Overwatch Imagines

You didn’t survive pep rallies, hallway politics, and three separate backstabbing best friends just to end up stranded in the middle of a hippie forest cult.

And yet, here you are.

You’ve stopped counting days. Somewhere around month sixteen, it just got pathetic. But your body knows how long it’s been. You feel it in the way your posture has slipped into a slouch, in the knots in your calves, the dirt under your nails that never really washes out.

You weren’t built for this shit.

You were built for Friday night lights and cutting glances across cafeteria tables. You were built for late-night parties in basements that smelled like sweat and booze, for soft, low-stakes cruelty. You used to rule in a world of social hierarchy. 

Out here? The only thing that matters is who’s still standing. So you keep your head down. Stay useful; clean wounds, haul water, cook. You’ve done things nobody should have to. You’ve bitten your tongue more times than you can count.

Sometimes, though, when it’s late, and the fire’s low, and your hands are too sore to keep working, your mind drifts. Wanders too far from the woods, to a time when things were simpler. Or at least, when they felt that way. Back before the plane crashed, that faux anno domini that it ushered in. Back when the worst thing you had to worry about was a failed algebra test and whether someone was picking on your boyfriend.

Travis. 

God, he used to be such a dumbass. 

A sweet one, though. Sweet in that awkward, boyish kind of way, like he’d never quite figured out what to do with his hands or how to step out of his father’s shadow. He always tried too hard to act detached, but you knew better. You could see it in the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that made sense to him when the rest of the world didn’t.

And for a little while, that had been enough. Until it wasn’t. A relationship borne of necessity, when high-school social war sparked symbiosis: Travis needed you to deter his bullies, you needed Travis to boost your reputation. 

It was never going to last past graduation, that much was evident. Somewhere along the way, you realized that loving him didn’t feel the way it was supposed to. That the softness you felt toward him wasn’t quite the kind you’d been told it would be. That kissing him didn’t make you feel more like yourself, it made you feel like you were trying on clothes that didn’t quite fit. 

You never told him all of that, not really. Just said it wasn’t working. That you were better as friends. He didn’t fight you on it. He probably felt it too. 

Still, you cared. Care, present tense. 

Which is why watching him now, distant and quiet, with that glazed look in his eyes after another one of Lottie’s “attempts to connect”, makes your stomach churn.

It’s not just the look, either. It’s everything.

The way he barely talks anymore unless prompted. The way he flinches at sudden noises, and worse, sometimes doesn’t flinch at all, even when he should. The times you sat with him for hours, brushing wet hair out of his face, whispering whatever scraps of comfort you could muster. Telling him stories from back home, dumb girl shit about the mall food court and parking lot fights and fucking Madonna . Anything to bring him back.

Now, he follows Lottie like she hung the fucking moon.

And maybe that’s what pisses you off the most. Not just the fear, not just the helplessness, but the betrayal, this other version of him that doesn’t even see you anymore. Like all those nights holding him through panic, all the ways you tried to keep him tethered, they didn’t stick. They didn’t matter. You’re not sure when the reminiscing turns to rage, but it does, and fast. It rolls up inside you hot and sharp, something sour blooming in your chest. 

Because it’s bullshit. All of it. The rituals, the whispery nonsense Lottie’s been feeding them, the way everyone’s just letting her take over, like she’s ordained , like the fucking wilderness is a home and not a cage. And no one’s stopping her.

But the night you see Akilah crying by the fire, that’s it.

She’s hunched near the edge of camp, half-shadowed, knees tucked up to her chest like a terrified child. The firelight flickers across her face, catching on the sheen of tears. 

No one’s comforting her. No one’s even looking . It’s just another failed “connection,” another night of silence from the so-called wilderness, and another girl cracked open by the promise of something that was never real. 

You catch sight of Lottie’s back disappearing into the trees. And then you move. You don’t think, you go , across the clearing, past the embers and the indifferent stares. 

It ends tonight. 

You follow her, and she doesn’t hear you at first, or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. She stops at the base of a towering tree, hands clasped in front of her, head tilted. 

You watch the line of her neck, the slow rise of her chest with each inhale. Her lips move silently and candlelight dances across her features, gold flitting to and fro. 

The sight ignites a spark in your gut. Hot, pulsing tension curling low in your stomach that pulls and pulls with the inevitability of gravity. You grit your teeth. You want to grab her. Shake her . Say something cutting, cruel, remind her she’s not divine, not chosen. Just a girl playing God.

“Lottie,” you snap, voice already rising. “You need to stop.”

She turns slowly, calm. Expectant . It’s fucking infuriating. 

“Stop what?” she asks, all saintly softness, like you haven’t just watched her break someone again.

“You’re hurting them.” The words cut sharp. “You’re hurting Travis, and Akilah— what the fuck did you do to her?”

Lottie tilts her head, unreadable. “She saw something. She’s still learning—”

“She didn’t see shit!” The words rip out of you. “She’s scared and confused and crying and you’re just— what, gonna leave her like that?”

“She’s… opening,” Lottie says evenly. “It’s painful, but necessary.”

“You’re fucked up , Lot,” you snap, voice dropping. “You’re sick in the fucking head.”

Something flickers in her eyes at that. Disappointment, hurt. But still, she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t raise her voice. And well, that just pisses you off. You shove her. She stumbles back a step, catching herself on the tree behind her. And when she straightens again, it’s with surprise, like she predicted everything but this twist. 

“I know you’re angry,” she says, like she’s trying to soothe a wild animal. “But you’re not like this.”

You laugh. “Don’t tell me who the fuck I am.”

You’re on her in an instant. Your hand finds her throat before you think. Not tight, not crushing, just enough to feel the frantic drum of her pulse beneath your palm. Just enough to make her still. Her back hits the tree, your bodies too close, breath tangled.

Lottie swallows. Her lashes flutter. For the first time, she looks unsure.

“If you ever touch them again—” You lean in, your nose brushing hers. “If you go near Akilah, or Travis, or anyone else, I will make you fucking choke on this messiah complex you’ve got, I swear to God—”

You don’t get to continue, because lips lock yours up tight. 

The kiss lands messy, open-mouthed, too fast, not trying to be gentle. It doesn’t ask for permission. It’s a break in the dam. It stuns you, and you freeze.

For a second, your rage spikes— How dare she ?— white-hot and blistering. But underneath it, beneath the raw heat in your throat, there’s something else. The fury doesn’t fade, but it twists. Blooms into a pang, the telltale gnaw of hunger. 

You shove her off, just enough to break the contact. Just enough to catch your breath.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper, more to yourself than her. Your hands tremble.

“You need to calm down,” she says, voice steady, soft. “Or you’re going to do something stupid.”

That pisses you off all over again.

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” you snap, pushing forward again, hand still ghosting her throat. “You don’t know shit about me.”

She doesn’t flinch. “I know you’re hurting,” she says, and you even think she might be smiling .

Your chest feels tight. Your face is hot with shame, with rage, with that low, coiling need that keeps rising no matter how hard you shove it down. You shake your head. 

“You’re so fucking full of yourself—”

Her hands are on you again before you can finish, one on your waist, the other ghosting up your chest to stop right over where your heart is thundering.

“If you want me to stop,” she says, “tell me now.”

You don’t say anything, jaw clenched tight.

So she closes the distance, kissing you again. It’s slower this time, more careful, like you don’t have your hand around her throat, like she’s never once been afraid of you. Her mouth moves against yours with such impossible patience, it startles something inside you loose. 

She exhales against your lips, a little sound that shouldn’t make your pulse spike the way it does. You don’t know when your bodies started moving, pressing closer, but now you can feel her, the steady roll of her hips against yours, just enough friction to make your thoughts blur.

Her fingers slide up to your jaw, guiding you. The thought that occurs to you is a startling one: she’s been thinking about this . You break the kiss with a sharp inhale, forehead still pressed to hers, your breath shallow and hot. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, a feeble attempt to save face. “How long have you been a fucking perv , Matthews?”

Her lips curve. Not in a smirk, it’s something sweeter, softer, hell, maybe even a little thrilled. It throws you.

“A while,” she says simply. “Since… before.”

You blink. You weren’t expecting her to admit it.

She tilts her head. Her hand trails from your waist to your lower stomach, fingers light, feathering just above your waistband. 

“You’re very hard not to notice.”

You try to scoff, but it catches in your throat as her hand drifts lower, fingers sliding between your legs, cupping you through your clothes. It’s gentle, like everything else she’s done tonight, and that’s what undoes you. You let out a shaky breath. 

“You’re so weird.” 

It sounds utterly juvenile– better muttered in high-school halls, not somewhere like this, but Lottie’s hand stills for a second. Her breath hitches, just barely, and then she laughs, soft and surprised against your mouth. It’s not mocking. It’s warm. Delighted.

“Mm,” she murmurs, thumb dragging slow, deliberate circles now. “Is that what I am?”

And then another thought hits you, hard and hot and immediate: She likes it.

She likes it when you’re mouthy. When you snap. When you press your nails into her arms and call her names through clenched teeth. The realization floods you with something dizzying and hungry and— regrettably— mind-blowingly horny. 

She kisses you again, and this time there’s something firmer in her grip, in the way her hand presses down between your legs. Her other hand finds your wrist, guiding your hand to her waist like she wants you on her.

Now, all you can think are three words on loop: I’m so fucked. 

And then, God help you, her fingers find your belt. Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a gasp and a protest.

“Wait, we shouldn’t—”

“Shh,” she murmurs, already working the buckle loose, lips curling on a smirk, and you should say something else, but your brain’s been reduced to static, hands clenched tight in the fabric of her shirt as she pops the button and draws the zipper down slow.

She slips her hand past the waistband, past the cotton, and cups you properly now, skin to skin. The contact is electric. You jerk in her grip, a startled sound tumbling out of you before you can swallow it down.

“There you are,” she breathes, like it’s some wonderful discovery. Her thumb strokes, light but knowing, and your whole body tightens like a bowstring. 

“ Shit ,” you swear without meaning to, and that prompts a laugh. 

“You’re worked up,” she says, amused and affectionate. “... Was it the belt?”

“God, fuck off,” you whisper, not meaning it.

Her smile widens. And then she starts to move: slow, confident strokes, her other hand braced at your hip, keeping you steady while you start to come apart. 

She’s good at this, sort of unfairly good, the kind of good that makes you wonder if it’s practice or intuition or just dumb luck. Her hand doesn’t rush or fumble— there’s just this smooth, certain rhythm, the kind of touch that makes your legs shake and your thoughts scatter. Every pass of her thumb pulls a sound out of you you weren’t ready to make, each one a little more embarrassing than the last.

You try to speak. Try to say her name, or ask her to slow down, but the words come out thin and broken.

“Lottie, I—” you gasp, but she cuts you off with a kiss to the side of your neck.

“Don’t talk,” she murmurs.

You clench your jaw, try again, but another shudder rolls through you, and your knees nearly give. Before you can collapse, her hands are already on you, one at your waist, the other sliding behind your shoulder blades, and then she’s turning you, gently but without asking, guiding your back against the tree.

“Here,” she murmurs, pressing her palm flat to your chest for a moment, just to feel you breathe. “Lean.”

Your shoulders hit bark, and then her body’s right there again, thigh between yours, hand back where you need it. She never even falters.

“There,” she whispers, lips brushing the edge of your jaw. “Better, huh?”

You nod, barely.

“Good,” she breathes. “Now don’t go anywhere.”

She strokes you again, firmer this time, and your head tips back with a sharp, choked sound. She circles your clit with the pad of her thumb, featherlight and taunting, while two fingers slide down, pressing in wet and easy from just how damn badly you want it. 

You gasp, sharp, and Lottie groans like she’s the one being touched.

“There you go,” she whispers, kissing the edge of your mouth. “That’s good.”

Her fingers curl inside you, slow and firm, and the stretch has you keening, hips canting up into her hand. You’re already throbbing around her, your body betraying every last bit of control you thought you had. She works you open, dragging her fingers in a steady rhythm that leaves your thighs shaking. 

You moan ragged and Lottie leans in, lips brushing your cheek, the curve of your ear. Her voice is a whisper, full of heat, but there’s something else threaded through it now, soft and guilt-tinged.

“I know you’re angry with me,” she says, and kisses you before you can answer, tongue licking into your mouth slow and aching. “But I didn’t mean to hurt you. With Travis. With any of it.”

You want to snap, spit something venomous, but her hand’s too fucking good. She drags that spot again, thumb never easing up on your clit, and your mouth just falls open, a broken noise spilling out instead. 

She presses a kiss to your temple, gentle, almost chaste, in contrast to the slick, obscene sounds echoing from between your legs. You can feel her fingers inside you every time you clench, and you imagine how soaked her palm must be now.

“I just want to help,” she says, all dusky and breathless, and fuck , that lands low in your stomach.

Once again, you open your mouth to will actual words to come out, but she doesn’t stop. She fucks you through it, thumb pressing tighter, rubbing in wet circles that make your knees buckle. Your jaw clenches. You want to bite down on your lip, keep the whimper in your throat where it belongs, but it breaks free, needier than you’d ever admit.

Your chest tightens, fury still simmering just under your ribs like coals that won’t go out. You’re mad . You are. The memory of Akilah’s tears, the hollow look in Travis’s eyes, it still sits hot in your blood, makes your hands curl like you should shove her off again.

But she’s not cruel. Not right now. Right now, Lottie’s murmuring apologies against your cheek, mouth warm and tender, fingers inside you like she’s trying to soothe an ache. Like you’re the altar to which she’s devoted. 

You swallow hard, eyes burning. It’s not fucking fair how good it feels to be… handled like this. You feel it mounting fast, tight and raw and electric, and it pisses you off how easily she’s pulling it out of you, pisses you off even more that you don’t want her to stop.

So you kiss her to shut her the fuck up.

Her breath catches in surprise, but she melts into it, kisses you like you’re air and she’s been drowning. Her fingers never slow, still driving into you, thumb circling harder now, pushing you right to the edge.

“Don’t stop,” you break the kiss only long enough to gasp, voice cracking.

You feel her smile against your mouth, barely there, before she presses her lips to your jaw, your throat, whispering soft nothings you can’t even hear over the blood rushing in your ears.

Her fingers work deeper, more insistent now, the heel of her palm catching perfectly with every roll of your hips. You bite your lip so hard it stings, trying to keep yourself quiet, but it’s useless. Your body jerks as it crests, white-hot pleasure tearing through you with a shudder.

It takes a moment to catch your breath. Your chest rising and falling hard, your legs trembling around her wrist. She’s still looking at you like you’re holy.

You blink, dazed, then scowl, or try to. Your voice is hoarse when you manage to speak.

“Promise me,” you rasp. “Promise you’ll stop hurting people.”

Lottie stills. You feel her breath against your throat. Her hand is gentle now, resting over your thigh. When she finally lifts her head, her eyes are dark and solemn.

“I’m not trying to hurt anyone,” she says. “I only ever wanted to help them.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A beat. Her gaze drops, just for a second, then returns to yours.

“I promise,” she says softly. “If they want out, I’ll let them go.”

Your jaw tightens. You want to believe her. You’re not sure you do. But for now, you nod.

And for now, she kisses you again, reminding you of your tendency to return favors.

The morning sun filters in through slits in the sticks, warm and golden and entirely unwelcome. 

Your head aches faintly. Your thighs moreso. 

And then there’s the weight. Heavy, warm, and clinging, all limbs and heat and way too much fucking hair in your face. It takes you a second to place it. 

The blanket’s tangled around your legs. There are rough furs under your back… and there’s a long, lanky frame pressed flush against your side, one arm slung across your waist, the other wedged beneath your neck.

Lottie .

And she’s wrapped around you like the world’s neediest koala. You groan quietly.

She stirs. Not all the way, just shifts and noses against your collarbone like she’s trying to burrow deeper. You lie there a moment, staring up at the roof of the shelter, heart thudding way too loud for the ass-crack of dawn.

You should move. Scratch that. You need to move before someone else does it for you.

“Lottie,” you mutter, nudging her gently. “Hey. Rise and shine.”

She makes a sound. Something between a sigh and a whine. You elbow her lightly. Okay, maybe not as lightly as you could, but you’re lacking fine motor skills right now. 

“ Seriously . Up.”

That gets her attention. She blinks at you, still half-asleep, eyes puffy and hair a complete mess. You hate that it’s— God help you — cute.

“…I’ll get up,” she murmurs, voice gravel-rough. “Just… stay here a minute?”

“Can’t,” you say, already untangling yourself. “Chores. Nat’s gonna be on our ass already.”

Lottie’s fingers tighten slightly at your side. She leans up, presses a kiss just under your jaw before you can stand all the way. You’d love to pretend you aren’t flushed first thing in the morning— but really, there’s no denying it.

Your eyes meet. You look away first. Lottie keeps looking like she’s perusing a magazine, gaze trailing up and down in a faintly appraising way that has you burning even hotter. 

“You know,” she says lightly, “we should go down to the lake later. Wash up. It’s warmer in the afternoon.”

You don’t look back at her. “S’a little early to ask to see me naked.”

You can hear the pure smart-assery in her tone when she speaks next: “I’ve already seen you naked.”

You choke. Turn around to find her grinning all Cheshire-like. 

“That was— we were in a group . That’s contextual.”

Lottie hums. “Sure.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it. Just warm, fizzy awkwardness, shyness that comes with having someone look at you like you’re wanted.

“…I’ll think about it,” you say, quieter now.

She smiles, genuine this time. Less teasing, more soft. 

“Okay.”

You shake your head and duck out of the shelter before you can say something stupider. With your back sore and your shirt wrinkled, you scope the area for any onlookers, only to walk directly into Van.

She stops. You stop.

She eyes your hair. Your neck. Your limp . Then her brows go up so high , and you know you’re so fucked .

Van’s face scrunches.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“Good morning to you, too,” you mutter, tugging your shirt down.

“Did you get in a fight with a mountain lion ?” she continues, “Or did you just bust your ass? Seriously. You look like shit .”

You grit your teeth. “Can we not do this shit this early in the fucking morning?”

Van squints. Eyes you up and down again. Then cranes her neck toward the shelter behind you, where movement stirs and Lottie comes out next, equally as mussed, half as ashamed.

Her jaw drops.

“No,” she breathes. “No fucking way .”

“Shut up,” you snap. But it’s already too late.

Van lets out a strangled wheeze and doubles over, laughing like she’s just heard the funniest joke of her life. You lunge forward, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her away from camp before anyone else can hear.

She stumbles along beside you, barely able to breathe through the cackling.

“Oh my God,” she wheezes, “I knew you were gay.”

“ Van !” you hiss, clapping a hand over her mouth. She’s grinning under your hand. You can feel it.

You release her just long enough for her to gasp, “So? How was it? Are her fingers actually —”

You shove her. She nearly falls into a bush and laughs harder.

“Fuck off,” you mutter, ears burning.

“You like her,” she singsongs, following you down the path giddily. 

“I don’t —”

“Oh, no, you’re right. You just fucked in the woods, then slept together , literally. Casual.”

“I swear to God.”

“But seriously, how was it? I mean, who was ringing the Devil’s doorbell ? Was there tongue ?”

You whirl around. “Van. Please . Shut the fuck up.”

She holds up her hands like she’s innocent. Like she’s not about to say something worse.

“I’m just asking,” she says, all faux-seriousness, “Can’t blame me for being curious.”

You groan and drop your head into your hands. Van claps you on the shoulder, smug and utterly relentless, still chuckling to herself.

“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

You lift your head. Narrow your eyes. “You’re going to tell Tai.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You groan louder and start trudging back toward camp before you’re counted as missing. Van falls into step beside you, arms swinging, already halfway into her next round of commentary.

“So, you gonna do it again? Have a routine? Make a schedule ?”

“I'm not answering that.”

“You’re gonna. Eventually.”

You scowl at the ground and keep walking.

She pauses for dramatic effect. “ You know , for someone who spent months calling Lottie creepy, you sure folded like a lawn chair—”

“ Van —”

But then you stop.

Lottie’s standing near the animal pens, sleeveless dress flowing with the morning breeze, hair a little messy from sleep still, and a soft smile curling at the corners of her mouth like she knows exactly what you were just talking about.

She catches your eye. To your absolute horror , she waves, a shy thing that has you blushing up to your goddamn ears. You wave back.

Van explodes, laughter echoing through the trees like a fucking maniac.

“Oh my god!” she wheezes, grabbing your arm to keep from collapsing. “You’re fucked !”

You don't respond. Because unfortunately, she’s not wrong.

you never protested. not anymore at least. she was so good to you. thoughtful. a little intense for you, sure, but she never asked for anything in return.

and when her fingers traced the back of your neck, slow and thoughtful, you shivered, and she’d smile – the unknown patterns she would leave, created a small burning feeling at your skin. sometimes her hand hovered at the small of your back and stayed too long, you leaned into it without thinking. it was just touch.

it was just lottie.

her fingers would also trail over your wrist when you sit beside her, thigh leaning against yours long after it should’ve moved. she sometimes stares at you like she’s waiting for something, some divine permission she knows you’ll never consciously give her, but she’s patient.

lottie has always been patient.

and yet…there were certain things that didn’t make sense to you.

just fleeting moments.

when you told her you were thinking of dating someone, she went quiet. her lashes fluttered down. and then;  “I just don’t want anyone to take you away from me.”

you giggled, nervously, eyes wary as lottie stared at you with furrowed brows. “i’m not going anywhere,” you told her. “you’re my best friend.”

her smile was slow and strange. “i know,” she whispered. “you just…forget that sometimes.”

and maybe that’s why lottie didn’t like to sleep alone. maybe that’s why it started with sleepovers, then turned into shared beds, then into nights where she curled herself around you like a lifeline, breath warm against your ear. her hands never strayed ( you believed, you didn’t think she’d hurt you in your sleep ) but they never stopped touching, either. a thumb brushing your collarbone. fingertips pressed to your stomach beneath the hem of your shirt, steady and still.

and you let her. but not because you were too afraid to say no, but because you didn’t think no ever needed saying.

you recall sleeping in her bed more nights than your own. at first, because it was easier. then, because she asked. eventually, because she never let you go home.

not that she said that.

she’d yawn, say she missed you, ask if you wanted to stay over, and then, gently, fold the blanket around your legs. the lights would go out before you had a chance to answer.

you’d always spend the night. she’d wait for your breath to steady before moving close. wait for the moment your body slackens against the mattress; trusting, and unguarded. she presses her chest to your back and pretends she’s asleep. pretends she’s not breathing you in like incense; mouth parted against your shoulder.

it overwhelms her, sometimes. this...need. it just doesn’t feel wrong.

you shift in your sleep, mumbling something soft, and she holds her breath.

God, you’re beautiful like this. open without knowing it. the hem of your sleep shirt ridden up, exposing the soft curve of your hips; it feels like an invitation.

you don’t wake. you never really do when she’d do this.

she lays a trembling hand on your waist, careful as her pulse sings in her ears. she could stay like this forever. but her body has other ideas. when you sigh in your sleep and roll closer, your thigh slips between hers, and she gasps – quietly – but not enough. you shift again, and your hips brush hers, and she’s wet. shamefully.

don’t wake up. please don’t wake up.

but she wouldn’t stop if you did.

she wouldn’t hurt you  ( she’d never hurt you )  but her hands would keep moving. sliding under your shirt. tracing the slope of your belly. pressing into the soft parts of you like she had any right.

because she’s been good, hasn’t she? she’s waited. she’s loved you the whole time.

you’re just so warm, her thighs capturing the back of your knee. need splitting her open like rotten fruit. then her fingers brush between your legs, barely, a breath of contact. you make a sound, a small, and helpless noise, and then you shift again, like your body knows her before your mind ever could. she freezes.

then you murmur her name in a sigh, barely a whisper. lottie...and she thinks she’ll die.

you don’t awake though, and for that she’s grateful.

she keeps her hand there. still, just resting, feeling your heat through cotton – she wishes you’d trust her enough to not wear anything beneath your night gown. but she’ll fix that soon enough.

for a pregnant pause, she doesn’t move. not yet at least. but she wants to, so badly it hurts. her thighs press together, and she rocks – slow, almost subconsciously – against the shape of your leg.

a quiet, desperate grind.

it doesn’t take long when she finally comes; softly, and biting the inside of her cheek, she almost cries as her release pulses between her thighs, soaking the fabric of her underwear. her whole body shudders with it.

lottie tucks her flushed face into your sweat ridden shoulder, and clings to you like you’re the only altar worth kneeling to.

You don’t stir, just make a helpless noise that she ignores after your snores slowly come back to life.

in the morning, she’s already in her kitchen– her house empty and dull like it normally is, and she’s making you tea exactly how you like. lottie smiles gently at you, muttering your name like sin hasn’t been committed.

you look at her teasingly, “what?” you ask, but don’t question why she stares too long, used to her odd moments. because it’s lottie.

The bass is the first thing you feel. It rattles through the walls of the house like a pulse — steady, unrelenting — matching the wild heartbeat pounding inside your chest. You grip the strap of your bag like it might anchor you to the earth, but even that feels flimsy compared to the chaos unfolding behind that front door.

You're not sure what you expected. Maybe something tamer. A bonfire, soda, some congratulatory hugs. But this... this is something else entirely.

Laughter spills from the open windows. Shouts. The muffled thud of feet stomping on hardwood floors. Somewhere, someone screams — not in fear, but in that reckless, half-drunk kind of joy that only high schoolers can muster when the world feels small enough to conquer.

You swallow. Hard.

“Look who actually showed up.”

The voice cuts through the noise like a blade — sharp, teasing, familiar. You don’t have to turn around to recognize it. Van.

And of course, where there’s Van, there’s Taissa, leaning against the porch railing, arms crossed, grinning like she knows exactly how out of place you feel.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, champ.” Van’s already stepping closer, draping an arm over your shoulders before you can protest. She reeks of beer and victory. “Ladies,” she calls over her shoulder, “the lamb has arrived.”

From inside, a chorus of cheers erupts.

Your stomach twists. Half embarrassment. Half... something else.

“You don’t have to look so scared,” Taissa smirks, unfolding her arms. “It’s just a party. We won nationals, remember? You’re legally required to have fun tonight.”

“That’s not—” You start, but Van’s already steering you toward the door.

“You know the rules,” she grins. “First party, first drink. No arguments.”

The warmth of the house hits you like a wave. It smells like sweat, cheap perfume, spilled beer, and something sweet — maybe weed. Bodies press together, swaying, laughing, dancing. Neon lights flicker over familiar faces painted unfamiliar in shades of blue, pink, and electric green.

Someone hands you a red plastic cup before you can even think to decline it.

“Here,” Lottie’s voice — soft but insistent — finds you through the noise. She’s close enough that her breath tickles your ear. Her eyes sparkle, lips curved in a mischievous smile that’s nothing like how she looks on the field. “Relax. You earned this.”

You stare at the cup. Your heart is a wild animal.

This is it. Your first party. Your first step into the version of yourself that everyone seems so determined to pull out.

You’re not sure whether to run... or to let it happen.

Van slams the ping pong ball onto the table, sending it bouncing once, twice—straight into the cup at the far corner.

“Boom!” she shouts, throwing her arms up like she just scored the winning goal. “Drink, rookie!”

Taissa laughs, nudging the cup toward you. “C’mon, rules are rules.”

You hesitate — but only for a second now. The burn of cheap beer is starting to feel... less like a threat and more like static buzzing beneath your skin. Warm. Numb. Loud.

“You’re a natural,” Van grins, leaning into your side. “Told you she was secretly a menace.”

Another round. Another shot. Your hands are lighter. Your laugh, freer. The constant pressure of being the good one starts to melt, drop by drop, cup by cup.

Somewhere between missing a shot and almost knocking over the table, Van tugs at Taissa’s sleeve with a smirk that leaves little to the imagination.

“Back in a sec,” Van says, not even bothering to whisper. “Don’t miss us too much.”

Taissa rolls her eyes but follows, fingers laced with Van’s as they disappear down the hallway — giggling, colliding into walls like they don’t care who hears.

You’re mid-sip when someone slides into the spot beside you.

“Look at you,” Lottie hums, head tilted, eyes bright with mischief. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You blink, grinning despite yourself. “Neither did I.”

She leans in like she’s about to tell you a secret. “Y’know... I did corrupt Laura Lee in our freshman year.” A playful grin curves her lips. “Looks like it’s your turn.”

Your laugh bubbles out — tipsy, breathless — and maybe it’s the beer, or maybe it’s the weight of Lottie’s gaze that lingers just a second too long, but there’s something electric in the air now.

Before you can answer, a cup crashes onto the table.

“Move,” Shauna snaps, voice rough, words slurred. She’s flushed, eyes glassy, jaw clenched like she’s seconds away from throwing hands at the next person who looks at her wrong. “I’m in.”

Lottie arches a brow. “Oookay. Welcome to the game?”

You glance at Shauna — tense, unpredictable — and then at Lottie, whose expression shifts, reading the room like it’s a chessboard.

Shauna barely acknowledges you, grabbing the ball with more force than necessary. Her hands tremble — not from nerves, but from something simmering beneath the surface. Rage. Guilt. Maybe both.

Across the room, Jackie laughs — high-pitched, sharp — spinning in the crowd, drink in hand, pretending the tension doesn’t exist. Or maybe fueling it. Her eyes dart toward the table. Toward Shauna.

And then, like clockwork, she saunters over.

“Hey,” Jackie chirps, fake-sweet, not even sparing Shauna a glance. Her hand finds yours without warning, fingers curling around your wrist. “You. Come dance with me.”

It’s not a request.

You stumble after her — half dragged, half following willingly — as Lottie chuckles under her breath, watching like the whole thing is some cosmic joke unfolding exactly as it should.

Shauna mutters something under her breath — sharp, bitter — but you’re already swallowed by the crowd, by the heat, by Jackie’s hand tight around yours as neon lights flicker over her perfect, furious smile.

You’re not sure if you’ve been saved... or if you’ve just landed in the middle of something even messier.

The bass shifts — deeper now, heavier — as Jackie pulls you into the throng of bodies. The air is thick with sweat and perfume, with the static hum of too many voices, too much heat, too much everything.

Her fingers are still around your wrist, but softer now. Familiar. Comfortable. The kind of touch that says, You’re mine, just for now.

“God,” Jackie laughs, tossing her hair over one shoulder, “you really have no idea how much I needed this.”

You spin with her, letting the rhythm take over, not because you're particularly good at this, but because Jackie dances like gravity bends for her — wild and effortless, the kind of girl who commands attention just by existing.

You’ve always known you were different. Where she’s all polished chaos, you’re structure and discipline. Where she dives headfirst, you calculate. And yet… you’ve always liked her. Not in the messy, suffocating way Shauna does — no. Yours is something steadier. A quiet kind of affection. An understanding that neither of you ever really bothers to name.

Her hands find your waist, pulling you closer than necessary. Her smile is sharp, playful, but her eyes — her eyes are somewhere else entirely. Across the room.

You don’t have to look to know who she’s watching.

Shauna.

Of course.

Jackie laughs again — breathless, almost manic — swaying her hips like it’s about the song, but you can feel the tension radiating off her in waves.

“You know,” you lean in, raising a brow, “if you’re trying to make someone jealous… you should probably commit.”

That earns you a sharp look. Amusement. Challenge. Her hands tighten, fingers pressing into your hips. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” You grin, reckless from the alcohol and the music and the fire simmering beneath your skin. “Go big or go home, Jackie.”

For half a second, she just stares — like you’ve flipped a switch she didn’t know existed.

And then —

Her fingers slide up, cupping your jaw, and before you can process what’s happening — before you can breathe — Jackie kisses you.

Hard.

Not soft. Not testing. Not pretending.

Her mouth crashes into yours with the kind of desperation that has nothing to do with you — and everything to do with the girl burning holes into her back from across the room.

But that doesn’t mean it’s not real.

Her hands are in your hair. Yours — without thinking — grip her waist. There’s a second, maybe two, where the whole party dissolves. The lights, the noise, the tension. It’s just her — familiar and foreign all at once.

When she pulls back, her lips are flushed, her eyes wild. She laughs — breathless, biting. “There. You happy?”

You blink. Then grin. “Oh, I’m not the one you should be asking.”

Jackie tilts her head, about to retort — but her gaze flicks past you, and something sharp flashes in her eyes.

You don’t need to turn to know Shauna’s watching.

And suddenly, you realize you’ve just lit a match.

Thrown it straight into a powder keg.

And now… it’s about to blow.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Shauna’s voice cuts through the music like a blade — sharp, ragged, dripping venom.

Before you can even process what’s happening, she’s there, shoving her way through the crowd, eyes burning, fists clenched like she’s seconds away deconstructing the universe with her bare hands.

Jackie stiffens, but doesn’t move. Not yet. Her spine locks straight, chin tilted up, like she’s ready for the hit before it lands.

“Oh, what’s this?” Shauna sneers, arms flinging out dramatically. “Little Miss Perfect playing gay now? Is this—” she waves between you and Jackie, “—just your new performance, huh? Gotta make sure everyone’s still looking at you.”

The crowd starts to hush. Not fully — not yet — but the shift is palpable. People elbowing each other, leaning in. Watching.

Jackie’s smile falters, flickering like a candle in the wind. “Screw you, Shauna.”

“No, screw you,” Shauna snaps, stepping closer, her finger jabbing toward Jackie’s chest but stopping just short. “You’re not fooling anyone. You don’t care about her. You don’t care about anyone. You just can’t stand not being the center of the goddamn universe for five minutes.”

Jackie’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

And then — Shauna scoffs, bitter, broken. “You’re not even gay, Jackie.”

Silence.

Heavy. Brutal. Total.

It sucks the oxygen straight out of the room.

Jackie’s eyes widen — just for a second — then drop. Her hands tremble, trying to curl into fists, trying not to — trying something. Her lips press together so tight they almost disappear, but the shimmer in her eyes betrays her.

“Oh my God,” she chokes — more to herself than anyone — before spinning on her heel.

She pushes through the crowd, head ducked, shoulders tight, one hand scrubbing at her face like she can physically erase the way everyone is looking at her right now.

The crowd scatters, murmuring, unsure whether they’ve just witnessed a tragedy, a breakup, or a murder in slow motion.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough!” Van’s voice booms from across the room as she and Taissa shove their way back in, dragging the rest of the team with them. “Everyone chill the hell out!”

Natalie appears, grabbing someone’s speaker, cranking the music lower. “Party’s over, unless you want someone calling the cops.”

Lottie’s hands are up, her tone weirdly calm for the chaos. “Let’s just... let’s breathe, yeah? Breathe.”

People slowly retreat, pretending to busy themselves with drinks, conversations, anything but the tension lingering like smoke in the air.

You exhale — slow, controlled. You turn to Shauna.

She’s still seething, arms crossed, jaw clenched, like every muscle in her body is begging for an excuse to throw another punch — verbal or not.

You keep your voice steady. Cool. “You’re going after her.”

Shauna scoffs. “The hell I am.”

“Yeah,” you nod, stepping closer, not blinking. “You are. Because if you don’t, I will. And you know damn well... I’m not the one she needs right now.”

Her eyes flash. “Don’t—” Her voice breaks. Just a little. “Don’t tell me what to—”

“Shauna.” Your tone cuts, quiet but lethal. “Last chance.”

She stands there — vibrating with rage, shame, regret, all of it knotted together in that impossible mess that is her and Jackie.

Then — with a sharp, frustrated groan — Shauna shoves past you. “Goddammit.”

You watch her storm after Jackie, her footsteps loud against the hardwood, like she hates every step it takes to get to her.

And you?

You turn the other way.

Because sometimes the best thing you can do... is not be caught between fire and gasoline.

“Hey.”

You barely register the voice before a hand wraps gently around your wrist, tugging you toward the side hallway — away from the crowd, the leftover tension, the wreckage of the fight.

It’s Natalie.

“C’mon,” she tilts her head, smirking. “You look like you could use... literally anything else right now.”

You follow — maybe because you don’t want to go back to the party, maybe because you don’t know where else to go.

A narrow stairwell, a rickety door that groans against its hinges — and then the night spills open around you.

The rooftop.

Wide. Quiet. A little bit magic.

From here, the party looks smaller. People are filtering out, climbing into cars, stumbling down sidewalks, fading back into their normal, boring, post-championship lives.

Natalie flops down onto the ledge like she owns the place, legs stretched out, boots scuffed, her leather jacket pulled tight against the breeze. “Not bad, huh?”

You sit beside her, hugging your knees. “Honestly... kinda perfect.”

She grins, reaching into her jacket. “Yeah, well. It’s about to get better.”

A joint appears between her fingers, expertly rolled. She flicks a lighter. Flame catches. She inhales, holds, then exhales slow — a cloud of smoke curling into the night.

Natalie offers it to you with a raised brow. “First time?”

You hesitate. Then laugh — half-nervous, half-resigned. “Obviously.”

“Relax. It won’t kill you.” She shifts closer, holding it out. “Deep breath in. Hold it. Then out.”

You take it. Fingers awkward. Lips uncertain.

Inhale.

It burns — rough and foreign — but not as bad as you expected.

You cough anyway. Hard. Natalie laughs, banging a hand against your back. “Oh yeah. There it is.”

You cough through a grin. “You’re the worst.”

“Damn right.” She leans back, arms braced behind her, gazing up at the stars like none of this — the chaos, the drama, the world — really matters. “Not bad for your first party, huh?”

You shake your head, giggling. “Not bad at all.”

A comfortable silence settles.

Down below, the music is dying. The house is half-empty now. Just stragglers. Voices softer.

Natalie breaks it first. “You think about what’s next?”

“Hm?”

“College. Life. After all this.” She gestures vaguely — at the town, the rooftop, the weird little bubble of high school you’ve all been trapped in.

“Yeah...” You hug your knees tighter. “It’s weird. I spent so long trying to be... good. Perfect. Soccer, grades, all of it. And now it’s like... what happens if that’s not enough out there?”

Natalie hums. Passes the joint back. “Yeah, well. Apparently... we’re getting full-ride offers. Athletic scholarships. All of us.”

Your head jerks toward her. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious.” Her grin turns crooked, proud. “Coach’s been hinting at it. We won nationals. People notice that shit. It’s... kinda fuckin’ awesome, actually.”

“Fucking awesome,” you echo, laughing as the words taste weird and reckless in your mouth.

Natalie nudges your shoulder with hers. “See? You’re learning.”

You tip your head back, looking at the stars. The high starts to settle — warm, floaty, like your bones have turned into something softer, lighter.

For a moment, nothing hurts. Nothing’s complicated. Not Jackie. Not Shauna. Not growing up.

Just you. Natalie. The rooftop. The quiet.

“You think we’ll be okay?” you ask, voice small but honest.

Natalie doesn’t answer right away. She takes one more drag, then flicks the ash into the night.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I think we will. One way or another.”

And for the first time in a long, long while — you believe it

“Do you think…” You trail off, lazily passing the joint back to Natalie. “Are we all... really gonna go our separate ways?”

Natalie leans her head back, blowing smoke toward the sky. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

“That’s insane.” You blink, processing it. “Like... even Shauna and Jackie?”

Natalie snorts. “Especially Shauna and Jackie. Can you believe that shit?”

You glance down over the edge of the roof, legs dangling. The scene below is quieter now. Shauna and Jackie stand near the curb, talking. Not fighting. Not yelling. Just... talking. The tension between them’s still thick, but it’s the kind that holds things together instead of ripping them apart.

“I thought they’d never... y’know. Be apart. Like... physically impossible. Like magnets or something.”

Natalie hums, tapping ash off the joint. “Yeah. But... I dunno. Maybe it’s for the best. Different states, different colleges... maybe they’ll survive each other that way.”

You follow her gaze as it shifts to the yard. Mari and the other girls are laughing, posing for selfies, making dumb faces, clinking red cups together. There’s a sense of something final in it. A last hurrah before the world starts expecting more from them than goals and wins.

Then — Misty.

Hovering near the edges. Shuffling from group to group. Smiling too wide, laughing half a second too late. Trying. Failing. Trying again.

Your chest pinches, soft and sympathetic.

Without thinking, you press two fingers to your lips and let out a sharp, loud whistle. Heads turn — including Misty’s. She looks up, startled.

“Hey!” You wave her over. “Up here!”

Misty blinks. Points at herself. “Me?”

“Yeah, you! Come on!”

She practically scurries toward the back door, disappearing inside with the enthusiasm of someone who just won the lottery.

Natalie groans beside you, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Jesus. You had to do that?”

You nudge her, grinning. “Don’t pretend you don’t like her. You two are practically besties... you know... after the plane crash that never happened.”

Natalie stares at you, deadpan, then laughs — an actual laugh, bright and sharp. “Shut the fuck up.”

Footsteps echo up the stairwell. A moment later, the door bursts open, and Misty pops her head out, beaming. “Oh my God, I’ve never been on the roof before! This is so cool!”

She scrambles over, sitting way too close, cross-legged, hands folded eagerly in her lap. “Hi! Hi, guys!”

Natalie wordlessly passes her the joint. Misty stares at it like she’s just been handed an ancient relic. “Oh... oh, wow. Okay. Okay. Um...”

She takes a delicate inhale — more like a sip of smoke than a drag — and immediately starts coughing, red-faced, waving her hands. “Oh—God— oh my God—”

You and Natalie both double over laughing.

“Yup.” Natalie smirks, shaking her head. “Natural-born stoner, that one.”

Misty gasps, recovering, eyes watering but bright. “This is the best night ever.”

And somehow... looking out over the fading party, with Natalie’s lazy smirk on one side and Misty’s chaotic grin on the other... you almost believe it.

You’re not sure how long you stay up there — time gets slippery when you’re a little high, a little drunk, and a little too aware that nights like this don’t happen often.

The three of you just... talk. And laugh. Dumb stories from practice, inside jokes from bus rides, weird moments from tournaments that seemed like the end of the world back then and now feel like nothing but warm memories.

Eventually, the backyard empties. No more strangers. No more random classmates. Only Yellowjackets. The real ones.

It’s fitting that the last night of high school belongs to the team.

You lean back on your hands, grinning at something Misty says — some ridiculous story about the time she accidentally locked herself inside the equipment shed and had to Morse-code bang on the door for an hour before Coach noticed. Natalie rolls her eyes but smiles anyway, nudging her boot against Misty’s shin in that way that’s almost playful. Almost tender.

And that’s when it clicks.

The way Natalie’s watching her — like she’s pretending not to watch. The way Misty laughs a little too hard, a little too eager. The space between them... barely a breath.

Huh.

“Uh...” You push up suddenly, brushing your palms on your jeans. “I... I gotta pee.”

“Classy,” Natalie snorts.

“Yeah, yeah,” you laugh, waving her off as you head back toward the stairwell. “Try not to traumatize each other while I’m gone.”

Downstairs, the house is quiet now — or, quiet in that way that big, expensive houses always are. The kind of silence that echoes.

The bathroom takes longer to find than it should — stupid mansion. But eventually, success. Mission accomplished.

Except... when you step back into the hallway... nothing looks familiar.

You turn left. Then right. Then — another left? Or maybe that was the same hallway?

And that’s when you push open the wrong door.

Lottie’s room.

The first thing you notice is that it’s... warm. Not literally — the AC hums somewhere in the walls — but in the way it feels. Soft. Lived-in. Comfortably chaotic in a way you didn’t expect.

There’s a wall of Polaroids — crooked lines of tiny, frozen moments. The team at practice. Jackie mid-cartwheel. Shauna flipping someone off. Natalie holding a trophy over her head, grinning like the world belongs to her. Misty and Van doing some dumb cheer pose.

A bulletin board cluttered with ticket stubs, flower petals, scraps of fabric, ribbons from tournaments. Little pieces of memory, pinned in place like she’s afraid of forgetting anything.

Her bookshelf is lined with worn paperbacks. Some poetry. Some philosophy. Some weird esoteric stuff you don’t even recognize. Crystals sit in mismatched bowls. A tarot deck half-tucked under a notebook. Candles. Little glass jars filled with — what, herbs? Stones? Whatever magic Lottie believes in.

And in the corner — the unmistakable sight of a folded Yellowjackets jersey, perfectly stacked, number 10 facing out. Yours.

You smile. Something warm pulls at your chest — not quite nostalgia, not quite affection. Something else. Something softer.

It’s sweet. It’s... Lottie. All of it. The whole room feels like her. Like a secret only a few people ever get to see.

You trail your fingers lightly over the edge of her desk, glancing at the framed photo there — all of you together, arms slung over shoulders, laughing, sweaty, stupidly proud after a win.

Yeah. This... this might be the end of something. But it was something good.

“Oh.”

The voice behind you makes you jump — sharp, startled — spinning around like a kid caught stealing cookies.

Lottie stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, eyebrows raised. Not angry. Not exactly. More... surprised. Amused.

“Didn’t know you were the snooping type,” she says, voice light, teasing. “Kinda creepy, not gonna lie.”

Your face burns instantly. “What— no— I wasn’t— I just—” You stumble over your own words, waving your hands like that might erase the moment. “I got lost! I swear. I was just trying to find the bathroom.”

There’s a beat. And then — a soft laugh, a little awkward, a little shy. “I was kidding. Just... joking.” Her fingers drum nervously against the doorframe before she finally steps inside. “You’re fine.”

Still, there’s this... weird tension. Not bad. Not uncomfortable. But... charged.

For a second, neither of you knows where to stand. Where to look. You glance back toward the wall of Polaroids like it might save you. “Your room’s... nice,” you offer, lame but honest. “It’s... really you.”

Lottie smiles — soft, a little crooked. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Silence creeps back in, thicker this time. Heavy with all the things neither of you has ever said out loud. Things that have always sat quietly between you, in stolen glances, in almosts, in maybe-one-days that never came.

You clear your throat, desperate to fill the space. “Hey... uh... looks like Shauna and Jackie actually managed to... you know. Talk. Like normal humans. Pretty impressive for a final night miracle.”

Lottie hums. But her smile fades a little. Something flickers behind her eyes — hesitation, maybe. Or... nerves.

Her gaze drops, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “Yeah... um... speaking of... earlier...”

You blink. “Earlier?”

Her eyes lift, meeting yours — uncertain, but steady. “The thing with... Jackie.”

Oh.

Right.

The kiss.

The breath catches somewhere in your chest. “What about it?”

Lottie bites the inside of her cheek — she does that when she’s trying to look casual but isn’t pulling it off. “I just... I mean... What did that... mean?”

The air thins.

It’s not an accusation. Not jealousy, either — not exactly. It’s... softer than that. But cautious. Vulnerable in a way Lottie rarely lets herself be.

And you — for a second — you have no idea what to say.

Your stomach twists. Something cold flickers beneath your ribs.

“Oh.” You blink, forcing a laugh that feels too thin, too sharp around the edges. “I mean... it— it was nothing. You know how... parties are.” You wave a hand, trying for casual, but it shakes. “Drunk girls. Dumb dares. Jackie being... Jackie. Probably just trying to piss off Shauna or— I don’t know. Whatever.”

It’s a lie. It tastes like one. Bitter. Heavy.

Lottie doesn’t buy it. Not for a second.

Her brows knit together, lips pressing into a thin line. “No.” Her voice is soft but certain. “We both know... Jackie’s not pretending. Not about this.”

Your breath catches.

She’s right.

Jackie’s kissed too many girls at too many parties when she thought no one was paying attention. And cried too many times after. Into your shoulder. Into Natalie’s. Into Van’s. Like she’s trying so hard to outrun something that’s always been stitched into her skin.

And none of you ever said anything. None of you ever will. Not until she’s ready.

You swallow hard, shoulders stiffening, defensive. “So... what? Is that a problem for you?” The words come sharper than you mean. Harsher. “Us being... girls? Was that the point of the question? Jesus, Lottie, it’s the nineties. I know how people are.”

Lottie’s eyes widen — startled, almost hurt. “No!” she blurts, stepping closer. Hands half-raised like she could physically catch the words before they hit. “No, it’s— it’s not— I don’t—” She stumbles, breath hitching, fingers fisting at her sides.

Then, softer, shakier: “It’s not about that.” Her gaze drops, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. “I don’t care if Jackie likes girls. That’s not... that’s not what this is.”

You frown. “Then what—”

She looks up. And it’s the most open, the most bare you’ve ever seen her. Voice trembling but steady enough to shatter you.

“I just...” Her throat bobs. “I just care if she likes you.”

Silence.

Loud. Deafening. Crushing.

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

Because oh. Oh.

It was never about Jackie. Not really.

It was always about you.

And her.

And everything you’ve both been too afraid to say.

You blink. Once. Twice. Your brain tries to catch up, to process the fact that Lottie Matthews — Lottie Matthews — just admitted that this... whatever this is between you... matters.

A laugh bubbles out of your chest — breathless, disbelieving, a little stupid. You wave a hand like you can somehow play it cool, but you’re grinning. Wide. Hopelessly wide. “Wow. Okay. Um... yeah. Yeah, same. I...” You shake your head, laughing softly. “God, I feel like an idiot saying this, but... yeah. I care. About you. A lot.”

You glance down, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. “I mean... sure, I care about Jackie. Of course I do. But that’s... different. It’s always been different.” Your gaze lifts, searching hers. “Jackie and Shauna... it’s like... like gravity. They fight it, but no one else even stands a chance. No one ever did.”

Lottie’s lips part — eyes soft, shining, like she wasn’t expecting to hear that. Like it hits her somewhere deep. Somewhere she’s been trying not to look.

And then — it’s like the air itself shifts. The tension coils, thick and electric, pulling tighter and tighter between you.

Neither of you moves. Not for a heartbeat. Not for two.

Until you do.

You step in. Closing the space.

And Lottie — startled — jolts back a half step, hitting the wall behind her with a soft thud. But she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t stop you. If anything, the way her hands twitch at her sides says she’s waiting. Hoping. Begging.

Your fingers brush her wrist first — hesitant, testing — then trail up, feather-light, until they rest against the curve of her neck. Her pulse races beneath your touch, wild and frantic, matching your own.

Your nose brushes hers. A shared breath. A tremor of anticipation.

“This...” you whisper, lips barely grazing hers, “...feels like the best way to end the party.”

Lottie laughs — soft, nervous, dizzy. Her hands slide up — trembling — fingers curling at the back of your neck like she’s terrified you’ll change your mind. “Yeah,” she breathes, voice cracking around the edges. “Kissing the girl I’ve been in love with for... God, forever... definitely beats beer pong.”

The smile is still tugging at both your lips when you finally — finally — close the distance.

It’s not rushed. Not rough. It’s a slow, aching, devastating kind of soft. A kiss that tastes like every unsaid thing. Every secret look. Every almost. Every what if.

Her fingers tighten, pulling you closer. Like you could possibly get close enough.

Like maybe... you were always supposed to be here.

The kiss burns. Sweet and devastating, like fireworks under your skin. Her hands tangle in your hair, your fingers press desperately into her waist, and for one beautiful, impossible moment… nothing else exists.

Nothing but her. Her laughter. Her breath hitching against your lips. Her whisper: “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

So long.

But the fireworks... shift. Morph. Crackle into something else.

A sharp snap. A distant, guttural scream.

Then—cold. Bone-deep, suffocating cold.

Your eyes fly open.

Darkness. Trees. Snow. The suffocating press of the wilderness. No music. No laughter. No Lottie. No Jackie. No anyone.

Just you. Alone.

Your breath comes in frantic gasps — fogging the frigid air. Your pulse is a brutal drumbeat against your ribs, and for a split second, you don’t know where you are. You don’t want to know.

But reality doesn’t wait for permission.

It comes back like a fist to the chest.

The plane. The crash. The blood. The hunger. The endless, gnawing hunger.

And Jackie — oh, God. Jackie. Her face is still fresh in your mind — smiling, flushed, alive. But here... here she’s a frozen corpse, half-shrouded in snow. Half-eaten.

Your stomach twists — empty, furious. A predator screaming for meat you refuse to give it.

You won’t.

You won’t eat her. Not her. Not anyone.

Even if it means wasting away.

Even if it means dying.

Tears sting hot against your freezing skin. You wipe them away with shaking hands, forcing yourself upright. Your limbs ache. Your bones ache. Your soul aches.

The dream lingers. A cruel, perfect mirage of everything you’ve lost. Everything that was supposed to be yours. A life that never got to happen.

Lottie. Jackie. Natalie. Van. Taissa. Shauna. All of them. Laughing. Loving. Fighting. Living.

But that was then.

And this... this is now.

It’s time to wake up.

It’s time to let go.