so badly you could barely grip them. Your shirt fell open, exposing the plain pink bra you wore underneath.

Lara's hands moved up, cupping your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra. You gasped, your back arching involuntarily. She chuckled, a low, throaty sound. "Sensitive, aren't we?"

She unhooked your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall away. Her hands were on your bare skin now, her palms warm and firm. She squeezed gently, her thumbs brushing against your nipples. You bit your lip to keep from crying out.

"None of that," she said, her hand coming up to tilt your head back. "I want to hear you."

Her mouth was on your neck then, her teeth scraping against your skin. You couldn't hold back the moan that escaped your lips. It sounded loud in the quiet room, wanton and unfamiliar. It was a sound you'd never made before, a sound you didn't know you were capable of making.

"Good girl," she murmured, her hands moving down to your hips. She hooked her fingers in your skirt, pushing it down until it pooled around your ankles. You were standing there in just your panties and your unbuttoned shirt, completely exposed.

She turned you back around to face her, her eyes roaming over your body. "Much better," she said, a satisfied smile on her face. "Now lie down on the bed."

You did as she said, lying back on the rumpled sheets. The fabric was cool against your bare skin. She followed you down, straddling your hips, her knees on either side of you. She leaned down, her hair falling around your face.

"You're going to be a good girl for me, aren't you?" she asked, her voice a low whisper.

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Good," she said, her lips brushing against yours. 

She lowered her head, her hair tickling your face as she kissed you again. This time it was slower, deeper. Her tongue explored your mouth, and you tentatively met it with your own. She tasted like cigarettes and something sweet, like mint. One of her hands came up to tangle in your hair, her fingers tightening just enough to make you gasp.

She pulled away from your mouth, trailing kisses down your jaw, your neck. Her teeth scraped against your pulse point, and you shivered, your hands clutching at her shoulders. "You like that?" she murmured against your skin.

You could only nod, your throat too tight to form words.

She chuckled, a low, throaty sound. "Good. Because I'm just getting started."

Her mouth moved lower, down to your chest. She cupped your breasts in her hands, her thumbs brushing against your nipples. They hardened instantly, pebbling under her touch. She leaned down, taking one into her mouth. Her tongue swirled around the sensitive peak, and you arched your back, a choked moan escaping your lips.

"Fuck," you breathed, your hands flying to her hair, holding her against you.

She sucked harder, her teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. It was a sharp, exquisite pain that shot straight to your core. You could feel yourself getting wetter, the lace of your panties damp against your skin. She moved to your other breast, giving it the same attention, her hand still kneading the first one.

"Please," you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for.

She lifted her head, her eyes dark and intense. "Please what?" she asked, her voice a low purr. "Tell me what you want."

You shook your head, your face burning with shame. You couldn't say the words. It was too dirty, too wrong.

She smirked, her hand sliding down your stomach, her fingers tracing the waistband of your panties. "Don't worry," she said, her voice softening slightly. "I'll show you."

She hooked her fingers in the lace, pulling your panties down and off. You were completely exposed now, and you fought the urge to cover yourself. She spread your legs, her eyes fixed on your most intimate place. You felt a blush creep up your neck, but you didn't look away. Lesson two.

"Beautiful," she whispered, her finger tracing your slit. You were so wet, and she coated her fingers in your arousal, bringing them up to your mouth. "Taste," she commanded.

You opened your mouth, sucking her fingers clean. It was dirty and humiliating and it made your stomach clench with need.

She lowered herself between your legs, her breath warm against your core. "I'm going to make you feel so good," she promised, her eyes locking with yours. "I'm going to make you forget all about sin and God and everything else."

And then her mouth was on you. Her tongue flicked against your clit, and you cried out, your hips bucking off the bed. She held you down, her hands on your thighs, her tongue working magic. She licked and sucked, exploring every inch of you. It was overwhelming, a barrage of sensation that you couldn't process. All you could do was feel.

She slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. "Oh god," you moaned, your head thrown back. "Oh god, oh god, oh god."

"There's no god here," she said, her voice muffled against you. "Just me."

She started to pump her fingers, her tongue still working your clit. The pressure was building, a tight coil in your stomach. You could feel yourself getting closer, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Don't stop," you begged, your hands fisting in the sheets. "Please, don't stop."

She didn't. She increased her pace, her fingers hitting that spot inside you over and over again. The coil snapped, and you came, hard. Your vision went white, your body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. You screamed her name, your voice hoarse and broken.

She didn't stop. She kept licking, her fingers still moving inside you. It was too much, the pleasure bordering on pain. You tried to push her away, but she was stronger than she looked. "No, no, no," you sobbed, tears streaming down your face. "I can't, I can't..."

"You can," she said, her voice firm. "And you will."

She sucked your clit into her mouth, her tongue flicking against the sensitive bundle of nerves. The pressure built again, faster this time, more intense. You were thrashing on the bed, your body no longer your own. You felt a strange sensation, a pressure building deep inside you.

"Let go," she commanded, her fingers pressing against that spot again.

And you did. You came again, harder this time, a gush of fluid soaking her hand and the sheets beneath you. You had never felt anything like it, a pleasure so intense it was almost agony. You collapsed against the bed, your body limp and trembling.

She crawled up your body, her mouth covered in your arousal. She kissed you, and you could taste yourself on her lips. "See?" she whispered, her voice smug. "I told you I had big plans for you."

You were still shaking, your mind a blank haze of pleasure. You looked at her, at her swollen lips and her dark, satisfied eyes. "I want to..." you started, your voice barely a whisper.

"What?" she asked, her hand stroking your hair. "What do you want?"

You took a deep breath, gathering your courage. "I want to ride your face."

Her eyes widened, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. "Well, well," she said, her voice a low purr. "Look who's learning."

She lay back on the bed, her arms folded behind her head. "Come on then," she said, her eyes challenging you. "Show me what you've got."

You straddled her face, your knees on either side of her head. It was a strange, vulnerable position, but the look in her eyes gave you confidence. You lowered yourself onto her mouth, her tongue immediately finding your clit.

You rocked your hips, finding a rhythm. Her hands came up to grip your ass, guiding your movements. You looked down at her, at the way her eyes were closed, the way her brow was furrowed in concentration. It was the most erotic thing you had ever seen.

You leaned forward, your hands on the headboard to steady yourself. The new angle allowed her to go deeper, her tongue fucking you as her nose rubbed against your clit. You could feel another orgasm building, a slow, steady burn this time.

"Faster," she commanded, her voice muffled against you.

You obeyed, riding her face harder, faster. The pressure was mounting, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. You were so close, so fucking close.

"Come for me," she demanded, her fingers digging into your ass. "Come all over my face."

And you did. You came with a cry, your body shaking as the pleasure washed over you. You collapsed forward, your forehead resting against the cool wood of the headboard.

She gently pushed you off, rolling you onto your back. She crawled up your body, her mouth finding yours again. "My turn," she whispered against your lips.

She straddled your thigh, her own wetness coating your skin. She started to rock her hips, her clit rubbing against your leg. You could feel her getting more and more aroused, her movements becoming more frantic.

You reached up, cupping her breasts in your hands. They were perfect, full and round. You leaned up, taking one into your mouth. You sucked on her nipple, your tongue swirling around the sensitive peak.

"Fuck," she moaned, her head thrown back. "Yes, just like that."

You moved to her other breast, giving it the same attention. Her hips bucked against your thigh, her movements becoming more erratic. You could feel her getting closer, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

You bit down gently on her nipple, and she cried out, her body convulsing as she came. She collapsed against you, her head resting on your chest. You held her, your hand stroking her hair, your bodies tangled together in the aftermath.

You lay there for a long time, the only sound your combined breathing. You felt a strange sense of peace, a feeling of rightness that you had never experienced before. This was where you were meant to be. This was who you were meant to be.

The silence that followed was different from the silence before. It wasn't empty or waiting. It was full. Full of the sound of your breathing, of the weight of her body on yours, of the lingering scent of sex and her sharp perfume. You were sticky with sweat and other things, the sheets tangled around your legs, but you didn't care. You felt numbn , like all your bones had dissolved and left you a pliant, contented creature.

Lara shifted, her head lifting from your chest. For a moment, you felt a flicker of panic, the old fear creeping back in. Was this it? Was she done with you now? But she just rolled onto her side, facing you, her arm draped possessively over your stomach. Her eyes, which had been so predatory and intense just moments before, were soft now, almost sleepy.

"You're a mess," she said, but her voice was gentle, a low murmur. She reached out, her thumb brushing away a tear track you hadn't even realized was still there on your cheek. "A beautiful, crying mess."

You couldn't speak. You just looked at her, your heart doing a strange, painful flip in your chest. You had never seen this side of her, the soft afterglow. You had only seen the sharp edges, the teasing, the demanding teacher. This was new. This was dangerous.

She sighed, a soft, contented sound. "Stay here," she said, and then she was getting up. You watched her, your eyes tracing the lines of her body as she moved across the room. She grabbed a t-shirt from her dresser and used it to wipe between her legs, then came back to the bed. She gently cleaned you up too, her touch surprisingly careful. It was an intimate gesture, more intimate in some ways than what had just happened. It was care.

She tossed the shirt onto the floor and then slid back into bed, pulling the thin blanket over both of you. She opened her arms, and you went, tucking yourself against her side. Your head fit perfectly into the hollow of her shoulder. Her skin was warm, and you could feel the steady beat of her heart under your ear.

You lay like that for a long time, just breathing. You could feel the tension slowly leaving your body, replaced by a deep, languid contentment. You had never felt so safe, so... right. Here, in this room, in this girl's arms, the world outside didn't exist. There was no chapel, no Sister Irene, no rules. There was just this.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice a low rumble against your ear.

You nodded, your face pressed against her skin. "I just... I didn't know it could be like that."

She chuckled, her hand stroking your hair. "Like what? So good you forget your own name?"

You felt a blush creep up your neck. "Yeah," you mumbled. "Like that."

"Good," she said, her fingers still combing through your hair. "You deserve to feel good."

The words hung in the air, simple and profound. You deserved to feel good. It was a revolutionary thought. You had spent your entire life being told what you deserved: punishment, correction, salvation. But never this. Never simple, unadulterated pleasure.

You shifted, turning your head to look up at her. Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed in the dim light. She looked younger like this, softer. Without the smirk, without the challenging glint in her eyes, she was just a girl. A beautiful, dangerous girl who had just ruined you in the best possible way.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, her eyes opening to meet yours.

"You," you said, the word coming out before you could stop it.

A slow smile spread across her face. "Good answer," she said, leaning down to kiss you. It was a soft kiss, gentle and sweet, a stark contrast to the hungry, demanding kisses from before. It was a kiss that said, I see you. I'm still here.

When she pulled away, you rested your head back on her shoulder. "Lara?" you asked, your voice quiet.

"Hmm?"

"What... what are we?"

She was silent for a long moment, her hand still stroking your hair. You held your breath, waiting for the answer. You weren't sure what you wanted her to say. Friends? Lovers? Something else entirely?

"We're whatever we want to be," she finally said, her voice firm. "There are no rules here. Remember?"

You nodded, a wave of relief washing over you. No rules. That was the only rule that mattered.

You closed your eyes, letting the steady rhythm of her heartbeat lull you into a state of half-sleep. You were aware of everything: the weight of her arm around you, the softness of the sheets, the lingering scent of her perfume. It was all perfect. It was all yours.

"Next time," she whispered, her lips brushing against your forehead. "I'll teach you how to use your mouth."

You shivered, a fresh wave of desire washing over you, despite your exhaustion. You opened your eyes, looking up at her. "Promise?"

She smirked, the old predatory glint back in her eyes. "Promise."

You smiled, a real, genuine smile that reached your eyes. You couldn't wait.

the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminates the room as you throw yourself onto tate’s bed, laughing at something silly the two of you just joked about. the familiar scent of tate’s perfume mixes with the faint aroma of forgotten popcorn in the corner. for anyone else, it would be just another ordinary night. but for you, your heart beats faster than you’d like to admit.

especially after the time you both almost kissed. your breath shaky from the alcohol and the shared quiet, only for both of you to pull away at the last second, too afraid to take that step, and unsure of what it would mean.

tate comes out of the bathroom, distracted, scrolling through her phone. she’s wearing pajamas you’ve never seen before—a pair of short cotton shorts and a top that seems to reveal more than it should. nothing dramatic, but just enough to make you swallow hard.

“comfy over there?” she tosses her phone onto the nightstand before lying down beside you.

“mm-hmm,” you mumble.

tate sighs and pulls the blanket over, casually draping her arm around your waist. it’s something you’ve always done, but tonight, it feels different.

she giggles, tightening her arm around your waist. “you’re so small. i could crush you so easily like this,” she jokes, squeezing a little more as if testing her theory.

“small? not at all,” you protest, trying to stifle your laugh as you squirm to get free. “i’m just… compact.”

“compact? that’s a good one,” she lets out a soft giggle. “okay, compact. bet you couldn’t even get me off this bed if you tried.”

“oh, really?” you raise an eyebrow, accepting the challenge as you try to push tate off the bed. but it’s hard to focus with her arm still firmly wrapped around your waist. “i just can’t because you’re… like, glued to me!”

“sorry, but you’re my official pillow,” she laughs and refuses to budge. mcrae tilts her chin, resting it on your shoulder, leaving your faces dangerously close. “besides, you’re soft. like a cloud.”

“a cloud?!” you roll your eyes, feigning indignation. “that doesn’t even make sense, tate.”

“it does. a warm, fluffy, slightly clumsy cloud,” a mischievous smile spreading across her lips as she pokes your side.

“i’m not clumsy,” you try to keep your tone serious, but a smile forces its way onto your face. “you’re the clumsy one. remember that time you slipped on stage in front of everyone?”

“hey! that wasn’t my fault. the floor was slippery.”

“sure it was,” you bite your lip, trying not to laugh louder.

“okay, very funny,” pokes you again. “but at least i don’t trip while walking in a straight line.”

you’re speechless for a moment, staring at tate with a challenging smile. “that was a low blow,” you try to sound offended, but laughter escapes your lips anyway.

for a moment, the room falls silent again, the only sound being the faint giggles lingering as tate rests her head once more on your shoulder. the closeness between you feels even stronger now, the comforting weight of the girl by your side making it impossible to ignore the warmth rising to your face.

“you’re really quiet now,” tate comments, her voice soft and full of curiosity.

“just… thinking,”

“thinking about what?” she tilts her head slightly, as if trying to figure out what’s going on in your mind.

you hesitate for a second, the words on the tip of your tongue, but your courage seems to vanish whenever tate’s eyes meet yours. “nothing important,”

tate narrows her eyes suspiciously but smiles. “alright. for now, i’ll let it go. but one day, i’ll figure you out, you clumsy little cloud.”

…

the lights flicker in shades of blue and purple, matching the rhythm of the loud music that vibrates through the walls of the venue. after marking and unmarking several times, you, tate, conan, and jenna finally arrive at the party, each commenting on how crowded the place is. the smell of alcohol mixed with expensive perfumes fills the air, while laughter and voices echo all around.

"okay, this place is packed," conan says, looking around with a carefree smile. "i bet half of these people weren't even invited."

"half? more like two-thirds," jenna replies, laughing as she adjusts her leather jacket.

tate, by your side, seems distracted, scrolling through her phone, but you notice that she keeps glancing at you every now and then. as always, she prefers to stay close, even if she doesn't say anything.

you find a quieter spot by the bar, where jenna starts talking to someone she knows. despite the loud music, you can hear the sound of tate’s messages coming in, one after another. she continues scrolling through her phone, distracted, her face lit by the screen.

"who is it?"

tate doesn’t look at you right away but answers casually, "oh, just a guy who started sending me some messages on instagram." she smiles at the phone, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. "nothing special."

you feel a slight pang of something you can't quite define. "really? just that?"

she shrugs, still looking at the screen. "yeah, just that."

before you can say anything else, she puts the phone in her bag, seemingly uninterested in the guy. but you still feel that strange sensation, unsure if you should care or not. maybe it’s not worth it, maybe it’s not important. you try to brush it off.

later, you and jenna are talking to two girls who have approached you. the conversation starts casually, but soon you notice they seem to be showing a bit more interest than usual.

you, especially, are paying more attention than usual, laughing at jokes and engaging more animatedly than you usually do in situations like this. it’s funny, but also a bit unsettling, as if you're trying to prove something to someone, someone specific.

jenna, next to you, seems to be really engaged in the moment, and part of you starts to realize that the two girls are focusing more on you than on the conversation itself.

across the room, tate watches it all, her gaze fixed on you, but with an expression you can’t quite read. there’s something in her face, a slight tension. she discreetly steps away without saying anything, and you see her walk to the other side of the room, clearly uneasy.

"so, you and tate are doing well, right?" one of the girls asks, seemingly curious, but you feel uncomfortable with the question. the reference to tate, to what you have… it’s not a simple question.

"yeah, we’re great," you reply, trying to keep your tone casual, but feeling the weight of the tension grow.

mcrae tries to convince herself that she’s overreacting, that she shouldn’t feel this way. but it’s impossible to ignore how completely at ease you are, laughing and leaning in just a little closer to one of them. the sound of the girls' laughter around you seems to echo unbearably.

conan appears next to her, a bottle in hand, clearly enjoying the party. “what’s up? you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

tate just shakes her head. “nothing, just tired.”

conan watches her for a moment before chuckling. “ah, i get it. it’s about her, right?” he discreetly nods toward you.

“conan, no,” she says through gritted teeth, averting her gaze, but it’s too late. he continues.

“you have to admit, they’re kinda… intense, right? they’re having a pretty good time.”

“can we not?” she cuts him off, her voice more firm than she intended.

conan raises his hands in surrender, but the mischievous grin remains, indicating that he was already a little drunk. “alright, alright. i’m just saying… if you don’t say anything, someone else will.”

those words keep echoing in her mind. say what? that she can’t stand seeing someone else so close to you? that she hates how you seem to be having so much fun without her? that she wishes she were the only one to make you laugh like that?

tate says nothing else. she lets out a heavy sigh, slamming the empty cup onto the table harder than she intended. she pushes her way through the crowd, ignoring the people she bumps into, until she finally shoves the door open and steps outside.

and of course, it’s raining.

the first drop hits her face, followed by others that soon turn into a relentless downpour. tate stops on the sidewalk, shoulders hunched as she stares up at the sky, incredulous. “seriously?!” she yells, frustration spilling over. soaked within seconds, she keeps complaining to the dark sky and the empty parking lot. “of course. why not?”

“talking to yourself now?” you ask, your voice loud, still carrying the tone you had inside the party, now facing the heavy rain.

tate quickly turns her head, her hair sticking to her face. “what do you want?” she asks flatly, making no effort to hide her irritation.

“how dry,” you tease, clearly playing with the wordplay and the situation she’s in. she just rolls her eyes and starts walking away, heading anywhere but towards you.

“hey!” you call as you catch up with tate, ignoring the rain to stand beside her. “where do you think you’re going?”

“away,” tate answers with a sharpness that makes your stomach twist.

“on foot? in the rain?”

“can you not give me a lecture right now?”

“no?”

tate lets out a heavy sigh, her shoulders tense, anger visible in her eyes. “what do you want, y/n? seriously, go back inside, leave me alone.”

“what’s gotten into you? just days ago, you were all affectionate, excited… now you’re being a jerk, pushing me away.”

the grimace she makes is almost comical, but her tone leaves no room for laughter.

“yeah, that’s what you heard, jerk,” you say, almost whispering the word with venom you didn’t know you had.

“my god,” she starts, her teeth clenched, “shut up before i drown you in that… that puddle!” she points, impatience clear.

“no! since… since that day, you’ve been acting weird. one minute i’m your best friend, everything’s perfect, and the next i do something you don’t like and you’re all ‘leave me alone.’ it doesn’t work like that, okay?”

“what do you want me to do? pretend everything’s fine? that we didn’t almost kiss and you shoved me away at the last second? because that’s what happened, y/n!” her chest rises and falls with anger, her eyes shining as if she wants to explode.

“you’re talking like i committed a crime! you were drunk, damn it! i was just trying to stop you from doing something you’d regret. i was protecting you!”

“and have you ever thought that maybe i didn’t want to be protected? maybe i wanted to kiss you, damn it! and maybe i still want to now! but you’re so annoying and unbearable and-and ridiculously beautiful even in the rain and… i hate you!”

you stand there, soaked, heart racing, the sound of the rain growing quieter as her words echo inside you. when tate breathes deeply, her chest still heaving with anger, you feel an irresistible urge to make a decision, to end the cycle of tension that seemed never-ending.

then you kiss her.

an impulsive, desperate act, as if all the words and glances accumulated over the days exploded right there, in that moment. you pull her by the waist, and your lips meet urgently. at first, it’s wet, strange, and her surprise still hangs in the air. but, as you had imagined—and wished—tate reciprocates, and everything around you disappears.

the taste of her lipstick, sweet and smooth, lingers, even as the rain washes it away. mcrae wraps her arms around your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. the way your bodies fit together never fails to drive you crazy, as if you were made for each other.

when your lips part, you both stand there, breathing heavily, eyes locked, as if trying to understand what just happened. the silence between you is dense, heavy, but at the same time, comfortable, as if something had been resolved once and for all.

with your foreheads touching, tate wears a shy, yet genuine, smile, while the rain still pours down on you both. “i… i really wanted to kiss you,” she admits, her voice soft, but full of sincerity that touches you deeply.

you laugh, almost without meaning to. “really? i didn’t even notice.”

“are you laughing at me?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and a touch of insecurity.

“i’m not laughing at you,” you reply, still laughing a little, but with a sparkle in your eyes. “just… at us, you know? this moment, the rain, the fact that… we couldn’t do anything right.”

tate raises an eyebrow, but her expression softens. “i think ‘couldn’t do anything right’ is an understatement, right?”

you make a face, trying to hide your smile. “yeah, okay, maybe i exaggerated a little. but still, this isn’t a story for just anyone… maybe we got it right.”

tate laughs softly, the sound muffled by the rain. “maybe we did. but… what happens next? because i… can’t stop thinking about it.”

“i don’t know…” you’re honest, you really don’t know. you never imagined fighting with your best friend in the rain and then kissing her… well, okay, maybe you did imagine it. but it’s different now, it’s real. “but i’m willing to find out, to try. if you want to too.”

“i do,” her voice a little firmer, as if she’s made a decision. “i don’t know what this means, but… i want to try too. i don’t want this to be just a moment, y/n.”

you smile, feeling something in your chest ease, as if a wall that had been there for so long was finally coming down. “i don’t want that either. but… this is going to be complicated, right?” you say, a little quieter, like it’s a realization of something you both know, but no one wants to admit out loud.

tate lets out a chucke, a soft smile on her lips. “probably. but i think we always do things the complicated way, right?”

you chuckle too, the sound blending with the rain that’s slowly tapering off. “yeah, seems like it.”

thanks for reading <3

The conference room smelled faintly like coffee and printer ink. There were half-finished drinks on the table, laptops open, papers scattered across the polished wood like everyone had forgotten where they’d started the conversation.

Your producer, Marco, was mid-sentence, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head in the way he always did when he was explaining something technical.

“I’m just saying the arrangement could breathe a little more in the second verse,” he said thoughtfully. “We could pull the drums back and let the vocal carry—”

You nodded slowly, following the thought. “That’s what I was thinking too. The song works best when it feels… simple. Like it’s not trying to prove anything.”

Your label rep was scribbling notes. Someone else was typing something into their laptop. Across the table, your manager, Elise, was half listening and half scrolling through something on her phone.

“Well,” Elise cut in suddenly, “speaking of things not trying to prove anything—did you see the program?”

You frowned slightly, still mentally inside the arrangement Marco was describing.

“What program?” you asked absently.

Elise didn’t answer right away. Instead she leaned forward, placing her phone on the table and sliding it toward you.

“You know,” she said lightly, like she was dropping something small into the conversation. “The Grand Prix of Figure Skating.”

Marco paused mid-thought.

“Figure skating?” he asked.

Elise nodded, still watching you. “Alysa Liu,” she said.

The name floated past your attention like background noise.

“Yeah, that’s nice,” you said vaguely, turning back to Marco. “So if we strip the instrumentation down—”

“She skated to your song.”

That made you pause. Not dramatically. Not like the room stopped spinning. Just enough that your attention flickered for a second before drifting back to Marco again.

“Oh,” you said. “That’s cool.”

You meant it, too. It wasn’t unusual for athletes to use music from popular artists. You’d heard your songs in commercials before, in movie trailers, even once at a baseball game where the sound system distorted the entire chorus beyond recognition. You expected this to be the same thing.

A nice coincidence. Background noise.

Marco was already continuing his point about arrangement choices. “But if the piano carries the emotional shift there—”

Elise sighed quietly. You didn’t notice. Not until her phone slid another inch across the table and stopped directly in front of you. The screen was already playing.

You glanced down without thinking.

Just a quick look.

Just long enough to see a flash of ice, a sweep of movement, a camera angle shifting across the rink. Then the broadcast zoomed in.

And the world sort of… paused.

The camera caught Alysa mid-glide, the music swelling behind her. Your music. But it sounded different here.

Larger.

The arena acoustics gave the piano a deep, echoing quality you’d never heard before, the opening chords stretching across the rink like they belonged there all along.

Alysa’s face filled the frame.

You had seen her before, maybe from some YouTube short in passing. But you had never actually watched her skate. Not like this.

The camera pulled back as she pushed off across the ice, and suddenly the room around you faded into something distant and unimportant.

Your song was about simple things. About choosing joy deliberately, even when the world insisted on turning everything into pressure or expectation. You’d written it late one night after realizing how easy it was to forget that happiness wasn’t supposed to feel like a performance.

You wrote it sitting at your piano in sweatpants with the window open and the city quiet outside.

Now it was filling an arena in Nagoya, Japan.

And Alysa Liu was skating to it like she understood every single word.

Her movement wasn’t dramatic in the way some skating programs were. There wasn’t the heavy theatricality that sometimes turned routines into stories you could barely follow.

Instead there was a lightness to her skating that felt… unforced.

Like she wasn’t trying to convince anyone of anything.

Every edge looked easy, every transition flowing into the next movement without hesitation. When she landed her first jump, she didn’t even pause to check herself. She just continued across the ice, the rhythm of the program carrying her forward.

And she was smiling.

Not the polite smile athletes sometimes gave when they knew the cameras were watching.

A real one.

The kind that crept into the corners of her eyes and stayed there.

You felt something strange in your chest watching it.

Like the meaning of the song had slipped out of your hands and turned into something bigger than what you’d originally written.

On the ice, Alysa spun through the center of the rink, the piano building behind her.

The crowd was quiet in that way audiences get when they realize they’re watching something special.

You barely registered the people in the conference room around you leaning forward to watch your reaction.

You were too busy watching the way Alysa’s movements matched the music.

There was a moment near the end where she slowed, gliding across the ice with her arms open slightly like she was letting the sound of the final verse carry her.

Then the last jump. Clean. Effortless.

When the music ended, Alysa stood there for a second, breathing hard, her face flushed with the kind of joy that looked almost disbelieving.

The arena exploded into applause.

You watched as she laughed softly, covering her mouth for a second like she was trying to process what had just happened.

Then she lowered her hands and soaked it in.

Not in a dramatic way. Just standing there, smiling at the crowd like she had finally found her way back to something she loved. The video ended. The phone screen went dark.

And suddenly you were back in the conference room again.

Marco was staring at you. Elise was trying not to grin. Someone at the far end of the table was openly smirking. You cleared your throat.

“Wow,” you said casually, leaning back in your chair like nothing unusual had just happened. “That was… nice.”

No one said anything.

You adjusted your jacket sleeve and looked toward Elise.

“Well,” you added, forcing a small shrug, “that’s really sweet. We should probably send her some flowers or something. Like a congratulations.”

Marco burst out laughing. Elise covered her mouth, trying and failing to hide her amusement.

“What?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“Oh nothing,” Elise said. “You just looked like you forgot how to breathe for a second.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

You shook your head dismissively and stood up, gathering your notebook.

“Well anyway,” you said briskly, “good for her. That was a beautiful program.”

You headed toward the door before anyone could continue the conversation.

Behind you, Elise’s voice followed.

“Try not to watch it twenty more times tonight.”

You waved a hand over your shoulder.

“As if.”

—

Later that evening, your apartment was quiet. You sat on the couch with your laptop open, the glow of the screen lighting the room softly. You told yourself you were just curious. Just one more watch. You pressed play.

The music began again.

And as Alysa stepped onto the ice, smiling like the whole world had suddenly become lighter, you felt that same strange, quiet pull in your chest.

The way she moved. The ease in her skating.

The freedom in the way she carried herself across the rink, like the pressure that had once pushed her away from the sport had finally disappeared.

When she finished the program, laughing softly as the crowd roared around her, you realized something uncomfortable.

You were completely, hopelessly captivated.

And you hadn’t even met her yet.

---

By the time the Olympic Village in Milan fills with athletes, journalists, and camera crews, Alysa Liu has already gotten used to the noise.

It’s different from the quiet focus of training, where the rink is cold and nearly empty and every sound echoes against the boards. The Olympics are the opposite of that. Everything is louder. Brighter. More crowded. Every hallway seems to have a microphone waiting somewhere, and every conversation is just one step away from turning into a headline.

Most athletes look a little overwhelmed by it.

Alysa doesn’t.

She’s leaning against a wall in the media corridor with her arms loosely crossed, still in her team jacket, her hair pulled back in the casual way she prefers when she’s not on the ice. Around her, reporters move in small groups between interview stations, carrying equipment and whispering last-minute questions to each other.

She looks relaxed enough that it almost feels like she’s just waiting for a friend instead of being in the middle of the largest sporting event on the planet.

Her teammate Amber nudges her with an elbow.

“You’re way too chill,” Amber says under her breath.

Alysa shrugs. “It’s just talking.”

“You say that now,” Amber replies, glancing toward the camera setup ahead of them. “Wait until they start asking weird stuff.”

Alysa tilts her head slightly, watching another athlete finish an interview nearby. “Weird stuff is the fun part.”

Amber snorts. “Of course you’d say that.”

The truth is that Alysa doesn’t mind interviews. At least not the lighter ones. The ones where the reporters are trying to show personality instead of dissecting every technical detail of her programs.

After stepping away from skating for two years and coming back on her own terms, she’s learned something important about the sport: the less seriously she takes the outside pressure, the better she performs.

And right now, despite the cameras and the Olympic banners hanging everywhere, she feels strangely calm.

Her name gets called from across the corridor.

“Alysa!” A production assistant waves her over.

She pushes herself off the wall and walks toward the interview setup with an easy stride, offering a quick nod to Amber as she passes.

“Watch,” she says quietly. “Weird stuff.”

The interviewer waiting for her is a cheerful woman in a bright blue jacket, holding a small tablet where a list of questions is clearly visible. “Alright, Alysa,” the interviewer says with a smile as the camera operator gives a thumbs-up. “We’re doing a quick rapid-fire round. Just for fun.”

Alysa nods. “Okay.”

The red light on the camera flicks on.

“First question,” the interviewer says. “Pasta or pizza?”

Alysa barely pauses. “Pizza.”

“Video games or movies?”

Alysa grins. “Movies.”

More questions follow in the same rhythm. Favorite song. Favorite post-competition meal. Favorite place she’s traveled. None of them take more than a second to answer.

Then the interviewer glances down at the tablet again and smiles slightly, like she already knows this one will get a reaction. “Alright,” she says. “Celebrity crush?”

Alysa doesn’t hesitate. “Y/N,” she says immediately. “One hundred percent.”

The interviewer’s eyebrows lift. “Oh?”

Alysa nods, completely unbothered. “Yeah.”

“Like… the singer?” the interviewer asks, slightly surprised. “The one whose song you’re skating to this season?”

Alysa laughs lightly. “Yeah, yeah. That one.”

The interviewer leans forward a little, clearly entertained now. “You’re serious?”

“Of course,” Alysa replies easily. “She’s incredible. I think she’s really talented. And the song’s amazing.”

“Well,” The interviewer says, clearly leaning into the moment now, “what would you say to her if she’s watching this?”

Alysa tilts her head, thinking for a second.

The truth is she hadn’t expected that question.

But she’s never been someone who hesitates when something funny pops into her head. Never one to shy away from the perfect opportunity to shoot her shot, take chances.

So she shrugs slightly and looks straight at the camera.

“Hey,” she says casually, like she’s talking to a friend instead of a global audience. “Thanks for the flowers.” Alysa grins, continuing without missing a beat. “You should come watch me skate to your song.”

Someone behind the camera makes an exaggerated “ooooh” sound. The interviewer laughs hard.

“Well,” she says, shaking her head. “That’s one way to shoot your shot.”

Alysa laughs too, waving a hand dismissively like it’s not a big deal. “Just saying.”

The camera light turns off. The interviewer lowers the tablet. “That was great,” she says.

Alysa shrugs again, the smile still lingering. “Glad I could help.”

She steps away from the interview area and walks back toward the corridor where Amber is waiting.

Amber is already grinning.

“Oh my god,” she says immediately. “You’re unbelievable.”

“What?”

“You literally just invited your celebrity crush to the Olympics.”

Alysa rolls her eyes. “I didn’t invite her anywhere.”

“I just watched you do it.”

“It was a joke.”

Amber folds her arms, unconvinced. “Sure it was.”

Alysa leans back against the wall again, unconcerned. “Relax,” she says. “She’s not watching Olympic interviews.”

Amber laughs. “You have no idea how the internet works.”

Alysa shrugs. “Even if she did see it, it’s not that serious.” But if she’s being honest, the thought does flicker through her mind for a second.

Because when the flowers arrived back in December after the Grand Prix short program, she had been completely caught off guard.

They were waiting in her hotel room after practice, sitting on the desk with a small handwritten card.

Congratulations on the win. Your program was beautiful. – Y/N

She’d stared at the card for a solid minute before laughing quietly to herself.

Then she immediately took a picture and sent it to her friends.

Look who wants me.

Her group chat exploded. “Oh my god she wants you soooo bad,” one of them replied instantly.

Alysa leaned into the joke. “Obviously.”

In reality, she had kept the card. Tucked carefully into the side pocket of her training bag where it wouldn’t get bent. She tells herself it’s just because it’s a cool story. Nothing more.

Back in the Olympic Village corridor, Amber is still shaking her head, mumbling about regretting the interview, to which Alysa just shrugs.

And honestly, she doesn’t think much about it after that.

Practice is in an hour. Her coach is already texting her about jump layouts. The schedule for the next few days is packed.

The interview disappears into the background noise of Olympic media coverage.

At least for her.

—

Later that evening, somewhere else in the world, you’re sitting in a dim studio lounge with your laptop open on the coffee table in front of you.

Your manager is standing by the window scrolling through her phone.

You’re halfway through a conversation about tour logistics when she suddenly stops talking mid-sentence.

“…wait.”

You glance up. “What?”

She looks at the screen again. “Oh my god.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What happened?”

She turns the phone toward you. “You need to see this.”

You sigh slightly. “If this is another TikTok of some AI dog dancing—”

“Just watch it.”

You lean forward reluctantly. The video begins playing.

And about ten seconds later, when Alysa Liu looks directly into the camera and casually says your name like it’s the most obvious answer in the world—

You stop breathing for a moment.

Your manager slowly lowers the phone and watches your face.

“Well,” she says. “That seems promising.”

And somewhere in Milan, Alysa Liu has absolutely no idea what she just started.

---

By the end of the first day after the interview airs, you already know something has gotten out of hand.

Not catastrophically out of hand, not the kind of scandal that sends publicists scrambling to issue statements or deletes social media posts within the hour. It’s subtler than that. It’s the sort of thing that spreads through the internet in a way that’s half teasing and half conspiratorial, like a rumor people want to believe in because it’s fun.

The first sign is your phone.

Your notifications start climbing before you even realize why. At first it’s just a handful of tags on social media, then a dozen, then hundreds. Clips of Alysa’s interview start appearing everywhere—short snippets of her leaning casually toward the camera and saying your name with complete certainty.

Celebrity crush? Y/N, one hundred percent.

You scroll past the first few posts with a faintly amused expression. The internet has always loved connecting dots that may or may not exist. It’s practically a sport.

But then the tags keep coming. Edits of Alysa’s program set to your song. Side-by-side clips of the Grand Prix performance and the interview.

By the second day, people are writing things like:

“she needs to go to Milan.”

“Imagine if she shows up at the Olympics.”

“This would be the greatest crossover event in history.”

You close the app and tell yourself it will burn out quickly. Internet attention spans are famously short. But the real problem isn’t the internet. It’s the real world.

Two nights later, you’re leaving a quiet dinner in Los Angeles with a couple of friends when the restaurant door opens and a cluster of photographers immediately shifts toward you like birds changing direction mid-flight.

That part isn’t new. Paparazzi have been orbiting your life long enough that you’ve learned to treat them like background noise.

What’s new is the question shouted across the sidewalk as you step toward the waiting car.

“Are you going to Milan!?”

You pause half a second before continuing.

Another voice chimes in. “Are you going to see Alysa Liu at the Olympics?”

You don’t answer. You slide into the car with a polite, neutral smile that doesn’t confirm anything. The door shuts. The car pulls away.

Your friend beside you raises an eyebrow. “That was… specific.”

You stare out the window for a moment. “Yeah,” you say quietly. “Apparently I’m part of Olympic coverage now.”

The next day, it happens again in a completely different setting.

You’re at a small cafe when a young girl and her father approach you. She was a big fan and was just wanting to take a quick photo. Most of the conversation was normal. Music questions. Tour questions. A few shy compliments about your songs.

When you bend down for the photo, you smile warmly at the camera and just as you were about to stand up, she asks something else.

“Are you going to Milan?” she asks immediately.

You blink.

“For the Olympics,” she clarifies quickly. “I’m going with my dad to watch the figure skaters. If you’re there maybe we’ll see you.”

Her expression is so hopeful that for a second you almost laugh. Not because it’s ridiculous. Because it’s… oddly sweet.

“Well,” you say gently, “that sounds like an amazing trip.”

“But are you going?”

You hesitate just long enough to avoid promising anything. “Maybe,” you say with a small smile. “You never know.”

She nods like that’s the best answer she could have gotten.

When she walks away, Elise—your manager—leans closer. “You are not helping,” she murmurs.

You shrug. “I didn’t want to crush her dreams.”

—

By February 13th, five days after the interview aired, the situation has escalated from amusing to mildly ridiculous.

You’re sitting in the studio lounge again, the same one where you first saw the clip of Alysa’s interview.

Your laptop is open on the coffee table in front of you. A half-written melody loops softly through the speakers, something you’ve been tinkering with for hours without really committing to a direction.

Across the room, Elise stands near the desk flipping through a printed schedule.

You stare at the laptop screen for another moment before leaning back with a sigh. “Can we just book me a flight to Milan so this can be done with?”

Elise slowly lowers the papers. “…what?”

You gesture vaguely in the direction of the world.

“This,” you say. “All of this.”

She stares at you like she’s trying to decide if you’re joking. “You realize,” she says slowly, “that if we do that, you’re just fanning the flames.”

You shrug. “Maybe.”

“This will get bigger,” she continues, pacing slightly now. “There will be rumors, speculation, think pieces. People will assume—”

“I know,” you interrupt calmly.

She stops pacing. “And you’re okay with that?”

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. “Honestly?” you say. “I kind of just want to see the program in person.”

Elise stares. “Are you serious.”

“I mean,” you continue thoughtfully, “I’ve never been to the Olympics before either.”

“That is not the point.”

“And,” you add casually, “it would be good publicity for the tour.”

Elise narrows her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.” She watches you for another moment, her expression slowly shifting from professional concern to something more suspicious. Then she sighs. “You just want to go because you think she’s pretty.”

You gasp, placing a hand dramatically over your chest. “That is an outrageous accusation.”

Elise does not look amused.

You hold the pose for another two seconds before dropping it.

“Okay,” you say. “… maybe she is pretty. So what?!” You tilt your head slightly, offering your most convincing smile. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

She groans loudly, dragging a hand down her face. “That line has ruined more careers than it has helped.”

You grin. “It hasn’t ruined mine.”

Elise stares at the ceiling like she’s asking the universe for patience.

“Please,” you continue, leaning forward slightly now. “I just want to go see it. I got an invite from an Olympian. I can’t just ignore that.”

“She did not personally invite you.”

“She did on camera.”

“That is not the same thing.” You shrug. “Still counts.”

Elise exhales slowly through her nose, clearly weighing the consequences in her head. You watch her carefully. Then she sighs again—louder this time—and tips her head back toward the ceiling. And you know you’ve won. You can’t help the small, satisfied “yay” that escapes under your breath.

Elise immediately points a finger at you without even looking. “Don’t celebrate yet.” But she’s already reaching for her laptop. “I’ll book the flight,” she mutters.

You sit up straighter. “Thank you.”

“I think she skates in… three days,” Elise continues, scrolling through the Olympic schedule. “Which means if you leave tomorrow you’ll get there in time.”

You nod, trying very hard to look normal about this development. “Perfect.”

Elise glances up at you again. “If this turns into a media circus, I’m blaming you.”

“That’s fair.”

She shakes her head and goes back to the booking screen.

You lean back on the couch again, turning toward your laptop.

The unfinished melody still loops softly through the speakers.

You rest your fingers on the keyboard, pretending to focus on the song.

But you can feel the warmth creeping up your neck.

Because somewhere in Milan, Alysa Liu is preparing to skate to your music again.

And in three days, you’ll be sitting in the crowd watching her do it.

———

The way I need a word limit and i dont know anything about figure skating LOOL so im sorry if it sounds weird idk what a grand prix is 😭 bUT ALSO I ACTUALLT GET TO THEM MEETING IN NEXT PART DONT WORRY

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Tag list :P

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