Els:33

Ellie Williams. Total loser. You didn’t even know if you had any classes with her. Partially because half the time the girl didn’t even show up to class. And partially because you didn’t really know her. She wasn’t really a thought in your mind.

But Ellie knew you. Everyone knew you. Ellie always thought you were cute. But she knew you were way out of her league. She wasn’t convinced you probably didn’t even know her name.

You were on the cheer team, dating the quarterback. All that raunchy chic flick shit. Not really Ellie’s scene anyway.

So she really had no clue how she had you in the bathroom, pushed back against the sink. Her hands stuffed in your panties, rubbing firm circles at your clit. The noises she drew out of you were just heavenly.

You wanted to blame it on the alcohol in your system — or the fact that you maybe just wanted to get back at your shitty boyfriend for just being the asshole he was. Not the fact that you maybe actually liked the girl

Never that.

You fell in love with the way she touched you. Like she wanted you to cum more than you did. She touched you with the urgency your boyfriend lacked. Her lips found the sweet spots on your neck that were foreign to you.

She would whisper sweet things in your ear. How pretty you looked, How good you were being. It was perfect really.

So it could be your guys secret.

The second mistake was at her house. You shouldn’t have said yes to her invite.

You two were on her bed, sharing the blunt she’d rolled. Ellie was laying back on her pillows, you watched her. The smoke leave her lips.

Your eyes traced over her face. It was embarrassing how much you liked her.

“What?” Her voice broke the silence. You shook your head— feigning nonchalance. But the grin on her face made you smile. She didn’t really waste anytime after that.

Her lips found yours, blunt discarded.

It was messy, like you both were trying to get more. You chased after one another. Teeth clashing.

She shifted, almost on top of you. You lying down on the bed. Her lips found your jaw. Your mind wandered— what this looked like. You and her. What people would think.

Your eyes closed when she kissed that spot on your neck. It’s almost as if she knew your body inside and out. Her hands wandered, up your sides and under your shirts. Not forcefully— like she was hinting. Giving you the choice to say no. Or back out.

But you needed it. To forget— to lose yourself in her. In this moment.

You help her remove your top, she whispers something. Something that you couldn’t quite make out.

She kissed your breasts. The exposed fat peaking out from your bra.

“Shit.”

Your voice was a hush. You didn’t want slow— you didn’t want her to admire you. To see you. So, your hands found the buttons of your bottoms. Giving her what everyone wanted from you. What he wanted from you.

Ellie didn’t really pay mind to you though. Cause she wanted to see you. To make you feel pretty. Cause god, in her eyes you were a goddess. An actual fucking goddess. Cause she knew, you shouldn’t not be in her bed right now.

So, she took her time. Kissing down your body. Your stomach. She finished the job on your pants. You lift your hips to help her remove them.

You let them fall to the floor. Ellie situated herself between your thighs. Her fingers loop around your underwear, tugging them down.

Once they were discarded, she looked almost shocked. A soft huff of a laugh escaped her lips. “What?” The self consciousness evident in your voice.

She shook her head. “Nothing.” She said, pushing your thighs apart. “You know you’re beautiful, right?”

Her words made your breath hitch, not for long though. Her mouth found your core, Kissing your clit like she had all the time in the world. Her tongue explores— tasting you.

“Oh— oh fuck.” you breathe. Hips jutting towards her mouth, chasing the feeling. It was different then when he did it. He ate you like he was trying to get it over with. Ellie took her time, tasting you, exploring your pussy. Cause the auburn haired girl was in heaven.

Her tongue swirled around your bundle of nerves, her hands found your hips. She held you steady as she ate you out.

“Shit, Ellie. Yeah.” The way you said her name egged her on. Her tongue found your hole, nose bumping against your clit just right. Perfect.

You were just so lost in the feeling, broken moans and whines falling past your lips.

The way she worked on your pussy. Ellie couldn’t even think about anything else but you.

She was just so into you.

“Ugh— fuck Ellie.” You moan out as her lips wrap around your puffy nub. “Mm— yeah.”

You felt the orgasm building up. She could tell too.

The way your body began to tense, the way your sounds began to get a little higher. That’s when she heard you.

“Ellie— I’m gonna cum, shit.”

Ellie didn’t let up as you came. Her lips still giving your clit all that attention. Your hand found her hair. Tugging slightly at her locks. Ellie groaned at the feeling. The vibrations going straight to your cunt.

When you came down, you were breathing heavily. Ellie pulled back to look at you. Chuckling slightly like she was proud of herself, cause she was.

You stayed the night with her. Falling asleep in each others arms. You were both so naive to think— to believe this could be something.

It continued like this for months. Seeing her in secret. Stolen moments at nights. Sneaking off with her in closets — your car, her car. Where ever.

It killed Ellie though. The way you didn’t even spare her a glance in the halls, in class.

She hated seeing you with him.

The way you let him touch you, your waist, your hands, your thighs. The way he’d hiss your cheek, jaw and neck. The same way she did.

She hated it.

It was april now. That meant you’d been doing this — whatever this was for about five months. Cheating. You couldn’t help but feel guilty. Icky.

Sure your boyfriend wasn’t perfect.

He was arrogant, rude sometimes. But you stilled loved him. Right?

You did.

So that’s why you told yourself this would be the last time. With her. It was fun— god it was amazing with her. Even when you weren’t sexing. Just being with each other.

But it couldn’t be more than a secret. She couldn’t be more than a secret.

Tonight was a little different when she took you to her room. Just the aura— or her. She was quiet. Like she knew.

But she still kissed you with that same urgency, passionately. Cause she was in love with you. And there was no denying that you were in love with her.

But it simply wasn’t meant to be. That’s what you told yourself. It scared you. Being with a girl.

You tried not to think about it. You let her touch you, soaking up in the feeling. The feeling you’d never feel again. Not with her at least.

You were slow with it, when your clits met. You on top of her. Moving your hips slowly at first. Getting used to the way you fit together.

The pleasure was almost overwhelming. Pussies smooshed together. Ellie was in heaven. Her face all twisted in pleasure. Little whines escaping her lips.

You loved watching her, knowing that you were making her feel good. The curses that spilled past her lips every time your clots bumped.

You both didn’t last long, the feeling so overwhelming for the both of you. You both came in a twisted sync. Something so perfect to last. You both came to a slow, you rolled off of her. Laying next to her.

You both stayed quiet for a bit. Catching your breath.

Ellie felt the feeling in her stomach. Like a burden. “I think I’m in love with you.” She blurted. The expression on your face told her she shouldn’t have bothered.

Your heart stuttered. And you shake your head like you couldn’t even look at her. “Don’t.” You whisper.

You didn’t wanna break her heart. God you didn’t. So you didn’t let her see your face as you left. Grabbing you clothes and changing in silence. Ellie was too ashamed to even argue. Beg you to stay. Her heart was telling her too. But the words wouldn’t leave her lips.

Ellie’s eyes closed as the door slammed shut.

Maybe if the words did leave her lips, you would’ve stayed. Maybe you would’ve left your shitty boyfriend for her. Let her love you in public. Not just in her sheets.

The door swung open easily, and Ellie stepped inside with her usual careless ease, the familiar scent of lemon floor cleaner and incense hitting her first. She looked around lazily, a soft exhale leaving her nose as she adjusted her hoodie sleeves. No Mariah in sight. No weird music playing. No sketchbook on the couch.

That was when she turned the corner, eyes flicking toward the cracked-open bedroom door.

And froze.

Her body went still before her brain even caught up.

You were lying on the bed, sprawled out flat on your back like a painting. Like something delicate and designed and not supposed to be seen unless someone had truly earned it. A textbook was flipped open across your stomach, barely hanging on, and a mechanical pencil was perched loose between your fingers like you’d fallen asleep mid-thought.

But you weren’t asleep.

You were reading, one hand flipping a page absently, eyes narrowed in concentration. No shirt. No bra. Just this pair of thin, lace, low-rise panties that did absolutely nothing to hide the curve of your hips or the dip of your waist. Your tits were fully out, nipples pierced with these sleek silver barbells that caught the sunlight through the window and glinted like little knives. Your stomach was flat and flexed every time you shifted. There was a highlighter cap stuck to your thigh and a laptop charger tangled around your ankle, like the universe had tried to make you look human and failed.

Ellie’s brain short-circuited so hard she nearly forgot how to stand.

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. Her hand, still clutching the little bag, slowly dropped to her side. Her fingers twitched. The air had changed. Her face burned, and something low in her gut gave a hard, embarrassing jolt. She forced herself to blink, as if that would reset whatever glitch had just happened in her brain.

You noticed her about two seconds too late.

Your eyes lifted from the textbook, slow and lazy, like you hadn’t expected to see anyone at all. For a moment you didn’t even register it was Ellie. You blinked, tilted your head, squinted a little. Then your face cracked into a sleepy, amused smile.

“Oh. Hey,” you said softly, voice scratchy from disuse. You stretched your arms above your head like a cat, breasts lifting and ribs flexing as you yawned. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

Ellie didn’t answer.

She couldn’t. She didn’t even think she could make her mouth move. Her hands were stiff. Her jaw was locked. Her eyes had already scanned everything once but went back for another greedy pass, lingering where they shouldn’t — your chest, the piercings, the curve of your navel, the tattoo on your hip she had never seen before. You weren’t hiding anything. You were stretched out like you had nothing to hide. Like she wasn’t a girl who had been quietly thinking about you for months. Not in a gross, creepy way, but just... wondering. About how your voice would sound if you weren’t always talking about protein chains. About what your laugh would feel like if she ever got to make you smile.

You tilted your head a little and narrowed your eyes.

“You okay?” you asked, a hint of teasing now. You reached to close the bio textbook on your stomach, arms brushing the sides of your chest like you knew what you were doing. “Need Mariah?”

Ellie finally managed to make a noise. It wasn’t a word. It was just a grunt, almost.

“I—uh. Yeah. I mean, I thought—”

She cleared her throat. Looked down. Shifted her stance like her jeans were suddenly tighter than they had been two minutes ago.

“She’s not here,” you said, confirming what she already knew. “Studio or something. She said she might be gone for a while. You can leave it on the desk.”

“Right.” Ellie moved toward the desk automatically, dropping the little bag beside a cup of pens without really looking. Her shoulder brushed the edge of the doorway. She should have left. She should leave.

But her eyes drifted back to you.

You hadn’t moved. You were watching her now, curious but calm, like you were studying her reaction with the same interest you had given your textbook. Not a single hint of embarrassment. You weren’t shy about being seen. If anything, you looked kind of amused that Ellie was so flustered.

“You wanna stay?” you asked suddenly, the question light, casual, but laced with something unmistakable. Something warm and electric.

Ellie’s breath hitched.

“I… should probably not,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. Her cheeks were hot. Her voice had dropped into that low, awkward rasp she always got when she was nervous. “Unless, like, you wanna put on a shirt or something. Or not. I mean—fuck. Not like you have to.”

You laughed then. It was soft, sweet, teasing in a way that made her knees weak.

“Ellie,” you said simply, voice like honey over heat. “I think if you wanted me to put a shirt on, you’d have said it the second you walked in.”

She swallowed hard.

“I didn’t know if I was allowed to look.”

You sat up a little, propping yourself on your elbows, hair falling over your shoulder. The movement made your piercings sway gently. You looked at her without blinking, and your voice came quiet, but sure.

“You can look, Ellie.”

Ellie didn’t know what to do with that.

She didn’t move, didn’t breathe for a second. Her hands twitched at her sides. Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. Finally, her voice came rough and ragged, a whisper scraped straight from her chest.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You smiled again and leaned back, letting your head hit the pillow, chest on full display, like you were daring her to get closer.

“Only if you don’t come sit down.”

Ellie’s body moved before her brain did. She took a few slow, hesitant steps toward the bed, each one careful, eyes glued to your face. Your face, she told herself. Not your tits. Not your stomach. Your mouth, maybe. Your eyes. But not anywhere that would make her feel like a creep. Not when you were looking at her like that. Not when you clearly wantedher to.

“Tell me what you’re studying,” Ellie said quietly, crouching beside the bed.

You looked surprised. Your smile softened. “Still trying to be a gentleman, huh?”

“I mean,” she muttered, gaze dropping to your navel for half a second. “I’m trying.”

You reached for her hand, let your fingers brush hers. Your skin was warm, soft. “It’s molecular genetics. I’m reviewing for a final. Wanna hear about chromosomes while you try not to stare at my tits?”

Ellie groaned quietly and let her head drop to the edge of the bed, nose brushing your side. She could smell the lotion on your skin, something soft and expensive, and it made her dizzy.

“Jesus Christ,” she whispered. “You’re insane.”

You reached up, toyed with the strings of her hoodie, and tugged lightly.

“Take your shoes off,” you said, voice like velvet now. “You can stay.”

She didn’t hesitate this time.

She kicked off her Converse, crawled into the bed beside you, and settled in with her head on your thigh, eyes finally allowed to look. She didn’t touch. Not yet. She just let herself see. And the fact that you let her? That you wanted her to? It was almost enough to knock her out cold.

Almost.

Because Ellie Williams didn’t short-circuit for long.

And tomorrow? She was coming back with flashcards. And maybe some snacks.

And if you were still studying topless?

You type before you can stop yourself.

you: she sounds exhausting tbh

Three dots pop up almost immediately.

mads: she IS. i swear, cait couldn’t think for herself! she was ALWAYS getting in between us

You cluck your tongue disapprovingly, shaking your head as if Maddie can see it through the screen.

You’ve barely spoken to Vi before, but you’ve shared enough classes to recognize the patterns. At first, you thought she was harmlessly cool, easygoing in a quiet, unforced way— the kind of girl who never looks rushed, who jokes with professors without sounding disrespectful, a presence people leaned toward without noticing.

Vi seemed like someone who didn’t need attention to have it, she was never pushy or loud. Nothing about her seemed sharp or invasive. If anything, it was the complete opposite.

Holding doors open without making a thing of it, passing notes forward when someone was late, explaining assignments in a low, patient voice to people who were way too embarrassed to ask the professor again. You’d seen her do it more than once, and you used to think she was considerate, gentle and friendly.

Then, Maddie started telling you what she was really like.

And suddenly, every small thing you noticed about Vi felt different. Suspicious, even. As if every action was calculated, and her patience wasn’t actual patience, but strategy. Like maybe you had mistaken confidence and control for something softer.

It’s funny how quickly someone can change when you’ve never actually known them to begin with.

Your phone buzzes again in your hand.

mads: she seriously couldn’t stand when cait paid attention to me. i’m telling you, it was weird as hell

Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, then you lock your phone and toss it face-down on the desk with a tired sigh. Maddie’s hurt, you get that, but you don’t need to keep feeding the fire. And you certainly don’t want to keep spiraling before class even starts.

You lean back in your chair, eyes drifting around the room, and the creak of the door opening catches your attention.

Speak of the devil, you think to yourself.

Vi steps inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, jacket half-zipped, and expression permanently unimpressed. She pauses just long enough to scan the room, searching for a place to sit.

Your stomach tightens as you look around, realizing the only empty seat in the room is the one right beside you.

Absolutely not. You move without thinking, sliding your bag onto the chair next to you.

Vi notices immediately.

“Crap,” she curses under her breath.

Of course it’s you. She scans the room one more time, hoping there’s another seat available so she wouldn’t have to be stuck with you for this course. But every other chair’s taken, and she’s not about to stand through a lecture just because Caitlyn’s ex’s best friend has a problem with her.

So, she walks straight toward you. And she sees the way you slide your bag onto the seat.

Of course, she thinks to herself. Petty.

It doesn’t take her by surprise, though. Not after everything Caitlyn told her about you. Vi had spent weeks of hearing how Maddie always had you around, how you texted non-stop even when Cait was over, how you somehow always came up in conversation, even when you weren’t there.

Not in a bad way. Never in a bad way, Caitlyn was not the type of person to speak ill of others. She’d just say it like an observation.

She’s really important to Maddie.

They’ve known each other forever.

I think she tells Y/N everything.

That would have been harmless, if Vi hadn’t seen the way Cait said it. Careful, quiet, like she was trying not to make it sound like it bothered her.

Vi is good at noticing small details, she’s always been very observant. Little shifts in tone, pauses between words, the way someone pretends they’re fine when they’re really not. So yeah, she had drawn her own conclusions.

You were just biding time until the relationship cracked, and your turn finally arrived. She was sure of it.

She walks down the aisle anyway, boots quiet against the floor, stopping beside your desk. Up close, she smells faintly like coffee and mint. You keep your eyes forward, pretending to be too caught up with your notebook to notice her presence.

“Hey,” Vi says, readjusting the strap of her backpack on her shoulder. “You mind?”

You don’t even look up. “I do, actually.”

Her eyebrow ticks up. For a split second, Vi considers pushing your bag off the chair herself just to see what you’d do. Just to watch that carefully controlled expression crack.

Instead, she lets out a humorless laugh under her breath.

“And I’m guessing the chair also minds?”

You flip a page in your notebook.

“Mhm.”

Vi exhales softly through her nose, tongue pressing briefly against the inside of her cheek. She had expected attitude; she’s seen the way you look at her before. You’ve never been mean to her, no, but there’s always been something in your gaze when it lands on her across a classroom or down a hallway.

Vi noticed it weeks ago. The way your mouth pressed thin when she walked past your desk, the way you never laughed at anything she said, even when the rest of the room did. You weren’t subtle about your dislike toward her.

And honestly? Neither was she.

You underline something in your notes with unnecessary precision, trying to ignore the fact that Vi is studying the side of your face like she’s reading fine print.

She shifts her weight and taps two fingers lightly against the back of the chair your bag is occupying.

“Look, I respect whatever territorial thing you’ve got going on here, but unless you want me sitting on the desk instead—”

Finally, you lift your eyes to hers.

Up close, she’s more striking than you remember. Her pink hair is a mess in a way that has to be intentional, dark roots peeking through. It falls into her eyes in uneven strands, softening features that are otherwise all sharp edges and quiet confidence. There’s a faint nick through one of her eyebrows, more noticeable now that you’re this close.

Her eyes flick over you, steady and unhurried. They’re bright blue, and there’s an amusing glint in them that makes you hate to notice.

Hate that you notice the way her eyelashes cast small shadows against her cheekbones when she blinks.

Hate that Maddie’s voice in your head doesn’t match the girl standing in front of you at all.

She’s annoyingly attractive, and you hate yourself for having the thought cross your mind.

Her fingers tap lightly against the chair again.

“Well?”

You blink, realizing you’ve been staring a second too long. With a stiff, wordless motion, you grab your bag and drop it on the floor.

Vi hums softly, like she’s accepting a truce neither of you actually offered, before she slides into the seat beside you.

“See? Cooperation wasn’t so hard.”

She leans back in her chair, stretching her legs out slightly, eyes forward now like you’ve already stopped being interesting.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches the way your fingers curl slightly against the desk. You look annoyed. Good, at least she’s not the only one.

Right on cue, the professor strides in, balancing a coffee in one hand and a stack of folders in the other.

“Good morni— Oop, I mean, good afternoon, everyone. I hope you’re ready to work, because we’re officially leaving the honeymoon phase of the semester.”

A collective groan rolls through the room.

Beside you, Vi shifts, elbow brushing yours for half a second as she reaches into her backpack. You move your arm an inch away like the contact burned, annoyed at your own heart for skipping a beat.

The professor sets his folders down with a clap. “Today we’re starting your first major project. This one counts for thirty percent of your final grade.”

He writes the number on the board, and the groan is louder this time.

“Now, this is a collaborative assignment. You’ll be working in pairs to do a longitudinal behavioral analysis.”

“A what?” one of the students at the back asks.

“You will be studying one subject,” the professor continues, energized by the despair, “over the next three weeks. Observing patterns, defense mechanisms, social tendencies, baseline behavior, and deviations from that baseline.”

You frown slightly. Three weeks? It sounds like too much work.

He writes on the board.

FINAL PAPER: JOINT ANALYSIS. TWENTY PAGES.

“Your subject will be your partner. You are encouraged,” he adds, far too cheerfully, “to spend time together in varied environments. People behave differently depending on context.”

A guy stands up at the front of the class, turning around to point at one of his friends. “We got this, bro.”

“Oh, no,” the professor laughs, shaking his head to cut that off immediately. “Let me stop you right there before anyone starts celebrating.”

The guy slowly lowers his pointing finger and sits back on his chair.

“I’m picking the pairs. Actually,” he hums, scanning the room for a second before he nods as he makes up his mind. “to save time… you’ll be working with the person seated next to you.”

A ripple of reactions spread through the room. Chairs scrape and people turn around. Some grin, some groan, and others immediately start talking logistics.

You don’t move. Neither does Vi. The realization settles between you at the exact same time.

You turn your head and find her already looking at you.

“Absolutely not!”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The professor looks up. “Is there a problem?”

“Yes,” you and Vi answer in unison.

Vi gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Can I switch partners?”

“Trust me, it’s mutual,” you scoff, glancing at her.

“Good,” she shrugs. “Glad we agree on something.”

The professor crosses his arms, watching the interaction with curiosity. “Unless there’s a documented academic accommodation I’m aware of, no. Part of the assignment is learning to collaborate with different personalities.”

“She’s not just a different personality,” you say before you can stop yourself. “She’s—”

Vi’s head turns slowly toward you. It makes you stop right on track.

“Go ahead,” she says calmly. “Finish that sentence.”

 You can feel people watching now. You hadn’t actually planned to say anything, it just slipped out, impulse beating restraint every time she’s involved.

Vi doesn’t blink, she just stares at you expectantly.

God, she’s infuriatingly steady.

“She’s,” you start again, choosing the safest word you can grab before your temper picks one for you, “difficult.”

Vi’s eyebrow lifts slightly in amusement.

“Difficult?” she echoes.

You shrug one shoulder. “Objectively speaking, yes.”

She lets out a quiet huff through her nose, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth. “Funny. I was gonna say the same thing about you.”

The professor clears his throat, but he’s not interrupting yet. He’s watching like this is suddenly more interesting than his syllabus.

You cross your arms over your chest. “See? Incompatible.”

“Incompatible,” Vi repeats thoughtfully. “Or threatened?”

Your eyes narrow. “By you?”

“Could be.”

The corner of your mouth twitches in disbelief. “You wish.”

The professor claps once, finally stepping in before the tension snaps into something louder. “Fantastic! Already engaging in behavioral assessment. You two are staying paired. Think of it as… immersive learning.”

He turns his attention back to the lesson, ending the switching-partners topic.

You and Vi share another look. Slowly, she reaches into her bag, pulls out a notebook, and flips it open. She clicks her pen once, then glances sideways at you.

“All right,” she mutters. “Baseline assessment.”

Your back straightens automatically. “Excuse me?”

She ignores the question, eyes scanning you with deliberate thoroughness.

“Initial observations,” she says out loud as she writes, though only you could hear it. “Subject displays defensive posture, elevated tension in shoulders, controlled tone masking irritability—”

“Are you serious right now?” you snap.

She doesn’t look up.

“Interrupts when uncomfortable,” she adds calmly.

Your mouth opens, then closes. The girls behind you snicker, and you can feel heat creep up your neck.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Subject shows mild competitive response to perceived scrutiny,” she continues, utterly unfazed.

Fine. Game on.

You flip to an empty page on your notebook with a sharp motion, putting your pen to the paper.

“Initial observations,” you say coolly. “Subject exhibits inflated confidence, performative calm, and a tendency to provoke reactions for entertainment.”

One corner of her mouth lifts.

“Go on.”

“Also,” you add, writing it down, “clearly enjoys being studied. Egotistical.”

Her pen pauses for the first time, just enough to acknowledge the hit, then it resumes moving.

“Hm,” Vi hums under her breath, considering your wording rather than reacting to it. “Subjects resorts to labeling. Possible projection.”

Your eyes narrow. “It’s an observation.”

“Is it?”

She finally looks up. Her expression is different now, no longer teasing. It’s focused, like she’s trying to figure you out. You hate how much that steadiness throws you off.

You underline your last word harder than necessary.

Egotistical.

“Confident,” she corrects you out loud.

You let out a soft scoff. “There’s a difference.”

“Yeah. Competence.”

The word lands between you. Huh, now you can sort of get Maddie’s dislike for her. You can picture Vi looking down at your best friend and belittling her every single time.

You straighten slightly. “Then you won’t have trouble keeping up.”

Her eyebrow lifts.

“Was that a threat?”

“No. A warning.”

She hums, the grin on her lips widening ever so lightly.

“I like warnings,” she says quietly. “They make things fair.”

“Oh my God,” one of the girls behind you whispers, and you pretend not to hear it.

Vi taps her pen once against the margin of her notebook, eyes flicking briefly to your page. You shift your own notebook an inch away from her line of sight.

“Protective of your notes.”

“Protective of my work,” you correct.

“Territorial,” she writes.

You lean slightly toward her.

“Nosy,” you counter, jotting it down on your notebook.

She glances sideways again, eyes glinting. “Curious.”

“Intrusive.”

“Observant,” she corrects.

“Annoying.”

That almost earns a laugh out of her.

At the front, the professor clears his throat again. Your chatter had slowly turned a bit louder, catching his, and everyone else’s, attention. “I trust everyone’s begun their observational notes instead of flirting with their partners.”

A wave of laughter rolls through the room.

You immediately look down at your notebook, cheeks burning red in embarrassment. Vi does the same.

Neither of you speaks for the rest of the lecture.

The café smells like espresso and vanilla syrup, warm and loud in that mid-afternoon way, every table half full and every conversation overlapping with another.

Maddie is already mid-rant by the time your drinks hit the table.

“… cannot actually be okay with this!”

You blink at her over the rim of your cup. “With homework?”

“With her,” Maddie gestures like the word itself is offensive. “You got paired with Vi. Out of everyone!”

You shrug lightly, stirring your drink. “It’s just a project, Mads.”

“A three-week-long project. Three weeks of Vi hovering and judging and acting like she’s better than you, me and everyone else.”

“Well,” you tap your spoon against the cup, clicking your tongue, “she can’t be that bad.”

Maddie freezes.

She slowly puts her own cup down, watching you in utter disbelief.

“What?”

You immediately regret saying it. Here goes another Vi is short for evil rant.

“I just mean,” you add quickly, “yes, she’s annoying, but—”

“Annoying?” Maddie repeats, incredulous. “Y/N, she literally ruined my relationship.”

Her tone sharpens. She’s not yelling, but it’s loud enough that you glance around instinctively.

“She was always there,” Maddie continues. “Every time Cait and I argued, every time something felt off, every time Caitlyn pulled away. Guess who always was nearby? Guess who Cait would go to?”

You don’t answer, opting to take a sip of your latte before it got cold.

She leans forward, voice dropping.

“Vi wanted Caitlyn from the start. I could tell.”

Before you can try and diffuse the situation, your phone buzzes on the table. You grab it immediately, half-relieved to have something else to focus on, but your stomach twists as you read the notification.

bubblegum brute: as much as i hate this, we gotta schedule observation time

Your grip tightens slightly around the phone, and you unconsciously roll your eyes.

“Who’s that?” Maddie asks, curious by your reaction.

“No one,” you say too fast.

Her eyes narrow. Well, it’s better to rip the bandage right off.

You sigh. “It’s Vi.”

Maddie leans back like you just said you were texting a serial killer.

“She already has your number?” her voice goes lighter for a second, and she shakes her head with disappointment.

“She needed it for the project.”

“That’s weird.”

“It’s not weird. It’s practical,” you try to defend your case. “Besides, we need to analyze each other for three weeks. It would be weird not to have her phone number to schedule this project.”

“Why can’t you just make it up?”

“We wanted to,” you lean back against the booth. “But the professor said we needed to document everything, and he wants evidence, too.”

Maddie rolls her eyes. “So invasive.”

Your screen lights again.

bubblegum brute: preferably somewhere public. it’ll be easier that way.

“What’s she saying?”

“It’s about scheduling this whole observation thing,” you mumble.

“Of course,” Maddie grabs her cup and takes a sip, not noticing the foam on her upper lip as she pulls it back down. “She probably already has a notebook labeled Ways Y/N Is Secretly Evil.”

You huff a quiet laugh despite yourself, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

you: i’m busy rn

Three dots appear instantly.

bubblegum brute: let me guess. with maddie?

Your breath catches as you stare at the screen.

“Hod does she—” you mutter.

“What?” Maddie asks.

You shake your head quickly, already typing down a quick yeah.

Across from you, Maddie keeps talking, completely unaware she’s being silently discussed.

bubblegum brute: makes sense

you: what does that mean?

bubblegum brute: it’s just that i was right

Your brows knit. What is she talking about?

“… uncomfortable or something.” Maddie turns to look at you at your lack of response, noticing your confused expression. “Are you listening?”

“Yeah… no… sorry,” you hesitate, pointing down to your phone.

“Ah, see,” she scoffs. “She’s probable trying to psychoanalyze you already. She acts chill, but she’s always looking out for anything she can use against you.”

Your eyes flick down to the screen again.

Another message.

bubblegum brute: tomorrow. 4pm. library or café, your choice.

You stare at it for a moment.

Maddie always said Vi was manipulative, intrusive and demanding, but it doesn’t seem like her. Well, who knows her better? You, who has only shared a couple of classes with her, or Maddie, who is her best friend’s ex-girlfriend?

“You’re not actually considering hanging out with her, are you?”

You look up, pursing your lips. Oh, you know she won’t like this at all.

“It’s not hanging out, it’s just… cooperating,” you shrug it off. “And it’s thirty percent of my grade.”

Maddie groans. “Y/N…”

“What?” you cross your arms.

“She’s not your friend.”

“I know.”

“She’s not even nice.”

Your phone buzzes once more.

bubblegum brute: or don’t. avoidance is data too.

Oh, she has to be doing that on purpose.

You type back before you can stop yourself.

you: library. 4pm

bubblegum brute: 👍

“You are meeting her,” Maddie tilts her head.

“It’s just a project,” you say again.

“It’s Vi,” she corrects.

You sigh, closing your eyes as frustration starts to kick in. “Maddie, please drop it.”

“No, seriously,” her voice drops a notch. “You don’t know her like I do.”

That’s the thing, though.

You don’t know her at all. Only the version you’ve heard about.

Maddie leans forward slightly, her tone quieter now, almost conspiratorial. “She’s the type to wait. She’s calculative, she plays nice so people don’t notice how controlling she actually is.”

“That sounds like a supervillain,” you open your eyes, watching her incredulously.

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

You glance down at your phone as you feel it vibrate again.

Maddie rolls her eyes. “See? You can’t even catch a break.”

bubblegum brute: don’t be late

you: bossy.

Three dots appear. They disappear. Pause.

Then—

bubblegum brute: not bossy. observant.

Your lips twitch before you can stop them.

You press them back into a thin line quickly, but Maddie notices.

“You just smiled at her text.”

You look up. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You literally just did.”

You exhale through your nose. “You’re being dramatic.”

“And she’s being manipulative.”

When you look back down, you notice two new texts.

bubblegum brute: you type the same way you argue btw

you: what does that even mean??

Her reply takes longer this time. Long enough that you picture her thinking about it.

bubblegum brute: fast, defensive, trying to win

bubblegum brute: but well, see you tomorrow

Maddie is still talking, trying to warn you, but her voice fades slightly into the background.

You don’t know why that tiny, simple message makes your chest feel tight. You lock your phone, deciding to let it go just for now.

You spot Vi immediately as soon as you walked into the library.

She’s sitting at one of the long wooden tables near the back, one arm draped over the chair beside her like she owns the space. A notebook lies open in front of her, pen resting across the page.

It takes you by surprise to notice she isn’t on her phone. She’s just sitting there, waiting for you.

She looks comfortable. Just like she belongs there.

Your steps slow as you realize what she’d done. She picked the library not because it was practical, but because you’d feel like the one entering her environment.

Your grip tightens slightly around your bag strap, and you shake your head. Should have seen this coming, you think to yourself as you walk over to her.

Her eyes flick up the moment you enter her peripheral vision.

“Right on time,” she says, glancing briefly at the wall clock behind you. “That’s good.”

You drop your bag onto the table with a soft thud. “Sounds like you’re taking attendance.”

“I’m just observing,” she corrects calmly.

You slide into the chair across from her. “You’re insufferable.”

Her mouth twitches, and you watch as she writes something down.

“Did you just—”

“Baseline irritability,” she murmurs as she finishes the line.

You stare at her for a second before you pull out your own notebook and flip it open.

“Mirroring behavior,” she notes softly.

You click your pen.

“Subject attempts to assert control through performative composure,” you say out loud as you write. “Possible reliance on intimidation tactics.”

There’s a pause.

Her smile sharpens as your gazes meet, and then she lets out a laugh. A genuine, amused laugh.

For one second, you forget you’re supposed to dislike her.

You clear your throat, shifting in your seat. “So… how are we doing this?”

Vi nods once, instantly focused again, but there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips now.

“Three weeks. Well, we need enough interaction to establish baseline patterns before deviations mean anything.”

You blink, taking in everything she just said.

God, she speaks like she’s discussing a lab experiment.

“So, we gotta hang out before we jump to conclusions,” you repeat in simpler terms.

“Basically, yeah.”

“Okay… define ‘enough interaction’,” you say cautiously.

“At least one observation session per day,” Vi replies. “Plus, incidental data.”

“Hanging out every day?” you repeat flatly. “And what the hell do you mean by incidental data?”

“Just unplanned interactions, like your reactions when you’re not performing,” she looks up just in time to catch you frowning. “You do it when you feel watched.”

Your eyes narrow. “Well, you literally are watching me.”

“Exactly.”

Her gaze flickers down to her notebook as she keeps writing.

“Oh my God,” you mutter, flipping your notebook open again. “Subject demonstrates chronic need for control and a deeply concerning enjoyment of provoking irritation.”

Vi hums, leaning back against her chair as she looks up at you again.

“That was actually good phrasing.”

“You’re being annoying on purpose.”

“Yes.”

The honesty throws you off for half a second.

You force yourself to look away from her eyes, because they’re getting to distracting. Maddie was right, she is calculating every move.

“Subject displays antagonistic tendencies. Likely compensatory,” you jot down.

“And I’m compensating for what exactly?”

You shrug. “You tell me. You’re the expert.”

“I never said I was an expert.”

“Oh please,” you roll your eyes, dropping your pen onto the table. “You act like one.”

She nods, watching you closely. “And you act like someone who hates losing.”

“I don’t lose,” you correct, a smirk taking over your lips.

Vi doesn’t respond. Instead, she writes something else in her notebook.

You lean across the table. “Okay, that’s it. What did you write?”

“It’s confidential,” she closes the notebook almost immediately, looking up to find your face a lot closer than before.

You don’t move back.

Her gaze flicks once to your mouth, then back to your eyes. It was quick, but it sends a shiver down your spine.

“You’re annoying,” you blurt out.

“Yeah, you’ve said that already.”

“The more I say it, the more I mean it.”

“Huh,” one corner of her mouth lifts, and you have to force yourself not to get distracted by it. “Noted.”

“Don’t,” you warn, finally sitting back down.

“Don’t what?”

“Do that?”

Vi huffs out a small laugh. “Do what?”

“That smug little…” you gesture vaguely at her face, “thing.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the comeback doesn’t arrive.

Vi’s gaze dips briefly to your lips again, then back to your eyes, and she taps her pen once against her notebook.

Oh, how she hates the fact that she loves getting on your nerves.

Five days go by easier than you expected.

You’re lying on the campus lawn, a hand thrown over your eyes to cover them from the sun. Students pass in loose clusters, laughter drifting through the air.

Vi’s mere feet away from you, settled against a tree, ankle hooked over her knee and notebook resting against her thigh. She’s not even writing right now, just twirling her pen between her fingers.

“You’re staring again,” she says under her breath, not even bothering to look at you.

“I’m observing,” you blurt out, but you look away immediately.

Lately, you’ve caught yourself staring at her way more than usual. You tried to tell yourself it was because of the project, but most of the time you weren’t taking any notes.

“What did you learn about me, then?”

“That you need to re-dye your hair soon.”

She finally turns her head, squinting at you. “For your information, chicks dig my current look.”

“Mhm. Jury’s out,” you hum softly, closing your eyes for a moment.

Vi snorts, grabbing a handful of leaves and throwing them in your direction. “Oh yeah? And you’re the jury now?”

You push your hand off your eyes to look at her properly. Sunlight catches in her hair, the faded pink uneven where her roots are starting to show through. It does need a touch-up.

Your mouth opens, but the sound of footsteps crunch softly on the grass nearby.

“Well, this is a surprise.”

The voice is familiar.

Both of you look up. A few steps away stands Caitlyn, tote bag on her shoulder, brows lifted slightly as she takes in the scene. Her gaze flicks from you, to Vi, to the notebooks, then back to Vi again.

Vi’s whole demeanor shifts. Her expression softens and the corner of her mouth lifts— not the smug half-smirk she gives you, but a warmer smile that takes over her face.

“Hey,” Vi greets her happily. “What’re you doing out here?”

You hadn’t seen Caitlyn in… well, long before her and Maddie’s breakup. You kind of missed her, actually. She was always kind and passionate, you loved hanging out with her.

Well, you weren’t surprised Vi wanted to break them up so she could have Caitlyn all to herself.

Something small twists under your ribs before you can stop the thought.

“I’m doing a library run,” Cait huffs out, shifting her tote higher on her shoulder. “Midterms are going to be the death of me.”

“Please, do you even need to study?” Vi chuckles, eyes flicking over Caitlyn quickly. “You eat something already?”

You sit back up, a hand coming up to smooth your hair. You don’t even realize you’re doing it until your fingers are already combing through the strands, subtly fixing what the grass messed up.

Caitlyn waves a hand dismissively at Vi’s words. “Yeah, I had a burger an hour ago. And I do need to study. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not academically invincible.”

She turns her attention toward you, a soft smile greeting you happily.

“Y/N, I hadn’t seen you in so long,” she sounds genuinely glad to see you. “How are you?”

You weren’t prepared for that.

Not the smile, not the warmth in her voice. You figured she would want nothing to do with you at this point, not with Vi feeding her up lies about you and Maddie, according to… well, Maddie.

Your shoulders loosen up almost immediately.

“Good,” your voice comes out softer than intended. You clear your throat. “I’ve been good. Incredibly busy, though. Classes are… y’know.”

“Relentless?” Cait supplies kindly.

“Awful, actually.”

She laughs quietly, eyes crinkling just a little. God, you forgot how easy it was to talk to her. How she always made conversations feel like she was actually listening, not just waiting for her turn to speak.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Vi shifting her weight against the tree. She hasn’t interrupted, hasn’t hovered, hasn’t done anything annoying. Hm, you would have thought she would have been all over Caitlyn’s case by now, but she seems far more interested in her notebook right now.

Cait glances between you and Vi again, curious. “So… are you guys like homework buddies now?”

“Sort of,” Vi says, at the exact same time as you say, “Not really.”

There’s a pause, and you notice Caitlyn’s lips twitch upwards.

Vi exhales through her nose. “Psych project.”

“Behavioral analysis,” you add. “We’re stuck together for two more weeks.”

“Mutual suffering,” Vi amends.

You shoot her a look. She doesn’t even glance up from her notebook, flipping a page like she’s above the conversation entirely. The corner of her mouth is so close to smiling, though, and it makes something prickle under your skin.

Caitlyn presses her lips together, clearly holding back a laugh.

“I should go before I start procrastinating,” she says, readjusting her tote again.

“Text me when you get back to your dorm,” Vi adds absentmindedly.

Cait just smiles, used to it. “Yes, mom.”

“Rude.”

Another soft laugh, and then Caitlyn looks back at you one last time. “It really is nice seeing you, Y/N.”

“You too,” you say, and you mean it.

She gives a small wave, then turns and walks off across the lawn.

You watch her go, and you can feel Vi watching her, too.

The silence stretches between you. A breeze rustles the leaves above you.

You glance sideways and notice Vi’s still looking in the direction Caitlyn left, expression thoughtful, pen idly spinning between her fingers.

Something twists low in your stomach, and you frown at it.

What’s wrong with you?

Light leaks through the thin strip between your curtains, stabbing straight into your skull. You stare at the ceiling for a long moment. Your throat burns, your nose is stuffed, and your body feels like it’s been replaced with a punching bag.

Your phone buzzes against your pillow.

You drag it closer with slow, miserable effort.

bubblegum brute: where are you??

You squint at the screen.

Shit, it’s four fifteen in the afternoon. You meant to text Vi earlier, but you’ve been drifting in and out of sleep all day, and you completely forgot about it.

You stare at the keyboard for a solid ten seconds before typing.

you: sorry, not today

you: i’m sick

Three dots appear immediately.

Pause. Disappear. Reappear.

bubblegum brute: define sick

You scowl weakly, pressing the audio icon.

“Fever, dying, it’s tragic,” you mutter softly. “Burn me down and scatter my ashes. The ocean will do.”

Typing. Stop. Typing again.

bubblegum brute: dramatic but acceptable

bubblegum brute: reschedule tomorrow

That’s it?

No teasing, no smug remarks, not even a “get better” text?

You stare at the screen a second longer, oddly unsatisfied.

you: wow no analysis?

There’s a longer pause this time.

bubblegum brute: subject sounds like she swallowed sandpaper

bubblegum brute: data collection postponed for ethical and sanitary reasons

Your lips twitch faintly as you lock your phone and let it fall onto your chest.

Vi’s responses had started to become a bit predictable—

Buzz.

You sigh and unlock your phone again.

bubblegum brute: you eat yet?

bubblegum brute: drink water

You roll your eyes.

you: no and don’t tell me what to do

You wait for a couple of minutes, but there’s no response. Vi must have already found something else to spend her time on.

You toss the phone aside and sink deeper into your pillow, drifting somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

Thirty minutes later, your phone vibrates again. You groan loud enough to scare yourself, blindly grabbing it.

bubblegum brute: open your door

Before you can type out a confused response, a photo loads in the chat.

It takes your brain a second to process what you’re looking at.

Vi’s face fills most of the frame. Her pink hair’s tucked under a cap, a few messy strands falling into her eyes. One eyebrow is raised, a thin and awkward smile on her lips. A takeout bag is hanging from two fingers, right beside her face.

Your eyes focus on the background and your stomach drops.

Behind her, you notice it’s your dorm hallway. More importantly, Vi is standing right in front of your door.

You sit up too fast, head pounding instantly in protest, eyes darting from the photo to your actual door across the room like it might suddenly disappear if you look too hard.

She’s outside. Right now.

You scramble out of bed, nearly tripping on your blanket, and stagger toward the door with all the grace of someone who is in fact sick. Your hand fumbles with the knob before you yank the door open.

And there she is.

Vi lowers her phone slowly, like she’d just been about to text again, and gives you a once-over that starts with your messy hair and ends at your sock-sliding stance on the tile.

“Damn,” she says mildly. “You look awful.”

You blink at her in disbelief.

“Excuse me?”

She lifts her chin once. “Right. Hi.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You said you were sick,” she says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“So?”

She raises the bag slightly, and your stomach growls at the delicious smell. “So I brought food.”

Vi steps a little closer, eyes scanning your face quickly.

“You look like crap,” she blurts out, a hand coming up to your forehead so she can check your temperature. “Are you taking any medicine?”

You blink, taken aback. “You came all the way here just to insult me?”

“That part’s just a bonus.”

You should be annoyed, but there’s something warm and strange blooming in your chest that you refuse to examine too closely. Must be the fever, right?

“You walked all the way to my dorm just because I said I was sick?”

“You seem surprised,” she points out.

“I am surprised!”

She shrugs. “In the voice note it sounded like you were on deathbed. If you die mid-project, I’d fail.”

You narrow your eyes. “You walked across campus just for a grade?”

“Mhm.”

You huff out an unimpressed laugh, shaking your head.

“Also,” Vi adds, “you didn’t eat.”

You hate the way your chest tightens at that.

“How did you know where— Caitlyn told you, right?”

“Yup.”

“You asked her.”

“Yup,” she nods again.

“And she just told you where I live?”

“Well, we agreed you’d probably be too stubborn to ask for help yourself,” Vi replies easily.

You press your lips together. That does sound like something Cait would agree to.

Silence lingers between you for a second. The hallway hums faintly with distant voices and footsteps. Vi shifts her weight, sneakers squeaking softly against the floor.

“Are you taking the soup or should I find another sick person to give it to?”

You hesitate. An idea crosses your mind, and you hate the way your pulse skips at it.

Vi watches you in silence, warmth spreading through her chest at the sight. Whenever you’re deep in thought, your brows pull together just slightly, like you’re arguing with yourself behind your eyes. She’s noticed that for the last ten days.

She’s noticed a lot of things about you, actually. More than she probably should for someone she’s just doing a project with.

Your gaze flicks up to hers again, your expression letting her know you had made a decision.

“You can come in,” you mutter, voice scratchy. “Since you already committed stalking.”

She blinks once.

Her surprise lasts less than a second before she covers it with her usual composure. “Not stalking. Just food delivery.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you roll your eyes, pulling the door wider. “Get in before someone sees you and thinks I invited you willingly.”

Vi huffs a quiet laugh as she walks past you. The second she’s inside, she pauses and takes a look around.

The room is warm. It’s so you. It’s a small dorm, with blankets slightly rumpled over the bed like you’d been cocooned in them all day. There’s a mug on your desk with a faint ring of dried tea at the bottom, next to your sticky-note covered laptop. Colorful pictures cover the wall next to your bed, and she can’t help but smile at the sight of them— different cities, drawings you had made, even a couple of family selfies.

You follow her gaze, cheeks burning as you realize she can see a vulnerable sight of you.

“Don’t analyze my dorm.”

“I’m not,” she replies, looking back at you. “Your place is nice.”

You take the bag from her hands, fingers brushing slightly against hers, and your stomach betrays you with another quiet growl. Vi pretends not to hear it, but the corner of her mouth lifts a little.

You sit down on the small sofa you own, hurrying to pull the container out and crack the lid. Steam rises instantly, and a warmth spreads through your chest.

“Shit, it smells amazing,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

“It does,” she says casually, like she didn’t spend time figuring out which place near campus makes the best soup.

Vi’s leaning against your desk now, arms loosely crossed, watching you with that same steady attention she always has. Except it’s a lot softer today.

You glance up, and your pulse skips once again when your eyes meet.

“You’re staring,” you mumble.

“Just making sure you don’t die on me.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t look away fast enough to hide the small smile tugging at your mouth.

Vi notices it immediately. It’s small, just the faintest curve at the corner of your mouth while you lift the spoon. But she sees it, and for a second she forgets whatever dry remark she’d been about to make.

“You know,” you look up after a couple of sips, voice still hoarse, “for someone who allegedly walked all the way here just for her grade—”

Vi hums.

“—you’re putting a lot of effort.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “You saying my academic dedication is admirable?”

“I’m saying,” you counter, stirring the soup slowly, “most people don’t personally deliver soup to their project partners.”

“Yeah, and most people don’t speak like Victorian ghosts when they’re sick.”

You glance up. “Victorian ghosts?”

“Burn me down and scatter my ashes,” she quotes you flatly. “Definitely not fishing for attention, huh?”

“I had a fever! I was delirious.”

“You were dramatic.”

“Meh, all the same.”

Vi shrugs, but she can no longer contain the smile tugging at her lips. “If you die, I fail. I’m protecting my GPA.”

You stare at her for another second, trying to find the smugness in her face, the calculation Maddie always swore was there. But you couldn’t find it.

Your spoon dips back into the soup.

“Well… thank you,” you mutter.

“No problem.”

That’s it. There’s no teasing, no joke, not even a note scribbled down.

What is going on with her today?

“You’re not writing that down?”

She looks taken aback. “Writing what down?”

“That I said thank you. Seems like important data.”

She tilts her head, considering it for a moment.

“…Nah,” she shrugs again, crossing her arms across her chest. “I already knew you were capable of basic human decency.”

You scoff. “Wow. I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. The bar was low.”

You shake your head, but the smile comes back impossible to fully hide.

Time passes without either of you really noticing.

At some point, the soup is half gone. A couple of minutes later, Vi stopped leaning against your desk and ended up sitting on the floor beside the sofa, right next to you. Slowly, the conversation drifted from sarcastic jabs to dumb campus stories, professor impressions, and a debate about whether pigeons are secretly evil.

Hanging out with Vi was… easy. And you were starting to like it.

Your phone vibrates on the table, and you glance down.

mads calling

Your thumb hovers for a second.

Vi doesn’t look at the screen, but she notices the way your shoulders tighten just slightly.

You flip the phone face-down.

“Not answering?” she asks just to strike up conversation.

“Nope.”

It vibrates again almost instantly.

You sigh through your nose. “It’s Maddie… she gets a bit intense when she thinks something’s wrong.”

“Mm.”

You expect a comment, a jab, anything. But it doesn’t come.

Weird. The version of Vi that Maddie told you about would jump at the idea of insulting her.

You grab your phone, opening up her chat so you can let her know everything’s alright.

you: hey, i’m sick at home. not in the mood for calling.

You hit send and toss your phone back onto the table.

Next to you, Vi absentmindedly spins your pen between her fingers. She doesn’t ask what you wrote, doesn’t try to peek, doesn’t even look curious.

Weird.

Your phone buzzes again, and you glance at the screen.

mads: why didn’t you tell me earlier?

mads: i could’ve come over

you: i’m fine, promise

mads: i’m coming by

You let out a frustrated groan.

“You good?” Vi asks lightly, still looking at the pen instead of you.

“Maddie’s coming over.”

Vi’s fingers stop spinning the pen.

“Oh,” she doesn’t sound defensive or annoyed. It sounds like she’s just processing it.

You glance at her. “You don’t have to leave or anything. I mean, you can, if you want, but—”

“I didn’t say I was leaving,” Vi shrugs simply. “Do you want me to?”

You blink once.

Before you can stop yourself, you shake your head ‘no’ in response.

“Okay,” she nods and goes back to idly turning the pen between her fingers.

Less than five minutes later, a knock hits your door.

You and Vi share a glance before you push yourself up off the sofa, suddenly hyperaware of everything. Your hair, your voice, Vi sitting on your floor.

God, Maddie is going to flip out once she sees her.

You open the door to reveal Maddie slightly out of breath, concern written across her face.

“Aw, poor thing, you look—”

She stops herself once she sees past you, spotting Vi on the floor. Her expression drops immediately.

“Oh…”

“Hey,” you clear your throat, your voice a bit smoother than earlier, but still hoarse.

Maddie’s eyes move slowly from Vi to you, then to the container on the table, then back again to you.

“You said you were sick.”

You nod. “I am.”

“And she’s here,” Maddie gestures vaguely.

“Yeah, she brought me some soup.”

Behind you, Vi lifts a hand in a small, casual wave. “Hi.”

Maddie doesn’t wave back. Doesn’t even acknowledge her.

Her gaze stays focused on you. “You didn’t answer my calls.”

“I texted you, though.”

Her jaw tightens, hurt flickering across her face. “I was worried.”

“Maddie, I’m okay.”

Her eyes flick past you again.

“Yeah, you look pretty okay to me.”

The edge in her voice makes something in your chest pull tight.

You know Maddie doesn’t like Vi, and you feel like a traitor for hanging out with her now. After everything Vi had done to Maddie, how could you? But then again, the Vi you have gotten to know wouldn’t have done half the things Maddie told you about.

“She was just leaving.”

You feel Vi’s eyes on you instantly, but you don’t turn around.

Maddie’s shoulder loosen a fraction. “Oh, okay.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, quietly, Vi speaks up.

“I don’t mind.”

You finally glance back at her. She’s still sitting on the floor, one arm resting on her knee, expression calm. But her eyes are on you, steady and unreadable.

Maddie notices the look.

“Right…”

It feels like you’re standing between two magnets turned the wrong way, tension pushing outward from both sides.

“I brought you tea,” Maddie says abruptly, breaking the silence, as she lifts the cup carrier like proof. “For your throat.”

“Oh, cool,” you take it from her with a thankful smile.

Her voice drops a little. “You could’ve called me if you needed something.”

“I’m sick, not dying.”

“I thought something happened when you weren’t answering,” she gestures past you. “I didn’t think I’d find this.”

This being Vi.

Vi tries her best not to look annoyed, but Maddie’s intensity is starting to get on her nerves. She fails a little. You can tell by the small shift oh her jaw, the faint tightening at the corner of her mouth.

The kind of tells you wouldn’t notice unless you’ve been watching her closely for days, which is exactly what you have been doing.

“Relax,” she finally speaks, voice even. “I just brough her soup.”

Maddie’s eyes cut to her. “I’m not talking to you.”

You close your eyes briefly.

Great. Exactly what you didn’t want. For Maddie to cause a scene right in front of Vi.

“Maddie, it’s not a big deal.”

Her laugh is short and sharp. She looks at Vi again, disbelief creeping into her voice. “You’re hanging out with her now?”

“You know we’re doing a project.”

“In your dorm?”

“I’m sick,” you repeat again, brows furrowing as you’re starting to lose your patience.

“Well,” Vi cuts in, pushing herself up onto her feet, dusting off her hands lightly. “Patient’s alive, fed, and hydrated. My work here is done.”

Your stomach twists in disappointment at her words. You tell yourself it’s because if Vi leaves, you’d be stuck with a clearly hurt Maddie telling you over and over how awful of a friend you are, not because you’d miss having her around.

“Y’know what?” you set down the cup on your table, pressing your lips into a thin line. “Thank you both for coming over and being so kind, but I need to rest now.”

“Absolutely,” Vi shoots you a gentle grin. “See you tomorrow? For the project, of course.”

You nod almost immediately. “Yeah.”

Something flickers across Maddie’s face. Hurt, confusion, maybe even a little betrayal.

“Hope you feel better,” her voice is tight. “Call me if you need anything.”

They both head for the door at the same time, and they stop as they both reach it. They stand there for half a second, close enough to feel the tension, but not enough to touch.

Vi gives a polite nod. “Maddie.”

Maddie’s response is a tight, controlled smile. “Violet.”

She steps out into the hallway, not looking back at you as she walks away from your dorm.

Vi, on the other hand, turns to glance at you. She’s biting the inside of her cheek, very obviously trying not to laugh.

You narrow your eyes at her immediately.

Don’t, you mouth.

Her shoulders bounce once with a silent huff, and she lifts both hands in surrender. You point toward the hallway, but a smile creeps onto your face.

Vi presses her lips together, nodding solemnly, and steps out.

The door clicks shut and you let out a shaky breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Just as you wrapped yourself in your favorite blanket—

Knock knock.

Your stomach drops. It has to be Maddie. She must have waited for Vi to leave and come back to argue with you about hanging out with her ex-girlfriend’s best friend.

You open the door again, already preparing your apology voice, but Vi’s face stops you right on track.

She’s leaning against the frame, holding up a small plastic bag.

“I forgot to give you these.”

She opens up the bag just enough for you to get a glimpse of the small, white medicine boxes.

“You bought meds?” you ask, brows furrowing as you accept the bag.

She shrugs. “I’m very invested in this project.”

Her expression softens a notch when she takes a look at you. Flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, blanket draped over your shoulders like a cape.

“You look worse than five minutes ago.”

“Are you ever saying something nice?” you roll your eyes, but a cough ruins your nonchalant response.

“I think you really need to rest.”

You stay silent for a moment, taking a real look at Vi. The way her eyebrows furrowed in worry when you started coughing, the softness in her gaze as she stares at your weakened figure.

“You didn’t actually leave, did you?”

Her mouth tilts.

“I got halfway down the hall.”

Your pulse stutters, and you don’t know if the warmth that takes over your face is thanks to her comment or a fever.

“For the record,” she adds casually. “I wasn’t eavesdropping or stalking or anything dramatic. I just figured if she started round two, you might need backup.”

The warmth spreads onto your neck and chest. It has to be the fever, right?

“That’s not necessary, Vi,” you say softly. “I’m alright.”

She shrugs, “Just in case.”

Neither of you move for a while. The hallway light hums above her, and you wish she had taken off her cap, her eyes would look so bright under it.

“Take your meds,” she takes a step back, and you’re tempted to ask her to come back inside.

You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod again.

She gives you one last look, quick and almost shy, then finally turns and walks down the hall for real this time.

Later that night, your phone buzzes. You grab it almost instantly, your heart skipping a beat as you see her nickname pop up in your notification bar.

bubblegum brute: don’t die overnight, that’d be super inconvenient for me

Your lips press together, shifting against your pillow as you try to come up with a response.

You type. Pause. Delete. Type again.

you: no promises

Three dots appear instantly.

You don’t realize you’re smiling until your cheeks hurt.

Day fourteen came faster than you expected.

The sun is starting to dip low, casting long, lazy shadows across the quad. Students are scattered everywhere— some sprawled on the grass, others tossing a frisbee or lounging on benches.

You and Vi sit on one of the benches near the fountain to work on your observation session. At least, that had been the plan. Notebooks were abandoned in favor of leaning back and ranking squirrels by combat potential.

“That one,” you say, pointing toward a gray one darting along the fountain edge, “could absolutely win a fight.”

Vi glances casually. “Nah, he’s missing half his tail.”

“It’s a battle scar. He’s a survivor.”

Vi’s head is thrown back with a gentle, but unrestrained laugh that makes your chest tighten for a second. For a moment, you can’t stop staring— how her eyes makes her eyes sparkle, the way her shoulders move with ease, completely unbothered by anyone else.

Then, almost impulsively, you lift your phone and snap a quick picture.

Of course, you didn’t check for the flash to be off.

Vi’s laughter dies down slowly, and she’s looking at you with the ghost of a smile on her face.

“Did you just—”

“It’s evidence,” you blurt out, hands trembling slightly as the grip on your phone tightens. “For the project, y’know?”

She leans forward, peering at the photo with an incredulous laugh. “Uh-huh.”

Her grin widens, mischievous and genuine at the same time, and you can’t help but feel a warm flutter as she rolls her eyes at you.

Then—

Buzz.

A notification slides across the top of your screen.

mads: are you busy rn?

Vi watches the way your thumb hovers over the screen and she leans back, arms crossed loosely, pretending she isn’t paying attention. But she is. Way too much. Her brain starts ticking through endless possibilities.

“Your girlfriend’s texting,” she mutters under her breath, clearing her throat as she focuses on the pen she’s twirling on her hand again.

“Don’t say that,” you groan, sending a quick yup to Maddie before slamming the phone shut. “Not funny.”

“I wasn’t joking?” she says, confused now. “I just thought—”

“She’s just protective,” you shrug, glancing back up at her. Vi’s heart stutters at how softly you’re looking at her. “Especially after… well, you know, the breakup.”

Ah, right.

The breakup.

The one Vi was sure you had secretly pushed for to finally have Maddie all to yourself. Except, she wasn’t so sure you were the scheming, deceptive girl she used to think you were.

“So,” she leans forward slightly, just enough to seem casual. “The breakup… what a mess that was, huh?”

You blink at her, sensing a subtle edge in her voice. “Yeah… a real tragedy, don’t you think?”

Vi nods slowly, letting the silence hang.

“Cait does seem happier,” you mumble after a second, eyes drifting to the fountain in front of you. “I mean, I hadn’t seen her in weeks and… I forgot how much I liked having her around.”

Vi is taken aback at your statement.

Why would you like having Caitlyn around if you were secretly competing against her for Maddie’s heart?

Her brows pull together in confusion.

“You did?”

“Totally,” you glance back at her, biting your inner cheek. “I can tell you don’t feel the same way about Maddie, though.”

“Hell no.”

The answer comes too fast, sharp enough that even Vi hears it. Regrets pricks at the back of her neck almost immediately as she sees the way your back straightens, shoulders tightening like you’ve just braced for impact.

She didn’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but she also doesn’t take it back.

“You don’t even know her,” you let out a quiet breath through your nose.

“I know enough.”

A humorless chuckle slips out of you, your head shaking in one, slow and disbelieving motion. It’s not mocking, just… disappointed. For some reason, that stings more than if you’d snapped at her.

“From what?” you tilt your head, eyes steady on hers. “Cait’s side of the story?”

Vi’s eyes narrow just a fraction. Not because she’s mad, but because that landed.

“You got yours from Maddie’s.”

The words come out even, but her pulse has picked up, a dull beat in her ears she wishes you couldn’t hear.

You don’t answer right away.

That silence, that pause, makes something twist in her stomach.

“Maddie’s not a bad person,” you say, voice steady and firm. “She just feels things strongly.”

Vi snorts quietly. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You clock her tone instantly. Something sparks behind your ribs— it’s not anger, more like pride getting nudged where it shouldn’t be.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Vi rolls her pen once between her fingers, buying herself a second she doesn’t really need. She knows exactly what she meant. The problem is she also knows how you would react.

“It means,” she says, tone flattening in that careful way people use when they’re trying not to escalate, “I know Cait’s not perfect either, okay? But she didn’t deserve to feel like she was competing with someone else in her own relationship.”

You lean back a little, arms crossing over your chest. A curious sparkle flickers through your gaze.

“What are you talking about?”

“Please,” Vi’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly around the pen. “Maddie was always telling Cait how the two of you were basically inseparable. They barely got one-on-one time because you were always with her, always texting and calling, always sleeping over, always third-wheeling…”

Well, maybe she had exaggerated a bit on the last point. But it was too late to take it back.

The second the words leave her mouth, Vi feels a subtle drop in her stomach. She notices your expression doesn’t turn guilty, not even defensive. It tuns confused.

Your brows knit together once again, arms still crossed, head tilting slightly like you’re trying to piece together a sentence in a language you don’t speak.

“Sleeping over?” you repeat, voice barely above a whisper.

Vi realizes you’re not reacting like someone who got caught. Instead, you’re reacting like someone who’s hearing this for the first time.

“That’s what I heard,” she says, voice firmer than she actually feels.

A quiet breath leaves you, almost a laugh but not quite.

“I’ve only slept over at Maddie’s twice,” you start, lips pressing together for a second. “Once when my heater broke and the other when she had food poisoning and Cait was on vacation.”

Vi’s grip finally softens around the pen.

“Both times Cait knew,” you continue, shrugging one shoulder. “We did hang out, sure, she’s my best friend… once a week sounds like a stretch, though. She had a girlfriend, and I respected that. And third-wheeling? How awful do you think I am?”

The question isn’t sharp. That’s what unsettles her.

You’re just looking at her, waiting for her response, like you genuinely want to know what she thinks.

Vi swallows.

Because she did think you were awful. Cunning, calculating, the kind of person who smiles sweetly while pulling strings behind everyone’s back.

The person sitting next to her doesn’t look like that kind of girl.

You look confused, a little hurt maybe, but mostly tired.

“And what about you?” you add. “I’ve also heard awful things about you.”

Vi’s eyes lift to yours slowly.

“Oh yeah?” she says, voice even, but there’s a rough edge under it now, something quieter and more dangerous that irritation.

“Hotheaded, bad influence, possessive,” you start numbering out loud, like you’re reading from a list you memorized rather than accusations you believe. “Apparently, you scare off anyone who gets too close to Cait.”

Vi doesn’t move.

Not a twitch, not a scoff, not even the usual tilt of her mouth that invites you to try harder. She just watches you, eyes steady, pen stilled between her fingers.

“And?” she asks.

“Well,” you saw slowly, “you do hover. And you are intense, always looking at others like you’re waiting for them to mess up.”

Vi exhales softly through her nose. It almost resembles a laugh.

“Can’t argue that one.”

“But,” you add, shifting a little in your seat.

The word hooks her attention immediately.

Her chin tilts. “But?”

You hold her gaze, steady as she’s been holding yours.

“I don’t think you’re awful. Not anymore, I mean.”

Silence settles again, softer this time. You can hear the birds chirping somewhere beyond the courtyard trees, the distant hum of campus life drifting along the breeze.

Her tongue presses briefly against the inside of her cheek, a habit you’re starting to recognize as something she does when she doesn’t know what to say but refuses to admit it.

“I might’ve misjudged you,” she mutters.

Your brows lift slightly. “You think?”

“Don’t push it,” she shoots you a look.

You bite the inside of your cheek, but the corner of your lips are already twisting up.

“You’re not the manipulative best friend who wedges herself into relationships and acts sweet, so nobody notices she’s pulling the strings that I thought.”

You nod slowly, absorbing that without flinching.

“Ouch. Did Cait say all that?”

Vi shakes her head in response, her eyes flicking away from yours in embarrassment.

“Not really,” she grimaces. “I assumed you were doing it on purpose.”

“Shit, I’m sorry if anything I did ever made her feel uncomfortable,” you uncross your arms, hands clasping together. “I swear, I didn’t do half the things you accused me of.”

Vi notices the shift immediately. The way your hands move, fingers tangling together like they need something to hold on to.

Before she can stop herself, her hand moves. Instinctively, her fingers close gently around yours.

You freeze. You don’t pull away, but the movement startled you. Your eyes flick down to where her hand is wrapped around yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Vi doesn’t even notice at first. She’s too focused on the way your hands had been shaking.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says quietly.

Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to. “Do what?”

“Apologize for things you didn’t do.”

Her thumb shifts slightly against your knuckles as she says it, absentminded, like she doesn’t even realize she’s touching you.

Your pulse jumps.

You’re very aware of her hand. How warm, steady and careful it is.

Vi finally glances down, and her brain short-circuits.

For half a second, she considers jerking a way and pretending it never happened. Maybe she could even brush it off with a joke. But she doesn’t, because she realizes you didn’t pull away either.

So, she leaves it there.

“For what it’s worth,” she adds, voice trembling slightly, “Cait never said you were any of those things. She was just… insecure, I guess. But I don’t think you’re the one who gave her a reason to.”

Your gaze lifts slowly to hers.

“And you think Maddie did.”

Your tone isn’t accusatory, just careful.

Her hand is still around yours. She notices the warmth of your skin against her palm, the faint flex of your fingers when you speak, how you hadn’t tried to slip free even once.

“Yeah,” she says quietly.

A breeze threads between you, stirring loose strands of her hair. Without thinking, your free hand comes up to push it out of her face. The contact is small, barely anything, but it sends a startling, electric awareness up Vi’s arm anyway.

“Guess I’ll have a chat with her.”

There’s no venom in your voice.

Vi studies your face, searching for cracks that would show hurt, anger, defensiveness. Anything she can try and understand.

Instead, she finds something that throws her off balance. Fondness.

“You’re not mad at her?” she asks before she can stop yourself.

“I’m guessing she was insecure and said dumb stuff cause she felt she was losing Caitlyn,” you shrug slightly. “Sounds like Oedipus’ myth. Her own actions pushed Caitlyn away, I fear.”

The simplicity of it hits her harder than it should, because you’re not excusing Maddie. You’re simply understanding her.

Vi’s grip on your hand tightens just a fraction, just enough for you to feel it.

“You’re really not what I thought.”

You tilt your head, brows knitting together in worry. “Disappointed?”

Her eyes flick to your mouth before she answers.

“No.”

Your fingers are still lightly brushing the strand of hair you’d pushed back from her face, and it takes you a second to realize you haven’t pulled your hand away yet.

Vi’s eyes stay on yours, but you can feel her noticing it now— the proximity, the touch, the way your hand is suspended beside her like it forgot gravity exists.

You should pull back. You mean to pull back.

But you don’t.

Neither does she.

It’s too late to pretend you don’t feel whatever this is. The realization settles between you like the hush before rain.

Vi’s gaze drops to your lips again, slower this time.

Her hand releases yours only so it can slide upward, fingers brushing along your wrist, your forearm, your elbow, each inch of contact slow enough to feel and deliberate enough to memorize. When her palm finally settles against the side of your neck, it’s warm and steady, incredibly gentle, her thumb resting just beneath your jaw.

Her breath ghosts across your lips, the air between you turning fragile.

Then, she closes the distance.

The kiss is soft, just the faintest brush of warmth. Her lips barely move and you realize she’s giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

Your breath catches, and that’s all it takes.

Something bright sparks through her. You feel it in the way her shoulders loosen, in the way her mouth softens against yours, in the way the kiss deepens not with urgency, but with joy. Her hand at your neck tightens the slightest bit as if she can’t help it, as if something inside her finally stopped holding back.

You can feel her smile curving against your lips right before she pulls back, just enough that your noses brush.

Your foreheads rest together, breaths still tangled, lips barely apart as if the kiss isn’t fully over yet. Her thumb is still warm beneath your jaw, tracing absentmindedly your skin.

When you open your eyes, she’s already looking at you.

“Hey,” her voice is quiet, roughened slightly.

You swallow, still close enough that the movement grazes her thumb.

“Hey,” you echo softly.

One corner of her mouth lifts, but it’s no longer her usual teasing grin. If you didn’t know better, you’d say it was a shy smile.

Her hand slides from your neck, but only so her fingers can lace with yours again.

“We still got a couple of days ‘til our project is due.”

You nod slowly. “We do.”

She gives your hand a small squeeze.

On the outside, Vi looks steady. Relaxed shoulders, the same casual confidence she wears like a second skin.

Inside, she’s unraveling. Because you’re still close, close enough that she can feel the warmth of your breath brush her mouth every time you exhale. If she tilted her head just a little—

Focus, Violet, think of anything else.

But her brain is busy replaying the kiss. The softness of your lips, the way you didn’t hesitate, the tiny sound you made when she kissed you.

Her gaze drops to your lips again before she can stop it.

Great. Very subtle.

She drag her eyes back up with effort and clears her throat lightly, forcing her thoughts somewhere safer.

“Library tomorrow?”

You don’t respond. Instead, your thumb brushes the back of her hand, and the movement derails her train of thought.

You’re staring up at her, and her gaze flicks down. Your lips are mere inches away, still a little flushed and slightly parted.

Vi’s restraint lasts exactly three seconds.

Her fingers slide from yours in an instant, curl lightly at your jaw, and she leans in again.

twitch.tv/smellie — LIVE: new set up lfgggg🔥

“okay—okay, hi. hi. jesus,” ellie laughed under her breath as she settled into her chair, nudging the mic closer with the back of her hand. "i know, i knoooow. it's been a minute. i missed you guys!"

elliebutinallcaps: DON'T EVER LEAVE US FOR THAT LONG AGAIN leilaniiii: when you said you were taking a break we didn't know it would take 2 YEARS elliesdischarge: SHOW US THE SETUPPPP whiffytiffany: pc upgrade FINALLY maybemaddie: aw why am i lowkey gonna miss the laggy streams

"guys i was gone for literally like a week." she leaned back, her chair creaking softly. the room behind her was new. cleaner. warmer, even, with led lights washing the walls in a soft pinkish hue instead of the harsh desk lamp bulb from her old place. and, tucked into the corner of the frame, half-hidden behind the arm of a couch—

you.

curled up comfortably, socked feet propped on a cushion, scrolling on your phone.

she cleared her throat as she caught sight of you in the stream preview, trying hard to act normal.

“anyways,” she said, her voice cracking, “new set up which means no more stream crashing or lag spikes! i'm actually still getting used to how fast this shit runs..."

0ping: FUCK THE NEW PC THAT'S A WHOLE NEW ROOM ellieclips: WAIT WAIT WAIT v4nitymirror: WHERE ARE YOU WTF ghostpeekr: ROOM TOUR???????? elliethrows4me: @ PASTALUVRRR BLINK TWICE IF YOU’RE BEING HELD HOSTAGE

ellie rolled her eyes, but she was biting back a smile. “nobody’s a hostage. she is perfectly fine. happy, even. look!" she gestured towards your face, ignoring how you began miming panicked faces and signing s.o.s. "seeeee, she's loving it here."

ellie's fingers tapped an erratic rhythm against her desk, excitement bleeding through despite her best efforts. “okay, okaaay! so i moved. er—we moved. whatever. semantics.”

she waved vaguely over her shoulder again, nearly knocking into her mic arm. “two-bedroom. one for us, one for streaming. and y'all are not getting a full tour today, so don’t even ask.”

"there'll be one on my tiktok by the end of the week. you know my username already," you helpfully chimed in from your position on the couch.

“moving on!” ellie continued, voice lifting, “today is a big day because i finally retired the cursed pre-built. can we get some rest in peace's in chat?”

a flurry of gravestone emojis flooded the chat.

“i’m not doing specs yet,” she warned quickly, pointing at the screen. “so don't fucking ask, i know how you are. i’ll get there later. right now i just wanna show you how it looks because i’m actually proud of this."

she leaned closer to the camera, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. "also yes she helped me build it, whatever. don't mention it. i did most of the work and don't let her convince you otherwise."

“okay,” ellie said, reaching off-frame. “switching cams. don’t be fucking weird.”

the screen stuttered for half a second before cutting back in, the angle suddenly looser, shakier.

“okay—hold on—” ellie’s voice came first, closer to the mic than usual. “why is it doing that?? ...chat, relax, i’ve got it.”

the camera swung into view, ellie’s face briefly filling the frame from a way-too-close angle before she pulled it back, grinning. “there we go."

macetotheface: holy jumpscare mikuirl: so back the fuck up please ellieuseslightmode: smellie 4k ultra hd

she flipped the camera around, and the stream lit up with color.

rgb lights pulsed softly along the back of her desk, cycling through soothing blues and greens instead of the aggressive rainbow vomit she’d sworn off after chat bullied her for it. the pc tower sat to the right, glass panel clean, fans glowing evenly.

“look at her,” ellie said, reverent. “she’s beautiful."

elliebutinallcaps: OKAYYYY tima0911: ts actually tuff ngl v4nitymirror: IT LOOKS SO GOOD usuallylurkin: W LIGHTS

she panned the camera slowly; custom keycaps on her keyboard. controllers mounted on an acrylic stand. a coaster you’d insisted on because “your last desk was literally sticky to the touch, els. that's fucking gross.”

the camera dipped, catching her cable management—shockingly neat.

“yes, i did that,” she said quickly. "no, she did not help with that part. i'm capable of doing things successfully by myself too, you know."

from somewhere off-frame, you snorted.

“okay, and then—” she stepped back, sweeping the camera to show the full setup. three monitors, mounted cleanly, the third one just out of view. “once you go three, you never go back. chat on one, game on another, and—”

she hesitated.

“—uh. yeah. the other one’s just… yeah.”

a pause.

“anyway,” ellie said too quickly, flipping the camera back to her again.

“yes guys, i know i look extra good in this lighting. keep the chat related to the setup please."

the camera drifted, catching the couch behind her now—your legs stretched out, phone discarded, watching her with a fond look.

besosss: so nobody said that? looten_scooten: EEYUCKKKK iclutchforpastalover: AW PASTA CAM WHENNN NotElliesAlt: SHE'S SMILING AT HER HELPPP

she turned back toward the desk, camera still in hand, excitement buzzing under her skin. “okay, okay. last thing—just real quick—before i switch back.”

you shifted anxiously on the couch. “ellie,” you warned, light but pointed. “be careful.”

she didn’t look at you. just waved a hand. “i am being careful! i just want to show them my custom funko! a fan actually sent this to me."

chat immediately perked up.

chousey203: CAREFUL ABOUT WHAT ecam96: that's suspicious! elliesdischarge: WHAT ARE YALL HIDING OMG jmattsz: ?????

"don't worry about it!"

she was mid-sentence, explaining excitedly when it happened. “—and that’s why i didn’t wanna mount them too close together because last time i—”

that third monitor—the one she’d been very intentional about not showing—slid fully into frame.

putting her desktop wallpaper on full display.

it’s a collage, clearly curated with care. candid photos. stolen moments. pictures of your face smiling from different angles, a selfie where your cheek is pressed into ellie’s shoulder, sunlit and unguarded, a couple mirror pics. it was domestic. intimate.

and in the center of it all?

your tits. it's unmistakable. they're cupped in a lacy red bra that barely kept them from spilling out. the only other thing visible being your smile wide and unfiltered, caught mid-laugh.

and ellie’s hand, firmly grasping your left breast like it had been superglued there.

the frame is cropped tight—nothing insanely pornographic, but absolutely not something meant for the general public.

half a second passed before ellie’s voice cut off mid-word, frozen.

you didn't even raise your voice.

just one word, calm and devastating from the couch behind her.

“ellie.”

it’s instant—chat messages slamming up the screen so fast they’re unreadable.

topnoodle44: HELLO???????? ghostpeekr: SOMEBODY CLIP THAT IM BEGGING 0ping: OH MY GOD ayayayaim: DID YALL SEE THAT TOO elliesyumyum: WTF

“okay—okay—hold on—” ellie blurted, the handheld cam jerking violently as she tries to pull it back. the frame swung past her desk, the ceiling, her shoulder. then the sound cut out.

muted.

unmuted.

muted again.

“fuck—oops—sorry—” her voice popped back in, pitched way higher than normal. she laughed once, sharp and panicked. “that’s— not— that’s not—”

you’re already standing.

“ellie.” your voice is tight now. “i literally told you this would happen!”

the camera caught the edge of your arm as you reached for it, trying to angle it down.

ellie hissed, “i didn’t think it was showing—”

“when do you ever think!”

boostedbytenshi: IM SCREAMING sandydunez: THIS IS CRAZY elliethrows4me: WHY IS SHE HOT WHEN SHE'S MAD

you grabbed her wrist—not hard, but firm—and the camera jolts as she gulps.

“i warned you to change it before stream—"

"but your boobs are my good luck charm.." she muttered weakly.

the screen suddenly switched to the mounted desktop cam. you were in frame now, standing behind ellie’s chair, expression flat, jaw tight. ellie looked small beneath you, hands hovering uselessly over her desk like she’s afraid to touch anything.

“alright,” you said, calm as ever. “that’s it! stream’s over.”

ellie opened her mouth. closed it.

“thanks for tuning in,” you continued, eyes flicking briefly to chat. “catch her next stream tomorrow.”

a beat.

“if she’s lucky enough to live through the night.”

the stream cut and the silence barely lasted a second before ellie let out a groan, collapsing forward until her forehead hit the desk with a soft thunk.

“i’m actually never going live again,” she muttered into the wood. “i’m deleting my channel. maybe this is my sign to get an actual job. like, 9 to 5 in a cubicle and shit.”

you chuckled despite yourself.

ellie peeked up at you, eyes wide and a little frantic. “okay, but seriously—i’m sorry. i really didn’t think it would show.”

you continued to stare at her silently.

“talk to me, baby,” she pleaded. "please."

crossing your arms, unimpressed, you finally acquiesced. “i told you to change it, ellie.”

she spun her chair to face you fully now, hands coming up in surrender. “i know, i know. that one’s on me. i just—” she gestured vaguely toward the monitors, now dark from being left idle. “it’s a good wallpaper. very morale-boosting.”

“it’s basically a huge picture of my tits.”

“exactly!”

you barely bit back your smile.

noticing, her shoulders relaxed just a little. "i wouldn’t do that on purpose. you know that,” she said, softer but still grinning. “chat’s gonna be insufferable tomorrow. the mods are probably freaking the fuck out.”

“oh, for sure,” you told her. “i don't know how you're gonna fix this, honestly.”

she shrugged. “worth it.”

you stepped closer, shaking your head. “you’re impossible.”

“yeah,” ellie said, brightening. “but you knew that and still moved in with me.”

you paused right in front of her, close enough that her knees bumped yours from her seated position. she gazed up at you, apology already half-forgotten, eyes flicking over your face.

you sighed. “also—”

her lips pressed into a thin line as she braced herself for the worst.

“—it's kinda hot how obsessed you are with them”

her eyebrows shot up as she straightened immediately. “oh?”

“yeah,” you said casually. “like reaaaally attractive.”

you laughed as she stood, crowding into your space now, hands sliding up your body to circle her thumbs over the faint impression of your nipples poking through the material of your sweatshirt. “so i’m not in trouble?”

you tilted your head. “oh, you’re absolutely still in trouble.”

ellie hummed and leaned in, forehead bumping lightly against yours. her grin melted into something sensual and syrupy sweet. “yeah? what’s the punishment situation looking like?”

you hook a finger into the hem of her hoodie, tugging her closer. “less talking.”

she didn't argue.

the kiss was warm and messy and familiar, ellie smiling into it like she couldn't help herself. her hands slid back down to your waist, gripping at your hips.

and when you pulled back, she looked dazed, slurring a distracted "whassup?" while leaning forward to chase your lips.

you released her hoodie and reached past her instead, hitting the buttons to power down the pc and monitors. one by one, the glow faded, plunging the room into softer light.

“come on,” you said, already turning away. “we said no fucking in the stream room, remember?"

ellie scrambled after you, shedding her clothes as she followed you down the hall without question. "we don't need to risk showing them anything more than they've already seen."

her head shook vehemently as she watched you peel off your own sweatshirt and shorts. "of course not."

you plopped onto the bed—your bed that you now shared with her, something you'd never get tired of remembering—spreading your legs invitingly.

“fuck—“ she breathes, “you’re so so so hot. what the fuck."

but when she began to approach, you put a hand out to stop her as soon as she reached the foot at the bed. "what? what's wrong?"

"remember that punishment we were talking about?"

ellie huffed petulantly. "listen, i know i fucked up. just lemme make it up to you, yeah? let me make you feel good, baby."

"mm mmm, no. that's not how this works, els. you wanted to give chat a show so i'll give you one too." you slid both of your hands up and over the curves of your body, cupping your own breasts before brushing your nipples with your thumbs.

she whined—actually whined, her eyes glued to your chest as your plucked at the stuff peaks.

"please let me touch." she dropped to her knees, shuffling into the space left between your spread legs, mouth agape as she watched you reach a hand down to spread yourself delicately. "you're so fucking wet."

all you could manage was a hum in assent as you pushed two fingers into yourself. you were met with no resistance and a loud shlick sound filled the room as you began to fuck yourself in earnest. "i wish these were your fingers in me, els. wish you could feel the mess you made."

"then let me, baby. c'mon."

she gingerly placed her hands on your shins, careful not to draw too much attention to the fact that she was, in fact, still touching after being told not to. with her eyes transfixed on the movement between your legs, she rubbed distracted circles into the skin.

and when your other hand left your chest to draw swirling patterns on your clit, she audibly groaned, palms sliding up your legs to grip at your spread thighs instead. "you're gonna fuckin' kill me."

"you're not supposed to be t—ahh fuck!" you cut yourself off, hips twitching upwards desperately as she raked her nails down the expanse of soft skin. "no t-touching, remember?"

"i think you want me to touch, though." she leaned down to suck a bruise into your sticky inner thigh, pulling a sharp gasp from you. her fingers crept higher, thumbs spreading you apart further as you continued to fuck yourself. "tell me to stop and i will."

you didn't. couldn't.

and when her hands nudged yours out of the way, replacing the fingers you had inside yourself with her own, you didn't even attempt to fight her on it.

"thaaaat's it, atta girl." you melted into the feeling, propping yourself up on your arms for leverage to fuck your hips into her ministrations.

"please." you pleaded meekly, whining when she lightly pinched your clit between her index finger and her thumb.

"please what, babe? use your words."

"put your mouth on me. please." you arched your chest out invitingly, hoping she'd take the hint.

“shh shh. i gotcha. i'll make you feel good, don't worry."

your eyes rolled back as she latched onto your right nipple, tongue lapping at the sensitive flesh. you gripped the sheets beneath you, still a little stiff and starchy from their newness, as her fingers worked you over.

"juslikethatellie, fuck." you could barely get the words out, mumbling mindless praise between moans as your head lolled back.

she hummed against your skin when she felt you clench even harder around her, nodding in encouragement.

"can't believe i even let them see what these look like." she said, pulling off with a wet pop. she lightly grazed her teeth along the tip of the split-slick bud, reveling in the way you shuddered from the sensation. "they're mine. you're mine."

she kissed her way over to your neglected breast, sucking your left nipple into her mouth as you gasped sharply.

you reached a shaking hand out to grip at her hair, holding her head in place as you groaned. "all yours, baby— shit."

"you like that, huh? me reminding you who really gets to enjoy the sight of you?"

even in the midst of the pleasure, you can't help but bike back, "wouldn't need the reminder if you didn't let—fuuuh...ah shit that feels sooo fucking good—over six thousand people see what i look like in just a bra."

"do those people get to see this?" she practically snarled the question into your ear. "to hear this? do they get to feel this, baby?" she punctuated her words with even rougher movements, curling her fingers to rub against your spongy walls.

you couldn't even speak, opting to shake your head 'no' as a response.

ellie's returning grin was smug. "that's what i fucking thought."

her thumb rubbed firm circles on your clit, unwavering as your thighs began to tremble. "i— i'm close. i'm so close, i—"

she twisted her wrist on her next thrust in response, ripping a sharp cry from your throat.

then did it again as one of your hands shot out to grip her bicep, nails digging into the muscle.

and on the third repetition, you could barely garble out "'mgonnacum" before your hips jolted hard against her hand, cunt spasming around her fingers as the tight feeling in your stomach finally snapped.

she fucked you through your orgasm, her lips leaving your nipple to kiss you instead, swallowing your moans.

and when you finally pulled away to catch your breath, the sole arm keeping you propped up began to wobble from the exhaustion, your elbow buckling.

ellie quickly removed her fingers, wiping them against your (now very decidedly not new) sheets and adjusting so you could slump against her side.

she kissed your sweaty forehead as you panted into her neck, whimpering quietly every so often when an aftershock rolled through you.

"felt good?"

"shut up." your voice cracked on the first syllable. "you know it did, i'm literally shaking."

ellie laughed, pressing another kiss to the top of your head.

“well for the record,” she said quietly, giggling into your hair, “i'm still not changing the wallpaper.”

"oh fuck off."

The road’s mostly empty—just a few lone cars trailing in the distance, the hum of your tires blending with the low, mellow music spilling from the speakers.

A soft breeze slips in through the crack in your window, brushing your cheek like a promise of an easy day. It’s your day off, and for once, the world seems to be playing nice. First stop: Target. Then maybe Bath & Body Works. If you’re still feeling it after that, Barnes & Noble’s calling your name.

But then—red and blue flash behind you in the rearview mirror.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, eyes narrowing. You weren’t speeding. You know you weren’t.

Ellie had checked your car last weekend from top to bottom—tires, signals, tags—all golden. Still, you sigh and ease onto the shoulder, already reaching for your license and registration as you roll the window down.

You glance up as the patrol car door opens behind you, bracing yourself for an awkward exchange with one of Ellie’s coworkers—except it’s not one of Ellie’s coworkers.

It’s Ellie herself.

She steps out like she’s has all the time in the world, sunglasses perched perfectly on her nose, one hand resting casually on her belt. You don’t even try to hide your groan. Of course she pulled you over. Not for speeding. Not for a taillight. Just… because.

She strolls up to your window, all slow confidence and that smug little smirk that should be illegal. She leans her elbow against the car door and peers inside.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, already exasperated.

“You have to stop pulling me over like this, babe.”

You toss your license back into your bag with a sigh, trying hard to look annoyed and not completely endeared.

Ellie chuckles, low and satisfied, pushing her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose just enough to let you see that glint in her eyes.

“What can I say, baby? Gotta make sure my girl’s starting her day off safe.”

You roll your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you. You do love this idiot.

She leans in through the open window, her tone shifting just enough to melt you a little.

“Be safe out there, yeah?”

You hum, eyes softening as she brushes a kiss against your lips—sweet and easy.

Ellie kills the engine with a smooth flick of her wrist and the car settles into stillness along the edge of the track. “Too fast for you, baby?” she drawls, head tilting as she watches you pry your hand off the door handle like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

You let out a breathy scoff, brushing wind-tangled hair from your face. “No, totally fine—I love fearing for my life in a race car,” you mutter, your heart still beating out a frantic rhythm in your chest, like it’s trying to break free.

Ellie just laughs, low and amused, unbuckling her seatbelt with that same lazy confidence that somehow makes your pulse spike again. “Sure, sure.” Her hand drifts over, tapping your thigh with featherlight ease. Her gaze is already half-lidded, pupils blown just enough to make your stomach flip. “We’ve got the tracks to ourselves tonight.”

You blink at her, already knowing exactly where this is heading. Your fingers move on instinct, freeing yourself from your seatbelt as well.

That’s when Ellie gives you that smile—slow, sinful, and full of promises that have nothing to do with racing.

“Get in the back, baby.”

You comply, of course - especially when she looks at you like this, like you’re appetizer, main course and desert all in one. She slinks after you, her limbs move fluid and gentle as she settles over you. Her hips settle on yours, heavy and warm.

Your arms snake around her neck as she captures your mouth with hers. Tongues tangle and before you can even think of touching her further - her hip grinds down on yours.

The friction is delicious and tortuous. You moan into her mouth and she swallows it with one of her own. “That’s it - feels good, doesn’t it?” She mumbles against your mouth as she picks up her pace just a tad, just enough to tease.

“I’m..I’m gonna come in my panties if you keep this up.” You retort, a weak attempt at talking back but your head’s already leaned back, another moan escapes you without your permission.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.” Ellie murmurs and ruts against you with intent and unmistakable precision.

The white hot pleasure coils in your belly, ever familiar and you can’t help but claw at her shoulders as the pressure builds.

"Ellie..I’m gonna!” You gasp softly, legs winding around her hips in an attempt to anchor yourself somewhat. Ellie keeps grinding down on you, knowing exactly how to treat her girl.

“Come for me, sweet girl - come with me.” She pants against your neck.

That does it, literally.

Your body tenses and your back arches a fraction, enough to push Ellie over the edge with you. The pleasure flicks through your veins like a lightening bolt, white, hot and overwhelming.

Ellie grunts against your neck as her own high unleashes. She presses another sloppy kiss to the underside of your jaw as if to signal her satisfaction.

“That’s one way to christen my new car.”

ೃ⁀➷ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 (if you wish to be tagged in the smut-special series, pls comment below this post)

It’s raining cats and dogs and your jacket is NOT waterproof. The cardboard of the package in your hands is probably soaked through and the contents ruined but it’s now or never - the post office closes in about fifteen minutes.

The door to the post office swings open as a man steps outside on the pavement but, oh yes, he doesn’t hold the door open. While juggling your handbag, a cup of very hot coffee and the stupid package, you somehow manage to open the door and slip into the semi warm building.

There’s no one in here except the cashier and she doesn’t look like she’s enjoying being here at all. “How can I help you?” The young woman behind the register, who you’re convinced should still be in high school, asks in a tone which indicates how awfully bored she is. “I’d like to give up this package.”

She doesn’t retaliate and takes the package from your hands without a word. It doesn’t take long for her to type something into the small worn display of the register before the low hum of the label machine fills the awkward silence. The cashier slaps the label onto the package with more force than required and lifts her gaze to yours once again.

“That’ll be 25,70 dollars.” You give her a blink and a pause, because what the hell.

“Excuse me?” Escapes you as you slowly reach for your wallet.

“I don’t make the prices, lady.” The answer leaves her monotone, you’ll guess she’ll have to say it several times a day in order not to go insane. You hand her the money and she puts it into the register before she hands you the recipe. “Bye.” What a lovely young girl.

Then you turn and head towards the door, rain still pounding, the rainfall makes everything look vaguely like a budget version of the twilight films.

The moment is quickly shattered as a woman in uniform, specifically a female officer makes her way to your car - which, okay there was nowhere to park and the damn post office was about to close - is parked in a handicapped space.

“Shit.” You whisper to yourself as you rush out onto the sidewalk. With quick steps you cross the street and unlock, quick - time to act pathetic.

“Oh my god! I’m so sorry, I-”Safe it, sweetheart.” The officer interrupts you without looking up from her notepad. The interruption make you still next to her, fuck you.

“I’ll move it right-”Too late for that.” She scribbles a little more on her notebook, pen gliding over the paper like finality. As she rips the paper off, doesn’t hand it to you but clips it under one of your windshield wipers. The little gold nametag catches your attention ‘Williams’.

“Look, Officer Williams - I’m really sorry for parking in a handicapped parking spot. I know it looks bad-”It really does.” Williams interrupts you once again with what looks very close to a smile she’s trying to hide, you decide to ignore it.

“I was running late for the post office, it was about to close and there were no parking spots and…I'm just really sorry.” Officer Williams wipes her brow with the back of her hand since her short hair as plastered to her forehead like yours is plastered to your neck and your shirt - she looks beautiful, you must look like a hooker reject.

“That’s heartbreaking, really. But rules apply to everyone, even pretty girls who can’t plan their time.” The whole sentence makes your brain float - rules, yes, okay - you can live with that but pretty girls? You..a pretty girl - is she complimenting you?

“I mean..umh..-”Bring the money to the station by Monday. Ask for Ellie Williams.” With that the Officer turns around and strolls back to her cruiser like she didn’t just rewire your brain in a very both pleasant and unpleasant way. What the actual hell.

You watch her pull off the curb and glance back to the now soaked ticked between your windshield and wiper.

‘VIOLATION Handicapped parking, 150 dollars signed; Officer Ellie Williams’

The walk to the station on Monday feels like being publicly shamed, with the money in hand, you shoulder the glass door open and immediately the bustling of a very busy but rather relaxed station fills your every nerve.

There are people arguing at the counter, people being guided through narrowly placed desks in handcuffs, officers half-heartedly doing paperwork.

The counter clears when the man who’s been arguing with a very tired woman behind it slams the paper in his hand onto the wood and stalks off with a string of curses flying from his mouth.

The glass door rattles a little when he leaves. The woman behind the counter waves you over with an expression that screams ‘I’m too old and too tired for this shit.’

You swallow once before stepping forward, placing the ticket on the wooden counter with an awkward expression. “I’m here to pay my parking ticket - I was told to ask for Ellie Williams.” The woman raises an eyebrow and sighs exasperatedly.

“She flirt with you?” The question makes you cock your head in question - the woman, ‘Shonda’ as her nametag says, chooses to ignore your perplexed expression and instead picks up the telephone on her side of the counter and asks for ‘Williams’ to whoever is on the other line.

“Pay the fine and get your behind out the station - Williams likes to butter up pretty things like you.” Shonda warns as the very same female Officer slips through the door behind her.

“I got it from here, Shonda.” Williams pats Shonda’s shoulder once before the older woman scampers off to god knows where with a roll of her eyes. “Lesbians.” She mutters to no one in particular before she’s gone.

Your gaze flickers to Officer Ellie Williams as she pulls the ticket from your hand and gives you a teasing half smile. “150 dollars, please.” Williams says, her voice lower and a little playful - she is definitely flirting with you now.

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out the small bundle of bills and hold it out for her to take, she reaches a hand and lets her digits glide over yours in a way that normal transactions don’t go - the eye contact is probably not professional either. Why is she looking at you like she would climb over this counter and ravish you in broad daylight?

“You don’t look very happy.” The officer before you notes as if she didn’t just take 150 bucks from you with a smile on her face. “Oh I wonder why.” You counter dryly, head cocked in a way that suggests sarcasm.

“Look, I’m just doing my job, sweetheart.” Ellie answers rather amused as she stamps the ticket with ‘PAID’ in bright red and slides it back to you over the counter. “I think doing your job doesn’t include calling me ‘sweetheart’.” The tiny spark of bite in your retort sparks pure delight in her expression - does she like feistiness? This woman is making your brain swim and your heartbeat spike behind your ribs and you’re not entirely sure how to feel about it. She’s hot, too hot to be completely honest and you’ve always had a weakness for hot women with sharp grins.

“Alright, how about this - I’ll make it up to you with a nice dinner, what do you say ‘sweetheart’?” The question makes your brain skid to a halt - did she just - yes she absolutely did.

This irritating, hot bitch of a woman just asked you out after the whole parking ticket fiasco. And the deliberate use of the pet name once again makes something in your lower belly coil dangerously. “Excuse me?” Is all you manage, what the fuck are you supposed to say to a police officer asking you out like this.

“No? You’ll really leave me hanging after I’ve been so ‘nice’ to you?” Ellie tilts her head, challenging you to chicken out, to awkwardly decline but you’ve always been competitive and she is a wet dream come alive - so why the hell not.

“Alright.” The agreement makes Ellie’s grin sharpen and she slips a piece of paper and a pen over the counter.

“Good, give me your number and I’ll have you fed in no time.” That was overly sexual and somehow it doesn’t bother it at all - the number is written down quickly. You pocket your ticket with the ghost of a bashful smile on your lips.

The light rosy blush makes Ellie tilt her head with a gaze that suggests she’s shamelessly undressing you in her mind. Before you can slip out of the station with your head buzzing and your heart doing summer saults in your chest, Ellie calls out once again.

It’s been two weeks.

Fourteen days, give or take, since you left that apartment, tugged your dress back over your hips, patted the doorframe of her bedroom like it didn’t burn and told yourself – out loud, actually, just to make it sound more final – that it hadn’t meant anything.

And you’ve spent every one of those three hundred and thirty-six hours trying to convince yourself that it was – like always – just sex. Just another night, another body, another pulse racing beneath your palm that would forget your name before morning.

You were the one who said it, the one who left the door cracked open like a trap you didn't expect to fall into yourself: "If you wanna do this again... you know where to find me."

It was meant to be a power move, a way to remind her that you were the one in control, the one who decided if there was a next time, but now it just feels like a ghost you’ve summoned to haunt your own doorstep.

Because it’s been two weeks and you haven’t stopped thinking about her.

And not even in the ways you’re used to – not the oh she was hot, wonder if i can top her next time kind of way. Not the aesthetic recall of the shape of her hands or the flex of her muscles, though you could list every detail if someone asked.

No. This is worse. More specific. More… real. In a way that you hate yourself for remembering so vividly.

Because what  you think the most about is the way she looked at you, the fact that when you said you were leaving she didn’t argue, but she also didn’t pretend she didn’t care. She just sat there, wrecked and naked, back against her own pillows, blinking at you like she hadn’t prepared for that part.

And that… that is what fucked you up.

Because people don’t look at you like that. They flirt. They beg. They act like they care but they don’t mean it. It’s a game, just a game, one you’ve always played better than anyone. You’ve broken hearts and ghosted girls and got exactly what you wanted every single time.

But Ellie?

Ellie didn’t play the game. She didn’t ask you to stay or begged. She just looked at you like you were something out of the world and she had been… human. Because she had already failed at loving someone properly before and she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to try again. 

Or at least that’s the impression you had got from the little she let on.

The problem is, it reminded you too much of things you weren’t supposed to remember.

Of your mother’s voice on the phone at 2am, shaking and cold saying, “Don’t trust anyone, baby. You let someone in and all they’ll do is tear you apart from the inside out.”

Of the way she used to pull you aside after every birthday party or school dance, every moment where you’d let your guard slip just a little too far and whispered, “You’re not soft, you’re not allowed to be soft. Softness is how they get you.”

You remember thinking – even back then – that love sounded more like a threat than a promise. And you grew up believing in that lie, you let it settle in your bones, learned to keep your hands light and your heart locked up and your exits mapped out before you even said hello.

And it worked. It worked until two weeks ago, when a woman ten years older than you pulled you apart with her mouth and then looked at you like you were holy and asked you if you were actually leaving.

So you haven’t been back to the bar on the 12th since.

Not because you’re avoiding her. God, no. That’d imply it mattered, that you’re thinking about her. That you care.

It’s just… the semester’s ending. Finals. Thesis. A job interview that will probably ghost you. It’s just the terrifying reality of a life outside of university and shared apartments.

That’s what you tell yourself anyway, while sitting at your desk in your bedroom with a single lamp turned on.

The apartment you share with your best friend is small, the kind of space that feels like it’s shrinking when you spend too much time inside your own head. Tonight the air feels particularly thin as you sit at your desk, staring at your laptop screen that’s been on sleep mode for twenty minutes.

You’re supposed to be finishing the third chapter of your thesis, supposed to be focusing on coding interviews on NVivo , but all you can think about is the bar on the 12th, the way you’ve pointedly avoided that entire block for two weeks and the lies you keep telling yourself.

You stare at the black screen of your laptop at precisely 8:45pm, revising in your head the script your mother wrote for you before you were even old enough to understand why she was so bitter — the one about being sharp, about being a weapon, about being the girl who takes what she wants and leaves the rest to burn behind her.

Don’t let them in, she’d say, because if you do, the only thing they’ll do is find the softest part of you and sink their teeth in.

You’ve lived by that code for years, becoming the girl who broke hearts like it was a hobby, the one who never felt a thing. But Ellie wasn't either looking for a soft spot and she wasn't a victim – she was just a woman who looked at you and somehow made you feel like she saw the girl behind the mask.

“Okay, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

Jackie’s voice cuts through the silence of the room and your spiraling like a slap to the back of the head, which – frankly – would’ve been on brand for her. 

She’s leaning against the doorframe of your bedroom, standing there with a half eaten bag of chips in one hand, her ginger hair tied up in a messy bun, looking at you with that specific brand of I know you’re full of shit look on her face that makes you want to both hug her and shove her out the window.

You don't look up from the screen, your fingers hovering over the keys as if you’re actually about to type something profound.

“Nothing.” You mutter.

Jackie stares. “You haven’t worn eyeliner in two weeks.”

You blink, finally turning your head in her direction. “What?”

“You haven’t worn eyeliner in two weeks.” She repeats, eyes narrowing as she steps into the room. “You haven’t flirted with a single woman, haven’t opened Tinder, refused to go out. So, again. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

You look down, lean back against your chair and pinch the bridge of your nose trying to summon that sharp and perfect version of yourself that usually handles Jackie’s teasing with a wink and a comeback, but the mask feels heavy tonight, like it’s made of lead.

And Jackie notices, of course she does. Because she’s the only person who’s ever known you before the armor and the only one who can tell when it’s starting to rust. So she doesn’t back down, just walks over and sits on the edge of your bed, tossing a chip into her mouth.

“You’re gonna tell me what’s going on,” she starts, voice gentler now. "Or do I have to hire a psychic and a swat team to extract it from your brain?”

You open your mouth to argue, to tell her that she’s wrong, that you’re just busy, that there’s nothing more than that going on, but the words die in your throat as you remember the warmth of Ellie’s apartment, the smell of her charcoal pencils.

For the first time in your life, being sharp feels a lot like being empty.

So when you finally look up again, you hesitate. Although it’s fair to say that’s also because Jackie right now has got that kind of look in her eyes that says that says if you’re gonna feed me your mom’s bullshit, fucking spare me, please.

Seeing you stall, she wipes her mouth from the crumbs with the pad of her thumb and sets the bag of chips aside before crossing her arms. “Is it the hot older woman?”

You scoff. “It was a hookup, Jackie.” You start. “That’s it. Nothing serious.”

Jackie raises one brow. “It’s never serious with anyone and yet here you are, looking like someone dropkicked your emotional equilibrium.”

“It was one night.” You say, remarking your point again.

But Jackie just narrows her eyes. “Did she make you come?”

You freeze, and that’s enough to make her gasp, one hand flying to her mouth. “Oh my god. She did!”

You shoot her a look. “Could you say that louder? I think the neighbours missed it.”

“She made you come and now you’re broken.”

“Jackie!”

“She broke you.”

“She did not–”

Jackie leans forward, eyes gleaming. “You let someone make you come and then you caught feelings.”

You clench your jaw, refusing to take the bait, but you already know that when she gets like this, there’s no way in hell something is going to make her stop.

“She touched your soul through your cervix and now you’re spiraling because your mommy issues said nope.”

You groan, face hidden behind your hands. “I swear to god–”

“Just admit it!”

You slam the lid of your laptop close. “I’m not spiraling. I’m fine. It was just sex.”

Jackie blinks. You blink back.

A pause that maybe hangs for too long lingers between the two of you. Enough to make your shoulders drop, to sink into your chair deeper. To let a sliver of honesty creep in.

“...she asked if I was leaving.” You murmur eventually.

And Jackie – for the first time ever, maybe – says nothing.

You look away. “I said it wasn’t serious. I said we both got what we wanted. But she– I dunno, it was the way she asked. Like… like she didn’t expect me to leave.”

You don’t cry, just because you don’t do that in general. Ever. But your voice goes tight in the way it always does when something scratches a little too deep. “She looked like she wanted me to stay, but didn’t know if she was allowed to ask.”

Jackie exhales, but you don’t give her time to answer, just clench your jaw again. “It doesn’t matter.”

She shrugs, quiet now. “You still want to see her.”

You run your hands through your hair, sighing loudly. “I said it doesn’t matter.”

“She goes to our bar every Friday,” Jackie says casually.

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“She’s been there both weekends since,” she says, like it’s not a bomb, like it doesn’t just rip something wide open inside your chest. “I’ve seen her when I went there with that girl from Hinge. Both times.”

You can only stare at her.

“She’s waiting,” Jackie says simply. “And you’re here, playing cool like you’re not thinking about her every time you look at your own bedsheets.”

You exhale. Shaky. Quiet.

Then: “What if I go and she doesn’t want me?”

Jackie reaches over, grabs a pen from your desk and flicks it lightly against your forehead.

“Hey!” You yelp, pressing your fingers where the pen hit.

“She does,” she says, ignoring you entirely.. “She just doesn’t know if you do.”

The silence that follows is heavy.

Not because you don’t know what to answer her – you do. Or at least, you could. You could make a joke, flip her off, throw out some practiced line about how you’re just not into commitment, how some good sex isn’t enough to rearrange your schedule, how the last thing you need right now is someone with sad eyes and divorce baggage and the kind of vulnerability that leaves claw marks in your chest.

You could do all of that, because you’ve done it before.

But instead, you just sit there, staring at your own hands that had been so sure of themselves when you were on her, so steady guiding her down and flipping her over, but now they’re trembling slightly in the glow of your desk lamp.

Jackie’s watching you – not pushing, not mocking anymore – just… watching. Like she’s waiting for you to come back to yourself, Like she knows you’re somewhere far off.

Because you are.

You’re not in your bedroom anymore.

You’re back in Ellie’s. Back in the quiet hum of her apartment, back where the air was warm and low and the sheets smelled like old cedar and something soft, something hers. You’re there, dragging your dress down over your hips, saying it wasn’t serious, pretending it didn’t feel like you were stepping out of something you weren’t supposed to leave.

And you left, made it a joke, told her you got what you wanted, that she did too. But it didn’t feel like power when you walked out, but like longing. Like a pulse still beating, like your hands wanting to turn the knob the other way.

You left, because you always do.

Because it was your father who taught you the geometry of a disappearing act done in silence and your mother who perfected it. One morning he was just gone. No big goodbye, just a note and your mother pacing the kitchen at midnight for three weeks straight and muttering I should’ve known like a prayer she was trying to make retroactive.

Just that, the change that came next and the rules that sharpened you the older you got.

Don’t trust anyone.

Don’t get soft, don’t let anyone see you fall apart. They’ll use it, and use you.

You want to survive? Leave first, that’s how you win.

You did that every single time. Left. Every party, situationship, hookup: you perfected the exit, crafted the mask, broke hearts and never let them break yours. You walked away from every woman who cried, begged and thought you were different.

But as you sit there with Jackie’s gaze burning into the side of your face, you realize that for the first time in your life, leaving didn’t feel like a win but like a hollow, aching loss.

You felt like a coward.

You felt like an asshole for the way you’d weaponized your own pleasure to make an exit, for the way you’d seen the flicker of something soft in Ellie’s eyes and decided to stomp it out before it could catch fire.

Jackie seems to sense the shift in you, the way the tension in your shoulders finally begins to give way to something more fragile, and her expression softens, the blunt sarcasm fading into a quiet, rare sort of empathy.

She sighs, a long, weary sound, and stands up from the bed, reaching out to give your shoulder a brief, grounding squeeze that feels more like an anchor than a gesture.

“Hey,” she says, breaking the silence again, the gentle voice of the only person in your life who's ever really truly known you.

You glance at her, wary.

“Do you wanna go back tonight?”

Your whole body goes still at her question.

“Not to see her,” Jackie adds quickly, palms up like she’s not trying to spook you. “I mean–  we can go, grab a drink, just sit at the bar. Talk shit. Watch Gemma destroy another Adele song. Just you and me.”

You want to say no, laugh, shrug, shrink. Push it all down where it belongs.

But the silence between you is too familiar. And the ache in your chest – the one that hasn't really gone away since you left Ellie’s bed – is starting to feel less like something you can ignore and more like something you need to understand, even if you have no idea if you want her to have waited or to have moved on already. Even if you don’t know what the fuck you’d even say if you saw her again.

So instead, you nod.

Slow. Reluctant. Scared.

But you nod.

Jackie softens and smiles. “Cool,” she says. “I’ll drive.”

“Okay,” you whisper, the word feeling like it’s being dragged out of you against your will. “Okay, let’s go. But I’m not dressing up.”

And you don’t.

You reach for your favorite oversized sweater, pulling it over your head like a shield, enough for Jackie to glance over at you in the mirror before you leave and say, “You’re wearing a sweater? Like, a sweater sweater?”

But you just flip her off and leave the apartment with her trailing right behind you.

The bar on the 12th is exactly the same as it always is – loud, spilled tequila and a thousand cheap perfumes. Glitter on the floor probably from the last drag show, a group of girls way too drunk for 9:30pm and Gemma in the corner with her bluetooth mic like she’s about to put someone through vocal hell.

And it’s fine.

All perfectly fine.

Sort of.

You let yourself slide into a corner booth tucked in the shadow with Jackie, let her order your drink without asking for one – Malibu Cola for her, something pink and frozen for you, and you just sit there, fingers tracing the condensation on the side of the glass, head down, trying to focus on her rambling story about that girl she matched weeks ago and whether or not she should bleach her eyebrows while your mind is a mess of what ifs and shouldn’ts looping in the back of your head.

Everything’s fine until it’s not.

Until the door opens and the cold draft from the street hits your cheeks.

You don’t hear it, not really. It’s just a subtle shift, like a pressure drop, like the static hum of something arriving.

You just hear Jackie going quiet in the middle of a sentence – just for a second – and then, “Oh.”

You sip your drink again, the sugarcoating on the rim melting against your lips, your stomach’s already in your throat.

“Don’t say it.” You mutter.

“I wasn’t going to.”

When you finally look, your heart does something stupid: it just flips inside your ribcage.

You see Ellie before she sees you.

She walks with her shoulders hunched against the chill, that same worn leather jacket pulled tight over a dark hoodie, hair a little messier than you remember maybe.

She doesn’t look at the bar, doesn’t look at the stage. Just sweeps the room in one slow motion like she’s scanning for something.

But the second her eyes land on you, your entire body goes rigid, your breath catches in your throat until you might actually choke on thin air. You freeze in a way that’s not obvious, just… inward. Still on the outside, but with every thought in your head derailing like a train car too close to the bend.

Fuck, fuck fuck. Don’t look this way, don’t look this way, is a chant that drowns your brain as you instinctively try to shrink into the shadows of the booth. 

You look away too fast, back into your drink like it could have a map in the ice, like if you pretended just hard enough, she’ll think you didn’t see her. That you’re fine, normal, just two strangers in a gay bar with you trying to disappear into a hole made of darkness and regret and the wish of never seeing the daylight again.

But it’s too late. Because Ellie did see you.

It’s in the way her entire posture shifts, the tension in her jaw breaking for a fraction of a second as she stops dead in her tracks near the bar.

Beside you, Jackie’s sipping her drink casually, like she’s pretending not to watch your very microexpression with the corner of her eye.

“So,” she says eventually, pretending not to know. “Wanna tell me what just short-circuited your entire nervous system or should I guess?”

You can’t even find the words to snap back at her, not even the energy to pretend you aren’t spiraling. Because when you risk another glance Ellie is still looking right at you: brows lifted slightly like she wasn’t sure she’d see you again.

And suddenly, you’re not the one walking in with perfect posture, eyes low, smiling like you know the ending before the story begins. You’re not looking at the room like it’s yours to take.

You’re just seated, caught. Vulnerable and – worst of all – in a fucking sweater.

You inhale slowly, try to cool the flush at the back of your neck and act like you’re not panicking, to remember how to breathe like a normal person while you look away again.

Until–

Jackie hums beside you. “She’s coming over.”

You blink, startled, your head whipping fast toward her. “What?”

“She just started walking.”

And when you glance again, Ellie’s making her way across the bar, slow and steady with her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket.

Every instinct is yelling at you to run, to find a back exit, but as Ellie gets closer you find yourself trapped between a wall and your best friend and the realization that you have nowhere to run.

Ellie hasn’t slept right in two weeks.

Not that she’s counting. That’d be insane, that’d be something she would’ve done years ago back when she still believed wanting someone meant they’d want you back, when she thought timing and effort and chemistry all added up to anything that lasted.

Now, she doesn’t count the days since someone left her bed.

But still. Two weeks.

Days she’s spent tracing the silhouette of a night she can’t quite categorize, her mind constantly drifting on the memory of the way you felt – that electric, terrifying combination of sharp edges and soft surrender that seemed to rewire every nerve she’d spent years trying to numb. 

So she’s been to the bar on the 12th three times since then.

The first one the Friday after. That made sense, that was just in case. Just showing up, just a maybe, a one time thing during which she pretended she wasn’t carrying hope in her pocket.

She just sat at the bar, same high top table, same whiskey neat, same soundtrack of mediocre karaoke and a poor third attempt of Chasing Pavements blasting in her ears.

When you didn’t show up Ellie didn’t flinch, nor did she let it settle anywhere soft. Just sighed like she was expecting it and told herself it was just sex, a fluke, a particularly good night in a long stretch of nothings.

But then she came back the second time. Still no sign. But she still showed up at the same table and the same drink.

Jesse – of course – hasn’t let her hear the end of it. His voice has been a constant, amused commentary of her sudden and desperate descent back into the world of the living.

He’d cornered her at the community center three days after the hookup, asking her why she looked like she’d been “hit by a glitter covered freight train.”

She’d tried to downplay it, that it had been only a way to shake off the rust, but he has known her long enough to see the way her hands were shaking when she tried to light a cigarette. So he did what he always does, he tried to push her out of her comfort zone with jokes that hit close to home and shoulder nudges.

Too bad that lately it’s become something he’s doing out of a deep, aching feeling of guilt that he’s trying to mask as being there for his best friend.

But Ellie didn’t notice any of that, didn’t notice when he hid his phone before she could see a way too familiar name on his screen that has been there from way before the divorce papers.

Because all she could think about – or tried not to – was the way your tone shifted when you were pulling your dress back on, how your voice tried to stay detached even as you hovered in the doorway a beat too long. The way you said, “I got what I wanted, so did you,” and then added “You know where to find me” like it wasn’t a knife and a map at the same time.

The third time, she had felt like an idiot. Thirty-four years old and waiting for a girl who was probably out breaking someone else’s heart. But that glimpse of vulnerability she saw flashing across your face when she asked if you were leaving is what has kept her coming back. Because she craved to know that version of you who lingered at her door for just a beat too long.

Tonight, she almost didn’t come. Almost turned around right before the door and walked back home. But there was this tight feeling clawing at her chest that felt too much like hope and that brought her feet there regardless. 

So she walks inside, still not expecting anything different, prepared for the same disappointment, the same whiskey tinted silence, the same conversation with the bartender about the weather.

It’s muscle memory by now how her eyes scan the room the second she steps inside, slow and casual, as if she’s just surveying the crowd, not looking for someone specific. She’s perfected it, even when it makes her chest tighten. Even when it makes her stomach flip. Even when she’s preparing herself for another night of nothing.

But then, she stops.

Her whole body goes still, because you’re there.

And not at the bar, not in a dress.

You're sitting there in an oversized sweater, hair messy, face bare and Ellie feels like the floor is shifting under her feet in the tiniest, most precise way.

Like something realigned, like something cracked open.

You look smaller than she remembers. Or maybe just softer, maybe just real. Not the confident, unbothered girl who pulled her apart and then walked out like it didn’t mean anything, but you. With your drink and your eyes flicking up just once, just briefly, and your expression turning into sheer panic the second you lift your eyes and meet hers.

She swears her knees nearly give out.

She watches the way you fumble for your drink, the way the same friend you were with two weeks ago leans in to say something that makes your jaw clench, and for a second Ellie doesn’t move.

She just looks.

Because she expected either performance or absence. But not this.

And that scares her more than she knows how to admit.

Still, she moves. Starts walking toward your booth slowly, carefully, like if she steps wrong the whole illusion might snap.

She doesn’t know what she’s going to say. Doesn’t know what the rules are now. If you want her there. If you hate her. If you remember her the way she remembers you – not just the sex, not just the tension, but the way you said goodbye like it cost you something.

But she’s walking anyway, wondering whether it meant more than you said.

You knew that coming here, this would’ve happened.

And still – somehow – you’re not prepared.

Because now Ellie's walking toward you in a slow, steady walk like she’s got all the time in the world, hands shoved into the back pockets of her jacket like they’ve been holding onto something too long.

Her face is unreadable – not cold, not cocky, just… guarded. Like she’s here, but still deciding how much of herself she’s going to let show.

It’s almost a relief that she’s not smiling, you wouldn’t know what to do if she was.

She stops at the edge of the booth, shadow falling across the table, and your breath sticks somewhere low in your throat. Jackie glances between you and Ellie once, then immediately takes a long sip of her drink like she’s just become a very unlucky extra in someone else’s drama.

“Hey.”

One syllable. That’s all Ellie says.

It’s not even loaded. Not even meaningful. But somehow it still feels too real. Because it’s not a memory this time, not an echo or a ghost or a voice you thought you imagined. It’s her, standing right there at the edge of your booth, hair falling just a little over her brow, and that same unreadable look in her eyes.

There’s a beat of silence. One that serves you only to buy yourself time to force yourself to meet Ellie’s eyes and straighten your spine.

“Hey,” you say back, quieter than you mean to.

It doesn’t land the way you want it to. Not confident, not biting, not anything. Just quiet.

Ellie doesn’t move or take a seat. She just stands there for a beat longer than she probably should, looking down at you with a small tilt of her head, like she’s trying to figure you out.

Then, finally, “So… found you. Eventually.”

Your laugh comes out dry.

Jackie picks up her drink and mutters something about having heard someone calling for her, enough to earn her a glare from you. But you don’t even have the time to say something to her before she’s already gone and you’re left alone to face the consequences of your own actions.

“Wasn’t hiding,” you say too fast, staring down into your drink again.

Ellie’s eyes narrow just slightly. “Didn’t exactly make yourself easy to find either.”

You shrug, noncommittal, detached. At least, that’s how you want it to look.

So Ellie keeps going.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” she continues, voice even. “Especially after you said I’d known where to find you and then disappeared like the fucking rapture.”

You exhale slowly, trying so hard to act unbothered. “Didn’t realize that was an open invitation.”

“It sounded like one.”

You blink at the table. “Guess I didn’t think you’d take that seriously.”

She doesn’t blink. “You didn’t want me to?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again.

“It was just a line. I didn’t think it was, like… I dunno. A whole thing.”

She tilts her head, still watching you. Still quiet. Still not letting you squirm your way out of this. “Felt like a thing to me.”

You glance away, exhale hard through your nose, trying not to let it show. “I wasn’t trying to make it serious.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“I know,” she repeats, and this time her voice is softer, more grounded, less sure and more curious. “But I wanna understand.”

You hate her for that too. For saying I wanna understand instead of what’s your deal?, instead of you’re weird, instead of you’re a fucking mess, which is what you were bracing for.

She’s not teasing you. She’s trying.

You shift in your seat, your palm flat against the condensation ring from your drink, and you say, “It was just one night.”

Ellie nods. “Okay.”

“That’s it.”

“Okay.” She repeats.

“And I didn’t come back because I didn’t think–” You pause. Swallow. Lie. “I didn’t think it was worth the repeat.”

Saying it aloud hurts, first of all because you don’t mean it, second of all because you don’t even sound convincing.

But Ellie just breathes in slowly, like she heard every syllable you didn’t say. Her voice is low when she speaks next. “What are you running from?”

You try to laugh, you really do. But the sound comes out cracked, half formed, too bitter. “Jesus. Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Ellie doesn’t say anything.

And that – that – makes it worse.

Because she’s not playing, not pushing. She’s just standing there like she’s got nothing to prove, and she’s waiting. And you hate that it makes you feel safe. You hate that it makes you want to tell her the truth.

And worse, you hate that something in you already is.

You sigh, rub a hand down your face, lean back into the booth like maybe the cushions can swallow you whole. “What do you want from me?”

Ellie watches you. Her expression shifts,  just barely, like something softening. “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Just wanted to see you again.”

You don’t say anything. Because what the fuck are you supposed to say to that? What do you do when the one thing you didn’t prepare for is someone who just wants you, without asking you to become something else first?

Then she says, “You said you got what you wanted. That it was nothing serious. But the way you’re not even looking at me right now… doesn’t feel like nothing.”

That’s when something folds.

You look away, but not fast enough. And she sees the shift, the way your eyes soften, the way your breath catches, the way your grip on the glass loosens just slightly like you’re surrendering, or tempted to.

You swallow.

And Ellie – patient, quiet, suddenly less steady than she was a second ago – speaks again.

“You wanna come back to mine?”

And somehow – somehow – it doesn’t sound like a power play or an invitation to pick up where you left off.

It sounds like a question. A real one. A soft one. One that asks more than just your body.

You should say no, tell her this was a mistake. That you shouldn’t have come. That it’s too complicated. 

But instead–

“Okay.”

Ellie’s apartment is the exact same, which is somehow not making things easier.

Same record player in the corner, same sketchbook spread across the cluttered desk, half closed pencil marks smudged by careless wrists, same hardwood floors you walked across in heels two weeks ago, back when your legs weren’t shaking and your confidence hadn’t split at the seams.

Back when this was a game and you were winning, glancing over your shoulder and daring her to kiss you.

What’s different, though, is the way you’re carrying yourself.

You walk in a few steps and Ellie doesn’t say anything as she closes the door behind you two. She doesn’t touch you yet, just sets her keys down on the entry table, kicks off her shoes, shrugs off her jacket and starts moving through the space like it belongs to her again, like she’s not unsure anymore.

And maybe that’s what rattles you the most. Because you remember a version of her that was hesitant, almost startled by her own need, kissing you like she had to learn the shape of pleasure all over again in real time.

That made you feel powerful, in control, like a switchblade with a beating heart.

But now?

Now she’s steady and you’re just standing there awkwardly, heart stuttering behind your ribs, your fingers twitching at your sides without knowing where to put your eyes because everything is reminding you of a version of yourself you can’t bring yourself to be.

You can feel her eyes on you, not with expectation or amusement. Just watching like she knows exactly what’s happening, like she’s seeing the shift.

You hate that she’s not kissing you already, that her hands are not at your hips. Because if she was doing all of that, it’d be easy to close your eyes and flip the script over, gain the power back, tease her with a smirk.

But all Ellie does is just say your name, soft. Just that.

You look up and she steps forward, right in front of you, letting the silence stretch until your lungs can’t take it anymore.

“You good?” she asks, low.

You nod before you think about it, arms crossing at your chest. “Yeah. Totally.”

She doesn’t say anything. Just watches you like she already knows you’re full of shit.

You shift, try to re-center, to find your footing again. You’ve never been the nervous one, you don’t do nerves. You’re the tease, the one with the lines, the one who kisses first and walks out without turning back.

So you smirk – soft, practiced – and take a step closer to her too, head tilted just enough to feign control. “So what,” you murmur, “you brought me back here again to talk about our feelings?”

Her brow lifts a little, like she’s amused, but her eyes? Her eyes don’t move from yours as if she’s clocking every flicker of emotion you’re trying to hide behind your mouth.

“No,” she replies after a beat. “I brought you back here so you’d stop pretending like you don’t want this.”

Your smirk falters at that, making you glance away. “Cocky.”

“Not cocky,” she says, voice lower now. “Just paying attention.”

You don’t know what to do with that. You really don’t.

So you reach for the familiar. The only armor you’ve ever worn. You step in even closer now, barely a breath between your bodies  and you tilt your chin up, your voice dropping to that cadence you always use when you want to win.

“Maybe I wanted to see if you’d beg this time.”

Ellie doesn’t even blink at that, doesn’t laugh or even flinch.

Instead, she moves – not fast, not aggressive, just sure – and her hand slides to the back of your neck as she leans in close enough that her lips ghost the edge of your jaw when she speaks.

“Baby,” she murmurs, and your knees weaken. “You start with that bullshit again and I’ll stop before I even start.”

You swallow. Hard.

Her thumb brushes against the side of your throat, a gentle press against your pulse.

“You came back here for a reason,” she whispers, softer now, but still steady. “You don’t have to tell me what it is. But I’m not letting you hide behind a smart mouth if what you really want is to be seen.”

The air catches in your lungs.

Because fuck.

Fuck.

You can’t flirt your way out of this.

You can’t trick her into forgetting how your hands shook that first time, how your voice cracked on your way out the door. You can’t pretend this is just for fun anymore.

Not when she’s looking at you like she sees right through your cracks, not when her grip is firm but kind and when her body’s close but not caging you in.

You don’t know what to do with that kind of care.

She pulls back just enough to look at you again. Searching your face. Your breath. Your boundaries.

You don’t move, just drop your eyes to her lips.

And that’s enough of a tell for her to lean down and press them against yours.

It’s messy, intentional. Not rough, but not soft either. Just… real. Her hand slides into your hair, tilts your head back slightly. Her mouth moves like she’s not asking anymore. Like she’s taking you for exactly what you are: wrecked and undone and still pretending not to be.

And at that, the only thing you can do is melt, even if you try not to. Even if you try to deepen the kiss, tilt your head, slide into the seat you know well.

But the second your hand slides to her hip like you’re about to lead Ellie pulls back just enough, just to whisper against your mouth.

“Don’t.” You freeze. “I know what you’re doing,” she says. Calm. Clear.

Your breath stutters. “And what’s that?”

She smiles – just slightly – and kisses you again, this time with a little more pressure, enough to make your hands curl into her hoodie.

“You think if you take control, you won’t fall apart.” A beat. “Am I wrong?”

You don’t answer, which is an answer itself alone.

So kisses you again. Again. Until your knees are barely holding.

“You can fall apart with me,” she murmurs.

And then – effortlessly, without a pause – she picks you up.

You make a startled sound, legs instinctively wrapping around her waist, her mouth never leaving yours. You can’t even think straight, only cling at her, kiss her harder, try to remember how to breathe.

She carries you through the hallway like it’s nothing, slow and certain.

She doesn’t bump the doorframe, doesn’t fumble. Just pushes the bedroom door open with the side of her foot and steps inside like she’s done it a hundred times, like this, right here, with you in her arms, was always meant to happen again.

Your arms are still around her neck, your mouth still tastes like her kiss. Your thoughts are a slow, flickering mess of what the fuck are we doing and don’t ever stop.

She walks you to the bed and doesn’t throw you down. No, nothing like that. She lowers you gently, controlled. The backs of your thighs hit the mattress and she follows you down, one knee on the bed, the other foot still planted on the floor like she’s steadying you both.

You bring your hands down, about to peel off your sweater, trying to take some kind of initiative, but her hands stop you before you can.

“I’ve got it,” she murmurs.

You exhale slowly, arms falling back to your sides, and Ellie just moves.

Her hand slides under the hem of your sweater, not to rip, but to lift. Her fingertips drag across your stomach, pushing the fabric up your body inch by inch.

She pulls it off over your head, tosses it somewhere behind her before she climbs over the bed, one hand braced at the side of your head, her thigh slipping between yours just enough to make you gasp.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs, but it’s not a tease. It’s a note, an observation. A fact she gets to unfold.

You swallow, try to say something – probably a quip, some last ditch attempt to claw your way back to whatever power you had that night – but it dies in your throat the second she pushes her hand beneath your bra and brushes her thumb over your nipple.

The gasp you let out is louder than you probably intended.

“Yeah,” she says, so low it vibrates against your mouth. “There she is.”

She undoes the clasp with one hand like it’s nothing. You arch up, letting her peel the fabric away, her eyes dragging down your chest. She doesn’t say anything not at first. Just lowers her head and mouths at your tit, tongue circling your nipple, lips warm and wet and slow until you can’t think straight.

Your fingers tangle in her hair before you can stop them and Ellie moans into your skin – not from your touch, but from hers. Like sucking on your tits gets her off all by itself. Like she’s savoring every flick of your nipple against her tongue.

You squirm, try to grind down against the thigh still slotted between your legs, but she shifts it away instantly, lifting her head up.

“Nah,” she murmurs, voice thick. “You’re not getting off on me yet.”

You swallow, chest heaving, biting down whatever voice inside your head that's screaming at you that it'd be so easy to just flip her and the script over.

Instead, you let her fingers move to your jeans and unbutton them. Let her mouth drop back to your chest, kissing her way down your sternum, tongue dragging a line to your belly, while the jeans come off slow as she sinks down to her knees – your hips lifted, thighs bare, and when she sees the wet spot on your panties she groans.

“Fuck me,” she whispers, breath hot against the fabric. “You’re soaked.”

She doesn’t even pause. Just kisses you over your underwear, tongue flicking the damp cotton, sucking at the center until your hips jerk up and your breath punches out of you.

You reach for her again, desperate, hands through her hair like you need that anchor.

“Ellie–” you moan.

She hooks her fingers into the waistband with a hum, pulls them down slowly, and when they’re gone, she just looks.

Eyes on your cunt like she’s starving for it.

She doesn’t dive in. Doesn’t go straight to it. She lays a hand on your thigh. Spreads your folds with just her thumb, the wetness catching the light.

“Shit,” she mutters. “You want it that bad, huh?”

You nod, frantically, pathetically, and she fucking smiles at that — not mean. Not smug. Just like she’s never wanted to be between someone’s legs more in her life.

She settles herself between your thighs like she belongs there and then — finally — she licks you.

It's long, deep. From the bottom of your slit to your clit in one drag.

Your back arches, your moans grow louder.

Ellie groans right into you, and does it again. And again. Until your thighs are shaking around her shoulders and your hands are pulling her hair.

But she doesn’t let you get there too fast.

She slows, keeps her mouth right on your clit, tongue flicking in soft with just enough pressure to make you cry out every time. And when her fingers ghost along your inner thigh you just blurt it out before you can even stop yourself.

“Ellie–” you pant. “Please.”

She lifts her head just enough to speak, lips shining. “You want my fingers, baby?”

You don't answer, can't. Just nod. And Ellie smirks like she was picturing this moment.

"I believe that last time," she murmurs, fingers just short of your entrance, teasing you. "You told me to use words."

You whine, buck your hips, desperate for friction. "Fuck– yes, I want your fingers."

She hums satisfied. "Good girl."

And then she's leaning down again, pressing a kiss to your clit before her hand replaces her mouth, she’s sliding one finger in without warning – and fuck, you’re so wet, she groans like she feels it in her own chest.

“Jesus,” she breathes. “So fucking tight.”

You squirm, try to move, to roll your hips to meet her rhythm, but her free hand flattens on your stomach, pinning you down.

“Nuh-uh,” she murmurs. “None of that.”

She adds a second finger, slower this time, eyes locked on yours as she slides in deep and curls – and your mouth falls open, head tipping back against the pillows.

“That’s it,” Ellie says. “Just like that. Let me.”

And you do.

You let her.

You let her fuck you open, slowly, fingers stroking inside you, palm catching your clit just enough to make you cry out every few seconds. Her eyes never leave your face. Not once. Like watching you fall apart is the only thing she’s ever wanted.

You’re panting, whining, so close it hurts. And Ellie leans in, presses her lips to your ear.

“You gonna come for me?”

You nod again, no words coming out of your mouth, and when she curls her fingers just right you break.

Your orgasm builds so fast it feels like drowning – wave after wave ripping through you, sharp and hot and blinding, your cunt clenching around her fingers so deep inside you it feels like they’re stitched to something you didn’t know you had.

You cry out loudly, unashamed, with Ellie’s breath brushing your cheek, her mouth grazing your jaw.

She fucks you through it, slowing down just by a fraction and watching you fall apart like that was the only thing she had been craving for since the second she saw you again.

You try – god, you try – to gather yourself, to find the version of you that knows how to tip the balance back, but your voice doesn’t cooperate, your body is still humming, and you’re still spread out beneath her with nothing left to hide behind, thighs trembling, body humming with the aftershocks.

Her voice is low when it comes. “You with me?”

You nod.

“I need you to say it.”

“I’m–” Your throat catches. You swallow, try again. “I’m here.”

She exhales through her nose, soft. Almost relieved.

“Good.”

Her fingers slip out of you slowly, carefully, and your whole body twitches. You bite down a moan, and she catches your jaw in her palm before you can look away, grounding you with the way her thumb grazes your cheek.

“Still wanna act like that didn’t just break you?”

You let out a breathless, wrecked laugh. “Shut the fuck up.”

And she grins.

But it doesn’t last long.

Because you’re looking at her again. Fully clothed. Calm. Solid. And you’re nothing but bare skin and flushed cheeks and sweat cooling along the backs of your thighs. And the sight of her like that – grounded, in charge – makes your stomach pull tight again, your breath stumble, your hips tilting toward her like you forgot what it’s like to want anything else.

And she sees it.

Of course she sees it.

Because this time you’re not trying to hide it. You’re not even trying to win. You just… want.

And then you shift, sitting up just enough to put your palms on her shoulders, fingers sliding down the collar of her hoodie, breath catching in your chest.

“Take this off,” you whisper.

Ellie lifts her brows.

You run your hand down her chest, curl your fingers in the hem, and say it again, this time with more breath than voice.

“Please.”

And at that Ellie doesn't even add anything else, only pulls her hoodie over her head along with her shirt and drops it behind her without looking. You sit up straighter, thighs trembling, and help her with the rest – hands dragging over the waistband of her jeans, tugging them down her hips.

She steps out of them and walks to the drawer by the bed, not saying a single word.

She pulls out the same strap. Black, sleek.

Last time, you made a whole show out of it. Laughed when she pulled it out. Bit your lip when she slipped it on, cocky as hell and twice as loud, back arched and mouth full of moans, riding her like you had something to prove.

Now?

Now you can’t stop looking.

Your body reacts before your mind does – a slow ache pulling low in your stomach, your hips shifting almost imperceptibly against the sheets – and Ellie sees it, oh, she sees it, but she doesn’t comment, doesn’t gloat, doesn’t break whatever fragile, electric thing is hanging between you.

She just steps into the harness, tightens the buckles with a practiced hand, but not fast, never fast, every movement deliberate, every adjustment made while her eyes flicker back to your face in between: checking, measuring, making sure you’re still with her and not drifting back into that place where you armor yourself to survive.

She moves toward the bed again and you feel your breath hitch as she climbs between your legs again, the heat of her body settling over yours, the weight of her eyes pinning you more than anything else ever could.

“Stay like this,” she whispers. “Wanna see you.”

You could laugh it off again, flip her over, climb on top, pretend you’re still the one calling the shots. But you don’t. Because that shit’s tiring and because fuck it– you just want to let go.

Because you want this, want her. Want the way she touches you like she doesn’t just want your body, but wants to know you, to touch the places no one's ever seen and pull apart every wall you’ve built until there’s nothing left but you.

You bite your lip and then – finally – you nod.

She adjusts her weight, the mattress dipping beneath it while her knees slide between yours, the strap brushing your inner thigh and your pulse going wild beneath your skin.

She reaches for a pillow, slips it under your hips. It tilts you up – just enough to feel open, exposed, vulnerable in a way that has your throat clenching and your cunt dripping.

Then she parts your legs, hands on your knees. “You gonna let me?”

You nod again. “Please.”

And it’s the please that does it.

Ellie groans, low and rough, her voice soaked in need as she lines herself up, head of the strap catching on your entrance. Your whole body locks up – in anticipation, in desperation – and you grip her back before she even pushes in, nails digging into her skin.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs. “Just breathe.”

Then – so slowly you could scream – she pushes inside.

It knocks the breath out of you. The weight. The pressure. The feeling of being filled like that. Of letting her take you, hold you, read you from the inside out. It’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Your hands scramble for her, one goes on her waist, the other one digging into her back. Your ankles cross behind her, pulling her in, your knees lifting instinctively as the strap pushes deeper.

“Fuck—” You gasp.

Ellie groans into your skin, hips grinding forward until she’s flush with you, strap seated all the way inside, and she just holds you there, doesn’t move, doesn’t thrust – just breathes, just lets you feel it.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “Just like that.”

She starts moving in slow thrusts, shallow at first – just enough for you to feel it, the in and out glide of the strap rubbing exactly where you need it while your cunt clenches around it. Her hips grind, her hands slide under your thighs to tilt you up so she can reach deeper until your thighs are shaking and your stomach’s tensing and you can’t stop moaning with every stroke.

“Doing so good for me,” she pants. “Jesus Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

You gasp. Whimper. Arch into her.

And then the pace shifts.

Just a little faster, enough so you cry out and your hands grab her waist, her arms. Anything. Panting through broken moans spilling from your mouth with every thrust. 

“Ellie–” You sob.

Actually sob her name. It tears right out of you, your voice breaking around it, your whole body curling forward as your legs lock around her waist, calves flexing, heels pressing into her lower back like you’re trying to pull her deeper, deeper, deeper–

She groans. Low. From the chest. You feel it vibrate against your ribs.

“Shit, that’s it– there you go, baby, come on– come for me, come on–”

She tilts her hips, drives the strap hard into that place inside you that makes everything snap, makes your body seize and your hands fist in her hair, your throat rasp her name in a cry so ragged you almost don’t recognize it as yours.

And she loves it.

Her mouth drops to your neck. “You sound so pretty like this.”

Your thighs shake. Your toes curl.

“You gonna give it to me again?” she pants.

You nod. Breathless. Desperate. “Yes, fuck, yes–”

And she thrusts harder.

Deeper.

And you lose it again.

Right there. On her strap. With your face buried in her shoulder and your voice wrecked and your thighs clamped tight around her waist, cunt clenching hard as you come with a cry that doesn’t sound like anything you’ve ever made before.

And Ellie – god.

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow. Not yet.

Because the harness is pressed just right against her clit and the way your body squeezes around her – thighs quaking, nails digging, mouth open and panting like you’re wrecked beyond repair – it’s too much.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck–” She gasps, one broken, stuttering breath.

Then her hips stutter, her arms shake, her eyes flutter shut and she buries her face in the curve of your neck, muttering your name like it’s the only thing keeping her together.

Ellie comes with a moan that sounds like surrender.

You're still trembling when she does, still clenching around nothing but silicone and her.

Her mouth is somewhere against your throat, open and panting. Lips dragging lazy and reverent over sweat damp skin.

You’re limp. Breathless. Boneless. Every nerve lit and spent.

Then everything slows.

Her hips ease, just barely moving – still buried deep inside you, but softer now, tender – like she doesn’t want to pull out until your body is ready to let her go.

Her nose nudges your jaw. “Still with me?” she whispers.

You nod, barely.

And then her lips brush your cheek. Your temple. The corner of your mouth.

It's soft. Not filthy, not teasing. Just soft.

Her hand smooths down your side, slides to the small of your back. “You did so good,” she breathes, hoarse, kissing your cheek again. “Took me so well. So good.”

And you – for the first time ever – let yourself linger in the moment that hangs just after the breaking.

The room is quiet again.

No more panting. No more moaning. Just the slow ebb of breath in and out, your heart still thudding too hard against your ribs as you stare at the ceiling like maybe – maybe – it’ll tell you what to do next.

But it doesn’t.

And neither does Ellie.

She's still above you – bare, breath warm, her skin damp with sweat, her hand is somewhere on your thigh, loose and casual, and her chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm that says she’s calm.

But you're not calm.

You’re blinking slowly, trying to collect pieces of yourself from where they scattered across her sheets. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. Your mouth is dry and you’re flushed and spent and everything still smells like her.

Maybe for some the moments after are the ones that feel easy, the ones when you can just breathe and ease back.

Not for you.

Because this is the part where you get up.

This is the part where you make some half charming comment about needing to be up early, maybe lean in for one last kiss if you’re feeling sweet, and then pull your dress back over your shoulders like none of it ever mattered. That’s what you do. That’s what you’ve always done.

You leave before you can be left. That’s the deal.

So why the fuck can’t you move?

You shift slightly, still on your back, still staring at the ceiling like it might give you a clue. Like somewhere in the cracks there’s a line written out for you, some ancient inscription that reads here’s what to do when someone looks at you like they’d rather know your soul than your body.

But there’s nothing.

Just silence.

Until Ellie finally exhales against your neck, soft and low, and pulls back just enough to look at you. She shifts to her knees, reaches down, and unbuckles the harness with practiced fingers, slips it off like it’s no more meaningful than a sock and tosses it carelessly off the side of the bed, landing somewhere in the dark with a quiet thump.

Then, she moves.

Not away from you. Not toward the bathroom. Not to hand you your clothes or pull on her own. She just... slides under the covers and then pulls them back up over your hips like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You stare at her.

Then glance at the ceiling again.

Because what the fuck is this?

“What the fuck am I supposed to do now?” you blurt out, voice hoarse. “Like, seriously,” you say after a long beat. “What’s the protocol here?”

Ellie raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

You turn your head toward her. “I dunno. Do I stay for breakfast? Are we supposed to talk about our feelings? Am I supposed to, like… drink your shitty coffee in the morning?”

Ellie deadpans. “I don’t drink coffee.”

You blink. “That’s a red flag.” you mumble. But after a second, you snort. Soft and unbidden, like your body let it slip out before your brain could stop it.

Ellie’s mouth twitches at the corner.

You sigh. Turn onto your side, facing her.

“You know I don’t do this, right?”

Her voice is low. Even. “Do what?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely between your bodies. “Sleepovers. Cuddles. Post-nut intimacy.”

She huffs a breath. “It’s not that deep.”

You raise a brow. “Lying in bed together? Naked? You tucking me in like we’re girlfriends?”

She doesn’t flinch and you just sigh, the heels of your hands rubbing against your eyes.

“Whatever, I’m improvising, dude,” you say quietly. “I don’t know. Do I do something?”

There’s a pause.

Then Ellie shifts closer. And you feel her arm slide beneath your shoulders. Her palm grazing the side of your hip. The slow, deliberate way she pulls you in like she’s done this before.

“You could just let me hold you,” she offers.

And it shouldn’t work.

It should trigger every warning you’ve ever been taught. It should feel wrong, it should feel dangerous, it should feel weak because love is a lie, because closeness is a trick, because the second you let someone close enough to feel them breathe, they have the power to break your ribs.

But the worst part? The truly terrifying part?

It doesn’t feel dangerous.

It feels warm.

So you blink. Again. Slowly.

Then– “That’s it?”

She hums. “That’s it.”

You hesitate, chew your lip, look down at her hand on your hip.

“Okay,” you say.

It’s barely a whisper. It’s barely you.

But it’s enough.

Ellie shifts closer, one arm sliding around your back, the other under your neck, tucks her chin over your head with her body curling just slightly toward yours like she knew this shape before you did.

Your throat tightens, you stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, mind racing with every defense mechanism you’ve ever sharpened like a blade.

And yet, you don’t leave.

You don’t get up or make a joke. You don’t say something flippant or cruel or distant.

You just... let her hold you.

Breathe.

And – maybe for the first time – you wonder what it would be like to wake up without running. To stay in the warmth. To smell another's skin and not pretend it didn’t feel like something you want to remember when the sun will kiss the floor.

And it’s like Ellie feels the way your brain's working overtime, because her palm slides across your spine, her nose presses to your temple and she holds you like she knows exactly what it means for you to let her.

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part two tags: @chxrryvalxntine @yuripilledfemme @starduszt @soupinspector

Ellie doesn’t remember when, exactly, the divorce stopped feeling like a bruise and started feeling like something more permanent. Not an ache, not a sting, not even a sharp, stabbing kind of pain. Just a dull, quiet fact that existed now. A contour of her life that couldn’t be erased, only traced over in thicker ink. Not a wound, not anymore. Just scar tissue.

The thing is — and she doesn’t say this out loud, not even to herself most of the time — is that she doesn’t really know how it all fell apart.

She and Dina had loved each other. That part wasn’t fake. Wasn’t some naive illusion. They had loved each other so much and for so long that when they finally got married — small ceremony, courthouse rings, Jesse crying harder than anyone else — it had felt inevitable. Like gravity. Like a promise they’d already made a hundred times over in the quiet way you live beside someone. Shared groceries. The dog. The coffee order memorized.

But it didn’t last. Not in the way they thought it would, just the way it feels like forever when you're inside it and like a slow leak when you're not. And it wasn’t messy, not really. No betrayal, no screaming fights, no plates shattered against walls. Just time. Just distance. Just two people who had outgrown the skin they built together and didn’t know how to crawl back inside it.

They split on good terms. Kept the friends. Split the furniture. Dina got the dog.

And Ellie…

Well, Ellie just got numb.

It’s been two years, and the divorce papers are still on her desk.

Not because she doesn’t know where to put them — she could burn them, shred them, bury them under all the other documents that live in her bottom drawer with the dried-out pens and the unopened envelopes from the health insurance company. But there’s something about the way they sit there, like an old bruise she keeps pressing. Not to feel it. Just to make sure she still can.

Ellie isn’t sentimental. At least, she likes to think she’s not. But when she looks at those papers, still half-folded like she never bothered to flatten them properly, there’s a quiet kind of pull in her chest that she doesn’t know what to do with.

Sometimes she forgets they’re there. Sometimes she doesn’t.

Sometimes she wonders if it would've hurt less if they'd broken something. At least then she could point to the wreckage. Instead, it’s just this slow, quiet unraveling she keeps reliving in the small silences of her day. The dinner table with only one plate now. The old photos tucked in a shoebox under her bed. The way she still flinches when she hears a certain laugh in the street, before her brain catches up and reminds her it’s not her.

It’s been two years and that’s also what Jesse tells her every time he calls her, which is often. That’s enough time, he says.  Enough time to feel sorry for yourself, enough time to sleep on the couch, to ignore your sketchbook, to stop trying. Enough time to stew in your own shit and rot like a leftover left too long in the fridge. His words, not hers. 

Ellie always rolls her eyes when he says that. Says she’s fine. Says she likes her own company. Says she’s just working a lot lately — which isn’t even a lie, not really. It’s the only thing that’s actually giving her a sense of normalcy.

And Jesse always sighs. Tells her to “get out of the fucking house”. To meet people. To stop acting like some grumpy old widower at thirty-five.

“I’m not thirty-five yet,” she’d muttered the last time, and Jesse had snorted on the other end of the line.

“Yeah, well. You sound like you’re seventy.”

Ellie had hung up after that.

Her apartment still looks like it’s waiting for someone else to move in. Blank walls. Blank bedsheets. Half of everything missing. Clean, but not neat. Lived-in in the way that says someone spends a lot of time there without really living in it. There’s a half-empty mug of cold coffee on the windowsill, two mismatched socks discarded near the couch, the blanket crumpled in a heap where she must’ve kicked it off in the middle of the night. Her desk is a mess of charcoal pencils, a sketchbook left open, eraser shavings, unopened mail.

Her ashtray’s full. So’s her head.

The record player crackles just enough to make the silence sound lived-in. She’s got some sad old Bob Dylan song on, something about broken hearts and empty highways, the vinyl slow and warm in the way Ellie used to find comforting. Now it just fills the air enough that her thoughts don’t echo too loud.

Outside, the sky’s the same gray it’s been for three days straight. That early winter kind of gray — heavy and slow and vaguely metallic, like the light itself is tired of showing up.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, hoodie sleeves stretched over her palms, her hair which she cut recently sticking in all the wrong directions. There’s graphite on her fingers anyway. She tried sketching earlier. Something. Someone. The frustration, the lack of finish is still all in the lines, in the way the paper right next to her thigh curls at the edge where her hand lingered too long.

She looks like exactly what she is: a woman who hasn’t gone out in months and doesn’t know if she even remembers how to be seen.

And she’s tired.

Not in the way that sleep fixes. Not in the way a night out could shake off. No. Ellie’s tired in her bones, in her blood. In that deep, marrow-level way that only comes from loving something so much you thought it would carry you forever and finding out it didn’t even carry itself.

She’s halfway through thinking about maybe making a sandwich when her phone buzzes on the arm of the couch.

Jesse 🖕🏻:

You alive?

We’re going out tonight. no excuses

9pm, that bar on the 12th

Come on, man. It’s been two years. you’re divorced not dead

She stares at the screen for a full minute before her hand moves. She doesn’t know why he still hasn’t given up on making her go out. He’s always doing that. Always trying to soften himself, like he knows she needs the extra cushion.

Ellie:

I’m fine

Jesse 🖕🏻:

That’s not an answer

You’re coming

She exhales through her nose. It’s not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh either. She types:

Ellie:

Hard pass. already got plans with Mr Dylan and my empty apartment

Jesse🖕🏻:

You’re 34 not 80

And I’m not letting you rot in your sad little sweatpants cave anymore

Pick a decent shirt and meet me at 9

Ellie:

Why do you even care

Jesse 🖕🏻:

Because I love you

And because you used to be fun. Remember fun?

Emotional constipation, swore like a sailor kind of fun? Ring any bells?

Ellie groans. She lets the phone fall to her chest, rubbing at her eyes like it will change anything. She knows Jesse means well. He always does. But the truth is that she’s not sure she even remembers who she was before the marriage, before the slow dissolve, before she became this version of herself that flinches at kindness and shrinks away from light.

Still. It’s been two years.

Two whole years of saying no.

And for what?

More nights alone? More takeout containers in the trash, more lines half-drawn on pages she never finishes, more dreams that don’t have room to stretch?

She groans again, says “fuck it” out loud even though no one’s listening.

By 8:53, she’s standing in front of her closet trying to remember what counts as “decent” anymore.

The bar is tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat with flickering overhead lights, the kind of place people only find if they’re looking for it — low brick walls, string lights hung up with no pattern, and a chipped rainbow sticker on the front door that’s been there long enough to lose most of its color.

The first thing Ellie notices when she steps inside is that it hasn’t changed, not even a little.

Same too-dark lighting, same sticky floors, same chalkboard wall announcing “Drag Queen Karaoke Tonight – $5 shots if you sing Adele.” She used to come here all the time, back when she and Jesse thought weeknights were meant for drinking and mistakes. She hasn’t set foot inside since before the divorce and somehow the air still smells like sugar, tequila, and a blend of too many perfumes clinging to the velvet curtains that separate the booths from the dance floor. 

The place is busy, but not packed. Bodies clustered near the bar, more around the stage in the back where someone’s doing a sparkly rendition of Rolling in the Deep. Ellie keeps her hood up until she spots Jesse waving at her from a high-top table near the corner.

He looks smug. He always looks smug when she gives in.

“Took you long enough.” He grins, already halfway through a beer.

Ellie shrugs her jacket off and drapes it over the stool. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“Oh, it absolutely is a thing,” he says, gesturing dramatically toward her drink waiting on the table. “You, leaving the house? Wearing real pants? Historic.”

She glances down at herself — black jeans, some old button down layered over a tee. Not exactly red carpet. “You said decent shirt. Didn’t say anything about joyfully participating.”

He means it with love, and she knows it, so she lets it slide, sits right next to him, takes a sip of the whiskey he had already ordered for her and lets it burn all the way down her throat as she sips on it.

They talk. Or rather Jesse talks, catching her up on work stuff, community center gossip, some mutual friend who got engaged and another who started a dumb wellness centre and moved to Arizona. She hums and nods in the right places but her mind’s not all the way there. It’s drifting, always halfway back to the apartment, to the half-finished drawings and the Bob Dylan record she forgot to flip over.

He catches her staring into her glass. “Alright, moody. On a scale from one to full-blown emo playlist, how much are you regretting coming here?”

She smirks a little. “Somewhere between The Smiths and early Bon Iver.”

“Oof,” he winces. “Okay. But are you at least glad to not be ghosting around in your depression cave tonight?”

Ellie doesn’t answer. Not because she doesn’t want to. But because the door opens behind Jesse, and for the first time in a long time, something pulls her attention outward.

You walk in like you know exactly what you're doing, arm hooked lazily with a girl who’s taller than you, sharper around the edges, the kind of friend who probably pulls you out of bed with threats and iced lattes. You’re wearing something that isn’t trying too hard but still manages to knock the wind out of Ellie’s lungs — a short black dress, silk or at least what resembles it — something that makes it clear you know how to dress to draw attention on you but without actually needing it. You’re all warmth and danger and a way of walking that says I’m fun and I know it and I will fucking end you if you waste my time.

And then — you smile.

Not at Jesse. Not at the bartender. At her.

Just one glance across the room, done like you know exactly what you’re doing, like you’ve already had the thought. Like you want her to know it.

Ellie blinks.

“Earth to Williams?” Jesse says, turning to follow her gaze. And then he sees you, too. “Oh.”

Ellie looks back down at her drink like it will save her. “Shut up.”

“Wasn’t saying anything.”

“You were thinking very loudly.” She mutters.

He’s grinning again. The kind of grin that’s about to start pushing buttons just for sport.

“She looked right at you, man.” Jesse sing-songs while nudging her shoulder with his.

Ellie swirls the ice in her glass. “It’s a bar. People look.”

“Yeah, but she smiled at you.”

Ellie shrugs, trying to look bored. “Maybe she thought I was someone else.”

“Uh-huh.” Jesse leans in, elbows on the table. “Or maybe, and hear me out, she thinks you’re hot and wants to ruin your life.”

She throws another quick glance your way. “She’s a baby.”

“Oh my god,” Jesse lets out a groan and leans back dramatically in his chair. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Push away anyone who might make you feel something before they can even try.”

Ellie scoffs. “You sound like my therapist.”

“You fired your therapist.”

“Exactly.”

Jesse points toward you with his chin. “She’s not that young.”

“Dude. She’s what, mid-twenties? I’m pushing thirty-five.”

“Oh no,” he says, mock gasping. “Alert the authorities.”

Ellie glares at him. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re scared.”

That lands a little too close to home, so she doesn’t answer.

Instead, she looks back at you. You’re at the bar now, laughing at something your friend said, chin tilted up just enough to make your throat visible in the dim light. You’ve got your back to the room, but it’s like you know she’s still watching, like you’re doing it on purpose.

She doesn’t know what it is, exactly. Maybe the curve of your mouth, the way you shift your weight onto one leg like you’re settling in to be admired. Perhaps it's the confidence, the casual danger of it. Like a girl who’s always been good at setting fires and only recently learned how to enjoy watching them burn.

And Ellie hates how hard she swallows.

Jesse, still watching her, smirks. “You keep looking.”

“I’m just…” Ellie’s voice falters. “Wondering what her deal is.”

“Uh-huh.”

She shoots him a look. “Don’t.”

“I’m just saying.”

“No, you’re implying.”

“Wouldn’t have to imply if you’d just—”

“Not interested.” she cuts him off.

He laughs. “Jesus. You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met.”

Ellie opens her mouth to argue, but then — you turn.

Full body. Drink in hand. Eyes scanning the room again until they land, unmistakably, right back on her.

And this time?

You hold the stare.

Not too long, but just long enough to say I see you. Just long enough to let her feel it: the heat, the question, the quiet dare of it.

Then, you raise your glass.

Not a toast. Not a “hey”.

Just a gesture. Like you’re already writing the next move, like you’re waiting to see if she’ll follow.

And Ellie?

She forgets to breathe.

You’ve been to that same bar more times than you can count.

It’s not fancy, not even particularly good if you’re being honest with yourself. The drinks are always a little too sweet, the floor’s permanently sticky, and the karaoke setup in the back makes you want to claw your own ears off by the end of the night. But it’s your place. Familiar in that low-effort, shoulder-loosening kind of way. A queer space that doesn’t try to be cool: no lines, no pretending. Just girls with chipped nail polish, bartenders who know your order, and a rotating cast of half-decent drag queens who sometimes perform and sometimes just vibe.

You and Jackie come here almost every weekend.

Mostly to drink. Occasionally to dance. Sometimes to flirt, but never to fall in love.

You learned that lesson early. You keep things light now, fun. You wear the right dresses and the right perfume and you never check your phone when you’re drunk. You know your angles, know how to walk into a room and own it without even trying too hard — just enough sway to your hips, just enough skin, just enough of a smirk when someone looks too long. It’s not arrogance, it’s just math.

You’re hot, and you know it. Dangerous, and you know that too.

Tonight’s no different.

You’re in black, as usual — a mini dress with a lacy scoop neck and thin straps that are there only to draw attention towards the slope of your shoulders; hem high enough to make people stare and not high enough to get kicked out; boots that make your legs look long and your steps sound confident; hair down; lips shimmery red.

Jackie had catcalled you when you stepped out of your apartment, the kind of whistle that made a man on the street turn around before she yelled “get lost asshole, my heels are longer than your dick!”

Now you’re strutting into the bar like you always do, her arm looped through yours, the two of you moving like a unit just like it has always been since the moment she approached you in kindergarten.

“Five bucks says Gemma’s singing Adele again.” Jackie mutters as you walk past the stage.

“She’s been through a breakup.” You say, amused.

“She’s been through three this year.” she deadpans.

“Maybe she just likes the drama.”

Jackie snorts. “Yeah, well, if she sings Someone Like You again I’m dragging you outside for a smoke and pretend I don’t know you so we can get laid.”

You laugh as you reach the bar, hopping up onto a stool while Jackie flags down the bartender. 

You glance around the room out of habit, scanning the crowd — same old regulars, a few fresh faces, couples already too handsy in the corner booths. It’s still early, so the lighting hasn’t turned full red yet. Everything’s in that hazy golden state — dim enough to feel sexy, bright enough to spot the mistakes before you make them.

That’s when Jackie nudges your arm.

“Don’t look now.” She says, low and fast.

Naturally, you do look. A slow turn, just your eyes, and your gaze skims past the stage, over the bar, and lands — right on the woman sitting at a high-top in the back corner.

And oh.

Oh, fuck.

You don’t usually get flustered. You like attention, crave it even, but the second your eyes land on her, something shifts in your stomach. Like gravity remembering how to tug.

She’s definitely older, early thirties, maybe more. Gorgeous in that brooding, I’ve-seen-some-shit kind of way. She’s dressed simply — jeans, shirt, jacket slung over the chair like she didn’t even try, but her presence is loud: shoulders tense, jaw sharp, a tattoo peeking out from one forearm, hooded eyes that flick up toward you like she’s trying not to stare but failing miserably.

And yeah, she’s staring.

The kind of stare that makes your skin feel warmer, the kind that makes your dress feel shorter, that makes your pulse trip over itself for no good reason other than the loud thought in your head screaming holy shit at you.

Jackie whistles low under her breath. “Told you.”

You keep your gaze fixed on the woman, smile slowly tugging at your mouth.

“She looks like trouble.” You murmur, half to yourself.

Jackie snorts. “She looks like she only comes out at night and listens to sad lesbian records in a dark apartment with a single lamp on.”

You grin. “My type, basically.”

“She’s undressing you with her eyes.”

“Let her.”

“She’s also, like… definitely older.”

You shrug. “So am I.”

Jackie gives you a look. “You’re twenty-four.”

“Exactly. Mature.”

“She probably pays taxes on time.”

You sigh, delighted. “God, I hope so.”

Jackie laughs, leans in closer. “You gonna go talk to her?”

You don’t answer at first. Just keep watching.

Because now that you’re looking — really looking — you can see it.

The way she’s trying to look away and failing. The way her fingers tap restlessly on the glass in front of her. The guy next to her is talking, clearly trying to get her attention, but her eyes keep coming back to you.

She does it in a way that makes her look like she’s annoyed by it. Like she doesn’t want to want to look. And somehow that makes it even hotter.

There’s a kind of tension there you don’t usually get. Not with the girls who flirt back too easily. Not with the ones who are already halfway out of their dresses before you get your second drink.

No. This one’s different. This one’s thinking about it. This one’s imagining it already and hating herself for it.

And that’s when the power shifts, that tiny flicker behind her gaze, the exact moment she realizes she’s not hiding it very well. Her shoulders square, her mouth tightens. She looks like she’s about to stand up or bolt or do something dramatic.

You decide to spare her the decision.

You raise your glass.

Just a tilt. A tiny smile. Nothing aggressive. Just enough to say I see you.

She doesn’t smile back. But her eyes flare — wide, dark, like someone just struck a match inside her ribcage.

And that’s when you know.

She’s fucked. Because now you’re setting your drink down, slow and deliberate, like you’ve just made a decision you’re not taking back.

Jackie watches you with one brow raised, the curve of her mouth already spelling trouble. “Don’t tell me—”

“I’m going.”

She blinks. “You’re serious?”

You’re already slipping off the barstool, smoothing the hem of your dress down with a sweep of your palm that’s more muscle memory than modesty. “Deadly.”

Jackie cackles behind you as you walk away — something loud and obscene that makes the couple next to her turn. You don’t care. You’re already crossing the floor, hips swaying just enough, footsteps steady and sure like you’ve been doing this your whole life, like seduction’s just another language you’re fluent in.

You don’t need to rehearse your opening line. You don’t even need one to be fair.

And Ellie sees you coming.

She tries not to — she tries so hard — but the second you start making your way over, something shifts in her posture: her fingers go still on her glass, her spine straightens, her mouth presses into a line like she’s prepping herself for impact. And she knows that and knows Jesse is smirking at her from the rim of his beer bottle.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, clearly amused. “She’s coming over.”

“I swear to God—” Ellie mutters back, glaring at him.

“I’m just saying. If you start sweating the reason is walking towards you.”

“I—“ she starts, but it’s too late.

You’re already at the edge of their table, one hand resting casually on the back of the empty stool beside her, chin tilted just so, a slow smile tugging at your mouth like you’ve got all the time in the world and no intention of playing fair.

 And just like that, it’s too late to pretend she doesn’t see you.

“You always stare like that or is tonight special?” you say, voice smooth, warm, unbothered.

Jesse lets out a muffled “oof” behind his beer.

Ellie looks up at you like she’s trying not to — like she’s still hoping maybe you’ll change your mind and walk away before she does something stupid. But when her eyes meet yours, there’s a split second — a flicker — where she forgets how to pretend.

You see it. That shift. That inhale. That little fracture in her poker face.

But it’s gone again just as quickly as it surfaced.

Her eyes narrow just slightly. “I wasn’t staring.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Oh. Sorry. So you just look angry and sexy for fun?”

Jesse actually wheezes a “Jesus Christ” under his breath, but has the decency to slide off his stool and clap Ellie on the back as he gets up.

“I’m gonna go grab another beer,” he says, obviously trying not to grin. “You kids play nice.”

She shoots him a death glare, then looks back at you, eyes narrowing all over again. “Do you flirt with everyone who looks emotionally repressed in this bar, or am I just lucky?”

You laugh — not giggle, not chuckle. Laugh. Full-bodied, gorgeous. Like you know you’re pushing her buttons and loving every second of it.

And then you’e taking his seat

You don’t ask — just slide in with the kind of ease that says you belong there, like you’re not just crashing her bubble, you’re replacing the air inside it.  And Ellie up close? She’s even better — sharp jaw, a scar cutting through her eyebrow, the design of her tattoo now clearer, and those tired green eyes that make her look like she’s seen more than she’ll ever say. She smells like smoke and leather and something distinctly hers. She feels like a dare, like she’s trying to see if you’ll flinch.

You won’t. 

“I only flirt with the ones who can’t stop staring at my legs.” You say, matter of fact, crossing one over the other just to prove your point and making the hem of your dress shifts. Ellie’s eyes drop for half a second too long before she catches herself.

She watches you with wary eyes, hand still curled around her drink like it’s the only thing tethering her to her own self-control.

“Should I be flattered?” she asks after a beat, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth before she catches herself and looks away. “Or just concerned you make a habit out of harassing older women at bars?”

You grin. “You’re not old.”

“I’m thirty-four.”

You tilt your head. “Think I can't handle it?”

She scoffs. “You’re, what, twelve?”

You fake a gasp. “Wow. That’s rude. I’m twenty-four, thank you very much.”

“That’s basically twelve.” She mutters, but it’s half under her breath, and her mouth twitches when she says it like she’s trying not to smile.

You lean your chin on your hand, elbow on the table, eyes still fixed on hers. “You always deflect this hard, or is it just when a pretty girl makes you nervous?”

Her jaw tightens.

You can see it, the effort, the sheer physical strain of trying not to let you under her skin. But it’s too late. You’re already there, because her pupils are blown, her posture taut in that ready to bolt but frozen in place kind of way, and god, she’s still trying to hide it, still trying to look bored.

But bored people don’t stare like that

So you smile, all teeth now. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

She snorts. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“You're right. I bite very well,” you say sweetly,

That earns you a real laugh — brief, barely there, but genuine. And when it fades, something softer takes its place. She glances down at her drink, fingers tracing the rim like she’s trying to ground herself in something physical.

You let the silence stretch, just for a second. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just… charged.

“Look, I’m divorced, still tryna get out of it,” she says eventually, voice lower now. More real. “I’m not looking for anything,”

You nod. “Cool.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

She finally looks up at you again and something in her expression has shifted. Less resistance now, more curiosity. Like she’s still not sure what game you’re playing but she’s starting to suspect she might want to lose it.

“You always like this?” she asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Confident?”

“Relentless.”

You smile. “Only when someone stares at me for ten minutes and then pretends they didn’t.”

Her face does something at that. A twitch, a breath. A glitch in her system that gives her away entirely.

You lean forward slightly, enough that Ellie feels the heat of your thigh through her jeans.

“Look,” you say, voice lower now, smoother, the performance giving way to something a little more real. “If you’re not interested, that’s totally fine. I’ll go finish my drink, let you get back to whatever brooding you were doing before I walked in.”

Ellie doesn’t move.

“But if you are interested,” you continue, now close enough that your breath kisses her jaw. “Maybe we cut the age-gap self-loathing bullshit and just… see what happens.”

Ellie’s heart is hammering.

Her brain is saying don’t do this, but her body? It’s already betraying her.

She glances at you again — confident, patient, clearly enjoying this little game, but not pushing.

Not begging.

Just waiting.

And god help her, she wants to say something cool. Something unaffected. Something that keeps the last two years of walls from cracking right open.

But all she manages is:

“…What’s your name?”

You smile like she just handed you the keys to her apartment and tell it to her.

Ellie nods, like it matters. Like her mouth isn’t dry and her palms aren’t sweating and her knees aren’t seconds from giving out under the weight of how badly she wants to touch you.

“…Ellie.” she says back.

You grin again and she hates how much she wants to kiss you for it.

“Okay,” she says, repeating your name in a way that sounds sarcastic, trying for cool, but it comes out hoarse instead. “What exactly do you think’s gonna happen here?”

You shrug, unbothered. “I think I’m gonna sit here a little longer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I think,” you add, letting your fingers just barely trail against her arm, featherlight and dangerous. “You’re gonna keep pretending you don’t want me to.”

Ellie swears just under her breath.

You laugh again, softer this time, and it lingers in the space between you like smoke.

“I’m gonna be honest with you,” Ellie says after a beat, rubbing the back of her neck, trying to collect whatever’s left of her composure. “I’m not… good at this. Flirting. Whatever this is.”

You tilt your head. “Are you good at other things?”

Ellie blinks. “Oh my god,” she mutters. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re blushing.” You muse.

“I am not.” She mumbles.

“You absolutely are.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You nudge your knee against hers. “Ellie.”

She meets your eyes.

“Come home with me.”

The words hang there — no pressure, no desperation. Just that same quiet confidence you walked in with. Like you already know how this night ends, and you’re just giving her the option to join you in it.

Ellie stares at you, at the shimmer of your lips, the sharpness of your smile, the heat in your eyes that could melt steel.

She’s always been good at holding back.

It’s never been about virtue, or restraint, not even dignity. Nothing poetic like that. She just learned over time that nothing good ever came from wanting too much. That needing someone was a risk and allowing them in was a bigger one. And when it all crumbled under the weight of its own impossibility, she’d rather be the one left standing with her hands in her pockets than the one crying on the floor.

So she got used to waiting, to walking away, letting things pass. To ignoring her own hunger and calling it maturity, healing even. She called it space and “just not being ready.”

But now you’re sitting next to her, warm and wild and wicked in that too-short dress, and all she can think about is how long it’s been since someone looked at her like they wanted her — not just politely, not just in passing, but with intent. With precision. Like they’ve already imagined what she’d sound like moaning their name and are wondering how long it’ll take to make her do it.

You, who smile like you already know how this will end and aren’t in a rush, because you’re the one choosing when it begins.

And that’s the difference, Ellie thinks, in the space between her thigh and yours. That’s what makes this so impossible to shake.

You don’t give a damn about the version of her from too many years ago — the bright-eyed, soft-tongued, newly-married girl who thought forever was something you could build with a single wedding band. Not the version who packed up her guilt into boxes and left it in a one-bedroom apartment with nothing but a mattress and a cracked record collection. Not the one who stopped drawing. Not the one who never cried. Not the one who decided silence was safer than grief.

You don't even know that version of her. You just want her. Now. For some reason she can’t understand.

And just like that — for that same reason — she forgets how to say no.

So when you ask again — voice low, eyes unreadable — “So? Your place or mine?” — Ellie finally lets herself breathe.

And she says it, not loud, not confident. Just… honest. “…my place.”

Your smile sharpens. “Yeah?”

She swallows once, hard. “Yeah.”

You don’t ask why. You don’t even tease her for it. You just slide off the stool in one smooth motion like you already know she's following and toss a quick wink to Jackie on the other side of the room, like you've won. Maybe you did.

Ellie stands too. Doesn’t look for Jesse, doesn’t say goodbye. Just grabs her jacket and follows you out into the street, heart pounding in a rhythm she hasn’t heard in a very long time.

The walk to her apartment is quiet.

Not awkward, not hesitant. Just thick with something else: anticipation, heat. That kind of held breath before the drop, before the kiss, before the first sharp inhale when the rest of the world slips away.

You walk beside her like you’ve known her longer than an hour. Your steps are sure and there’s a faint smile that hasn’t left your mouth since you got out of the bar.

Ellie can feel the buzz in her skin, in her fingertips. In the space between her shoulder and yours. She wants to say something — anything — but her brain’s too full of static, your perfume, and the image in her brain of your fingers curled around her belt loops as you pull her in.

And underneath all of it — under the noise, under the chaos, under the tension — is one singular thought she can’t shake: it’s been so long.

So long since she’s felt like this: since her breath hitched at the thought of someone’s mouth, since she cared what her body looked like under a stranger’s gaze, since she wanted like this — full, hungry, total.

It’s terrifying.

And maybe that’s why she wants it so bad.

When you finally get there, her place is exactly what you probably expected.

Dimly lit, minimal, lived-in but not messy. One lamp in the corner. A sketchbook open on her desk with nothing finished inside. A record still spinning, even though the song ended hours ago.

You step in first, eyes sweeping the space like you’re cataloguing the details. Ellie shuts the door behind you with a soft click, suddenly hyper-aware of how close you are now. How alone. How quiet it is.

The silence is almost loud.

You walk slowly into the living room, turning halfway to face her, hand still holding your purse.

“You gonna kiss me,” you ask, voice softer now. “Or am I gonna have to beg?”

Ellie blinks.

You’re still smiling. Still calm. But there’s something new in your eyes — not uncertainty, not hesitation. Just… realness. Something grounded. Something sincere.

She steps forward.

One pace. Then another.

And then her hand is in your hair and your mouth is on hers.

The kiss is slow at first, meant to be soft, measured, cautious. A way to test the waters, to give herself an exit if it gets too real too fast. And she always starts slow, always stays in control. She’s good at that, it’s her thing.

But the second your lips part under hers, the second your tongue brushes hers and you kiss her like you’ve done her before — familiar and curious all at once, not rushing, not pushing, like she’s something worth studying — Ellie breaks.

Because this is what it’s like to be wanted. This is what she forgot. This is what she almost convinced herself she didn’t need anymore. This is the kind of kiss that rewires something. The kind that makes you press closer just to make sure the other person’s real.

It stops being gentle and slow and becomes just heat, roaring up her spine, all at once, like her body suddenly remembers what her mind’s spent two years trying to forget.

Desire. Real desire, that throat-tight, gut-low, soul-starving kind of want that has you both kicking shoes off and shrugging jackets off like they're on the way of something neither of you can explain and has you chase the other's lips like they're oxygen.

And just like that, Ellie loses the plot.

She groans — low, feral, almost embarrassed by how loud it comes out — and the next thing she knows, her hands are under your thighs, scooping you up like you weigh nothing, like she’s been waiting to carry you like this her entire life. And you gasp — delighted, surprised, laughing against her neck while you drop your bag on the floor.

“Damn,” you grin. “You always pick girls up like this?”

“Shut up.” Ellie mutters, already walking the two of you toward the bedroom. Her grip tightens just to hear you squeal.

You’re warm against her. Legs around her waist. Arms around her neck. Breath against her collarbone. Her whole body’s lit up like she’s been wired wrong and you’re the one thing rearranging her.

She doesn’t say a word when she kicks the door open. Just walks straight in, drops you on the bed, and stares.

You land with a bounce, laughing softly, hair messy now, lipstick smudged, your dress riding up your thighs — and you don’t bother adjusting it. You just look up at her with that same smirk like you already know what she’s thinking.

Ellie runs a hand down her face. Her voice is rough when it comes. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

You tilt your head. “So dramatic. We haven’t even started.”

And then you stretch, letting your arms fall above your head, back arching just a little, hips tilting in a way that's inviting, flaunting, knowing. You’re in complete control and you know what it’s doing to her.

Ellie makes a sound somewhere deep in her throat, guttural and raw, like it got dragged out of her against her will.

And then she’s on you, looming over with both her hands braced on either side of your head.

Her mouth is on yours again — messier this time, open and hot and desperate — one of her hands gripping your waist, sliding up your dress, tugging the hem higher and higher until she takes it off your body, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. She's fast on bringing her hands on your skin again, sliding them down until her fingers catch the waistband of your panties and pull.

You gasp, then grin against her mouth. “Didn’t even take you out to dinner first.”

“You’re so annoying.” She mutters, voice tight.

You hum, breathless. “And yet your fingers are in my panties.”

“I told you to shut up.”

“Make me.”

That does it.

She moves fast.

Shifts down your body, hands dragging your panties off in one quick tug, letting them fall to the floor like they offended her, and you laugh again until she spreads your thighs and looks at you like she might never recover.

“Oh, fuck me.” She breathes.

You’re already wet. Of course you are. You’ve been wet since the bar, since that first glance, since the second she looked away like she couldn’t handle what you were doing to her. But now — spread open, glistening under the soft glow of her lamp, legs bent just enough to show her everything — she goes silent.

Not from hesitation. From awe.

She sinks to her knees, exhales slow over your cunt, eyes half-lidded while she whispers almost to herself, “God. It’s been so fucking long.”

You reach down lazily, brush your fingers through her hair, tug just enough to get her attention. “I'm not gonna come on my own, y'know.”

The look she gives you then is like you’ve awoken something. Something old. Something deep. Something hungry.

“I forgot what a little brat looks like spread open,” she mutters. “Thanks for the reminder.”

And then her mouth is on you.

Hot. Slow. Desperate. Reverent.

It’s not perfect — not at first. She’s out of practice, tongue tentative in its rhythm, fingers unsure of their pressure, like she’s relearning the geography of someone else’s pleasure. But she becomes bold fast, memory kicking in as soon as she hears your breathing hitch.

You moan as her mouth seals around your clit, slow pressure building with every suck, every kiss, every little “fuck” whispered into your skin like a prayer. One hand holds your thigh down, the other slides up, up,  and then in — two fingers slipping in so slow, so deep, that your breath stutters in your throat.

She moans when she feels how tight you clench around them.

“Christ,” she mutters, voice slurred with spit. “You’re fucking soaking.”

You whimper — actually whimper — at the sound of her voice that low and raw and wrecked between your thighs.

She works her fingers in a rhythm that’s filthy, slow and thick and dragging along your walls like she’s trying to memorize the way you feel. Her tongue doesn’t stop — drawing circles, lazy and deliberate, lapping up everything she’s pulling from you, like she can’t believe you’re real.

“You’re good at that.” You manage to gasp, barely coherent.

Her brow furrows against your cunt. “Don’t fucking patronize me.”

You laugh breathlessly, hips starting to buck. “Not my fault you’re rusty, old lady.”

Her teeth graze your clit and you shout. “Say that again.” She growls.

She shoves her fingers deeper — just the right curl, just the right pressure — and her mouth goes feral.

Your moans get higher, messier, less controlled. Your thighs try to close and she pushes them wider with her elbows. She doesn’t stop. Not when you gasp, not when you writhe. Not even when you pull her hair so hard her neck jerks. She takes it. She lives in it.

The rhythm gets faster. Her fingers move harder. Her mouth never fucking stops. You’re close. So close. You’re half-cursing, half-praising, hips grinding against her face like you’re trying to keep her going forever.

“Fuck, Ellie— fuck, I’m—”

She groans like she’s about to come from the sound of it and you—

You crash. Hard.

Your body jerks, voice catching in your throat, thighs trembling around her shoulders as your orgasm slams into you like a freight train. You cry out — loud, wrecked, beautiful — and Ellie doesn’t stop. She keeps going, licking and worshipping until you twitch and shudder and push at her head because it’s too much.

She finally pulls away, chin wet, eyes wild, breathing like she just ran a mile.  And when you finally open your eyes again, she’s staring at you like you’re divine.

She’s is still catching her breath when you finally stop trembling beneath her mouth, your body soft and spent and humming in that loose, boneless way that comes after being undone properly, her fingers still slick and shining as she drags them slowly from between your thighs like she’s reluctant to part from the proof of what she just did to you.

She doesn’t look away from you when she straightens, eyes dark and blown and a little wild, like she’s still half-lost in the sound you made when you came apart, like your voice is echoing somewhere inside her chest and she doesn’t want it to stop.

“Again?” she asks just above a whisper, rougher now, confidence settling back into her bones as something familiar and grounding, something she remembers how to wear.

You don’t answer right away.

Instead, you prop yourself up on your elbows, lazy and smug and still glowing, your mouth curled into that infuriating little smile that’s been ruining her night from the moment you walked into the bar, your eyes dragging over her face, her shoulders, the way her shirt clings to her chest from the way she’s breathing.

“You sure?” you ask softly, like you’re admiring a piece of art you're done with yet. “You look wrecked.”

Ellie scoffs, but there’s no heat in it, just something low and fond and dangerous all at once. “You don’t get to say that after I made you come.”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” you reply, voice sweet and sharp at the same time, legs still parted, utterly unashamed of the way you’re laid open for her. “You’re the one shaking.”

She becomes acutely aware of her hands then, flexing once at her sides like she don’t quite know what to do with them anymore, of the way her pulse is still pounding low and heavy in her gut, of how her jeans suddenly feel too tight, too restrictive, like they’re in the way of something inevitable.

So she steps back from the bed slowly, deliberately trying to get some control back while her eyes never leave you as she discards her button down. And when she reaches for the hem of her shirt and pulls it up over her head together with her sports bra, you don’t even try to hide the way your gaze lingers.

You stare.

Openly and unapologetically so. Like the sight of her bare skin has knocked the air clean out of your lungs.

Ellie tosses the clothes aside, fingers already working at the button of her jeans, the sound loud in the quiet room, every movement unhurried, practiced, like suddenly she knows exactly what she’s doing to you by giving you time to look.

She doesn’t turn around when she steps out of her jeans, doesn’t bother covering herself when she reaches back and pushes them away with her foot, leaving herself bare except for her boxer briefs, muscles tense and defined in the low light.

When she finally glances back at you, she catches you staring at her tits like you’ve forgotten how to blink.

Her mouth twitches. “Like what you see?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

You hum thoughtfully, dragging your gaze back up to meet hers, your smile slow and devastating. “I think I’m gonna have fun with you.”

Something sharp and pleased flashes through her chest at that, a thrill that feels a little like pride and a little too much like relief. She turns toward the dresser without another word, reaching for the top drawer like muscle memory.

You watch her every move: the way her shoulders roll when she bends, the way her back flexes, the faint lines of old scars you catalog without thinking, because you’re already learning her body in the way people do when they intend to remember it. Even if you don’t want to, even if you know you shouldn’t.

Then she pulls the strap free.

Black, thick. Familiar weight. There’s no hesitation in the way she holds it, no embarrassment, just that same grounded confidence sliding back into place like she’s finally standing on solid ground again.

You suck in a breath. “Oh,” you say softly, eyes lighting up, grin turning wicked. “So that’s why you picked your place.”

Ellie smirks, glancing over her shoulder as she steps into the harness, adjusting it with practiced ease, her fingers sure, almost bold.

“What? You don't want it?” she asks, voice calm, low, in control again.

“I do,” you reply, settling back against the pillows like you’re about to enjoy a show. “I'm just.. impressed.”

She steps toward you then, stopping at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with that look again, the one that makes your stomach tighten and your thighs shift without you even meaning to, her hand closing around the base of the toy like she’s grounding herself.

“Turn over.” She says, firm and sure.

You laugh.

Not nervous, not unsure. Just delighted.

“Oh, hell no.” You reply, sitting up in one smooth motion.

Before she can react, you reach out, your fingers hooking into the harness at her hips and pulling her toward you with a strength that surprises her just enough to make her suppress a gasp.

Ellie stumbles forward a half-step, hands coming out instinctively to brace herself on the bed on either side of you, her eyes flashing with something startled and unmistakably affected as you wrap your legs at her hips and flip her in one fluid, confident movement.

You straddle her slowly, deliberately.

Your hands settle on her chest, warm and steady, thumbs brushing over her nipples just enough to make her suck in a sharp breath she definitely hadn’t planned on letting you hear.

“You don’t get to put me where you want me yet.” You murmur, leaning down until your mouths are almost touching, your breath warm against her lips, your hips rolling just enough for her to feel the weight of you, the promise of friction.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.” She mutters.

You smile, slow and sharp. “I know.”

You pull back again, fingers sliding down her chest, teasing and exploratory, squeezing just to make her groan under her breath, and then you lift yourself just enough to guide with one hand the strap where you want it, lining it up with aching patience without giving her the satisfaction yet.

Ellie’s breathing is ragged, her thighs tensing beneath yours, every inch of her screaming for something she’s not allowed to have yet.

“Fuck,” she whispers, voice cracking just a little. “You’re killing me.”

You don't answer, just smirk while murmuring, “You gonna be good and let me ride it?”

She nods, fast, breath stuttering.

You click your tongue, sliding one hand slowly from her chest up to her jaw, holding it to make her look at you. “Use your words.”

“Yes,” she rasps. “Fuck, yes. Please—”

You hum, pleased, a breathless laugh escaping your lips right after. “Good.”

Only then you sink down, painfully slow.

You take it inch by inch with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips , moaning with your head falling back as the stretch builds, both your hands tightening on her chest again, nails scraping just enough to make her hiss, her hips jerking up instinctively before she forces herself to stay still, because she’s learned that lesson before.

Your body fits her like you’ve done this together a hundred times already, the angle perfect, the connection electric, the heat between you almost unbearable once you’re finally seated fully on her, your bodies flush, your breaths tangled.

It’s thick, deep. Perfect. The strap drags against you in all the ways you need — no friction lost, every movement sending sparks up your spine. You bottom out with a gasp, thighs already trembling again, body electric with tension and the aftershock still coursing in your body from earlier.

And Ellie? Ellie’s wrecked.

Her hands keep tightening, relaxing, tightening again on your hips like she’s trying to ground herself, like she doesn’t trust she’s still breathing right.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she pants. “You’re so— fuck, look at you.”

You do. You look down to where your cunt kisses the base of the strap and smirk.

You ride her slow at first — lazy, sensual, deep — dragging the strap all the way out and back in with every roll of your hips, your nails digging into her shoulders, her scalp, your moans raw and breathy with every movement.

Her eyes never leave you. Not once. They’re wide, dark, reverent in a way neither she does understand. Like she’s watching something holy. Like she still doesn’t believe it’s really happening.

You keep your pace just slow enough to make her ache, your rhythm calculated, hips rolling down in just the right way that your clit rubs on the base and your thighs keep clenching, chasing that high.

And when you lean down once more, your hands on her tits, your mouth trailing hot, open kisses down her throat, Ellie shudders hard enough to nearly come from nothing.

She whimpers. You smile.

“Yeah,” you murmur, voice rough and sweet, breath hot on her skin. “Just like that. Let me fuck you.”

She moans — high, desperate, just the tiniest bit whiny — and she nods like she’s pleading, like she’d say yes to anything in this moment.

You don’t even realize how your rhythm is starting to get faster, how loud you are until your own moans start bouncing off the walls while your thrusts become messier, more frantic.

It’s not performative — nothing about this is. It’s raw. Guttural. All instinct, no filter, no control. Just the wet sounds of you moving up and down her strap, letting it disappear inside you again and again.

Ellie’s head hits the bed frame behind her, head tipped up, mouth open, chest heaving, her hands gripping your hips like she’s barely holding herself together. Her knuckles are white and her eyes keep flicking down to your tits bouncing in your bra, to your cunt taking every inch of her strap, to the mess you’re making all over her lap, slick and heat and need and everything she thought she couldn’t feel anymore.

“Fuck,” she gasps, voice breaking. “You’re doing so good.”

“You like it?” you breathe, your forehead pressed to hers.

Ellie nods too fast. “Yes— shit, don’t stop— don’t stop—”

You bite her neck. “Then make me come.”

Her hips jerk up into you before she can stop herself. It's reflex, need.

You cry out — loud, desperate — and she swears, dragging her mouth down your jaw, sucking a bruise into your neck as her hands slide up your back, anchoring you to her like she’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Ellie’s thighs are shaking beneath you, her abs flexing hard with every thrust up, every shift of your weight grinding the thick ridge of the harness against her own clit in perfect rhythm.

You don’t even mean to time it, but suddenly the rhythm clicks and something changes in her face, her breath catches, her eyes fly open and her head snaps back against the all.

And it's enough for you to know.

“Oh,” you whisper, breathless and amazed. “You’re gonna come.”

Ellie’s eyes flutter, her jaw clenches, her hands dig into your waist.

"Just— fuck— keep riding it, please, I’m—”

You slam down and her mouth drops open as your thighs lock around her hips.

The world fractures.

Everything crashes over you like a freight train: deep and hot and all-consuming, a full-body quake that rips through your spine and sets your nerves on fire. You cry out loudly, almost pained, grinding through it with your eyes squeezed shut, your nails digging into Ellie’s shoulders, your cunt clenching hard around the strap, pulsing with wave after wave after wave.

And Ellie?

Ellie shatters.

She doesn’t even mean to, she actually tries not to. But the second she feels you come, the second your moans pour into her neck, your body trembling in her lap — the strap base grinds just right against her clit and it breaks her.

She gasps — high and sharp and helpless as she comes. Just like that. Her hips jerk, her thighs tense, her hands clamp down and she moans into your skin like she’s being dragged under.

It hits her harder than she thought it would, faster. She hasn’t felt something like this in years — not with her own hands, not with anyone else, and especially not like this, not the kind that leaves her gasping, back arching, walls fluttering around nothing but against her harness and the gravity of you.

You’re still moving when she breaks, still rolling through the aftershocks, grinding and drawing out every last drop of your own pleasure as long as possible. Until finally — finally — your thighs give out and you collapse into her with a ragged cry.

The room is silent except for your breathing, your chest heaving against hers with both your bodies still trembling in each other's arms.

Her mouth is somewhere against your temple, open, panting, lips brushing your sweat-damp hair.

Neither of you moves. Neither of you can.

Until Ellie eventually exhales, murmuring, “…Jesus fucking Christ.”

You laugh, breathless, eventually swinging off her body with your legs still shaking. “Told you I could handle you.”

She groans — exhausted, ruined, completely wrecked. “Yeah, yeah.”

She watches you grin as you crawl to get your dress and panties off the floor, blinking slowly, trying to keep in check the way her heart is beating way too fast beneath her ribs.

"You leaving?" she asks low, almost like she's afraid of those words traveling past her lips.

You snort before glancing at her from over your shoulder. The answer clear in the way you raise one brow at her. “Didn't we say it was nothing serious?” You ask as you tug your dress down over your head. “I got what I wanted, so did you.”

There's a beat during which neither of you speaks, the only sound coming from the sharp breath Ellie takes in and the rustling of your clothes as you adjust them on your frame.

And Ellie's caught somewhere in between not knowing how to ask for someone to stay anymore and wondering whether this is how things go now — bars, one night stands and someone's touch she'll have to pretend it didn't feel like it belonged to her skin.

Because that's how you touched her the whole night.

And yet... you're leaving, walking through her bedroom door like you didn't just teach her that she could still be looked at as she's still worth being needed, like you don't even know what it feels to crave someone to hold onto but who will never choose her whole. Maybe just for one night, yes. Maybe just for enough time to pretend this meant something it didn't.

But then you stop, suddenly, right at the door and with your hand on the frame. You don't even know why your body stilled, breaking every single rule you've ever given yourself in nights like these and why you're tilting your head just enough to glance back at her one last time.

Yet, there is something that you don't understand — like a thread pulling toward her for a reason you can't quite name.

“But hey," you murmur. “If you wanna do this again... you know where to find me.”

Ellie straightens up just a little bit, sitting up with her back pressed against the pillows. She clears her throat, tries to look unbothered. Fails.

“Is this your way of tellin' me you wanna see me again?” She asks, more vulnerable than she probably intended it to be.

You don't answer, just laugh through your nose and pat the frame. “G'night, Ellie.”

You're gone just like that.

But maybe that hollow feeling that had been haunting her for so long has finally loosened. Because her bed is warm, because there's a scent in her bedsheets that isn't just hers anymore.

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The flyer was stupid. You knew it when you made it.

A last-minute thing you’d typed up in the university library between classes, your laptop overheating and your iced coffee already separating at the bottom. You didn’t even try to make it cute — just some bold text, your Instagram, and a few pull tabs stuck at the bottom with your number. You printed four copies and pinned them up around campus without thinking twice: one near the cafeteria, one on the corkboard outside the library, one at the gym, and one on the notice board in the court yard for good luck.

Roommate wanted. Clean, queer-friendly, no frat boys, no weird food habits (don’t ask), rent split 50/50. DM me or rip a tab <3

You didn’t expect anything to come from it. The flyer felt more like a ritual than an actual solution. A thing to say you tried.

After kicking out your last roommate — a compulsive liar who never washed her dishes but always had her situationship over — you were honestly ready to live alone, even if it meant eating instant noodles five nights a week. To be fair, you would’ve rather lived with your childhood best friend, Jackie, than a stranger. That, if it wasn’t for the fact that you got accepted in different colleges and lived now in opposites sides of the country.

And then Ellie Williams texted you.

hey, saw your flyer. name’s ellie. i’m clean. no weird food habits if you don’t count eating hot cheetos at 2am. when can i come see the place?

You’d never met her before, but when you looked up her Instagram just to make sure it wasn’t a weirdo, you saw one post only. Two tattoos. A hoodie. A skateboard. A bio that read “ i draw gay shit and forget to eat” and one comment from someone named Dina that said “ur late to dinner bitch.”

You gave her a time and an address before you could overthink it after muttering a quiet “holy fuck” to no one but the actors in the tv show you were watching on your laptop at the time.

She showed up the next day with a backpack slung over one shoulder, a skateboard balanced between the floor and her hand, and a half-empty can of Monster in the other she had forgotten to throw away. She had tired eyes, a soft-looking flannel, paint on her black faded, baggy jeans, one ring on each finger and a crooked smirk the made it hard to tell if she was annoyed or just awkward. You’re pretty sure the first thing you said — out loud, with your mouth before you could stop yourself — was “Oh. You’re… cool. Like the skateboard.”

She smirked, said “thanks,” and walked in like she’d always lived there.

She moved in a week later.

Two years go by faster than you’d think.

You and Ellie fell into a rhythm. Not in that forced, awkward way that sometimes happens with new roommates, but something that felt weirdly easy. Domestic, even. Like she’s been there all along.

You know how she takes her coffee (black, unless she’s hungover. Then it’s extra cream, extra sugar, and no one’s allowed to comment on it), how she sketches with the side of her thumb pressed against her lip, how she uses the same playlist for every road trip you’ve ever taken together, and always fast-forwards through the same two songs even though she never says why.

You learnt that she talks in her sleep sometimes — low murmurs about the best charcoal to use for different types of paper, sometimes memories you’re pretty sure she doesn’t want to share — that she eats her cereal dry because she once read an article about lactose intolerance and just decided to believe it applied to her. She leaves her sketchbooks open on the coffee table and hums movie scores under her breath while folding laundry. She’s a chronic night owl who drinks mint tea out of a chipped mug you thrifted together and wears mismatched socks like it’s intentional. And she makes playlists for people she likes — one for you that she titled “cursed roommate shit” but that has suspiciously romantic transitions.

You became friends, real friends. You’ve been through late-night grocery runs and hangovers and exam week meltdowns. You’ve laid in her bed and talked about childhood trauma. You’ve argued about what kind of pasta is superior (spaghetti was your answers, penne was hers). You’ve danced drunk in the living room to Stevie Nicks and watched her laugh so hard she couldn’t breathe.

And somewhere in all that, you fell for her.

You didn’t plan to. It just sort of happened in that dumb, slow, irreversible way that things happen when you’re in your twenties and overwhelmed and chronically unable to read social cues.

And it wasn’t sudden. Not like a thunderclap. But slow, creeping, inevitable. Like mold in the corners of your heart. You think maybe it started the first time she defended your thesis idea to some dickhead at a party, or when she bought you your favorite oat milk without asking, or the time she tossed you her hoodie after coming back home on a rainy day all drenched and muttered something about you “you look cold, dumbass” before walking away like it didn’t matter.

You’ve tried to forget about it. To pretend it’s not a thing. You’ve told yourself a million times that she’s your best friend, your roommate, that this is comfortable, that there’s no point ruining it with a one-sided crush.

But sometimes she looks at you — across the breakfast table, in the blue glow of the TV, from behind her sketchpad — and you think, god, if she kissed me right now, I’d let her ruin my entire life.

It’s a too perfectly normal, drizzly Thursday when your mom calls. The sound of your phone ringing on the counter next to the microwave as you heat up leftover soup from the night before feels already like a sentence.

You consider letting it ring out. She’s been on a weird streak lately — to be honest, she’s been since the moment you came out to her at 17 — sending you long catholic Facebook posts and articles about “how to walk away from the Devil’s path.” And she’s not the only one. Your father doesn’t really help the situation when — every time he calls — tells you about a new guy from church he thinks would be good for you.

You’re not in the mood. But you also haven’t spoken to her in over a week, and you know she’ll just call again tomorrow.

So you pick up.

“Sweetheart,” she says, chipper like she always is when she wants something. “Haven’t heard from you in weeks. Are you coming home for Christmas?”

You glance over your shoulder. Ellie’s curled up on the couch, hair damp from a shower, sketching something in one of her million sketchbooks. She’s wearing one of your hoodies. You don’t remember when she took it, or if you ever actually said she could keep it, but it looks better on her anyway.

You sigh, loudly, making sure your mom hears it. “Yeah,” you say clipped. “Kinda have to I guess.”

“Oh, good. You’re bringing a boyfriend this time, I hope?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Well, you know, honey,” her voice is casual, but you can already hear your father in the background. “You’re at that age, and your last relationship wasn’t really… suitable.”

“Mom,” you say slowly, “Can we not?”

“I’m just saying, it’s a phase, college and all. I mean, I also thought I was in love with my best friend when I was in college.” she laughs, high pitched, almost syrupy. “You just haven’t found the right man yet. And speaking of which, your father wants you to meet Brian’s son, you know his colleague?”

“You— what?! I'm not—” you start, then stop. Because Ellie is looking up now, blinking at you from over the rim of her sketchbook, and you don’t even know what goes into your mind — maybe the fact that your mother just admitted having being in love with a girl or that she's trying to set you up with your dad's colleague's son, and he’s the most boring, insufferable human being on planet earth — when you say, voice higher than normal, “Actually, I am seeing someone.”

A beat of silence.

“Oh?” your mom chirps. “Well, that’s wonderful! What’s his name?”

Your brain does something it’s not supposed to do. It panics.

“Elliot.”

Your mom hums, pleased. “Bring him. We can’t wait to meet him.”

You avoided Ellie for the rest of the evening.

Not because she did anything wrong — she was sweet, offered you some of her leftover takeout and everything — but because you have a migraine made entirely of what the fuck did I just say. You hole up in your room, texting Jackie for advice, which is a mistake because she replies with:

LMAOOOO not u calling her elliot 💀💀

u gotta tell her before your mom adds her on facebook babe

And then:

unless... u want her to come? 👀

Which no. Absolutely not.

Except also… maybe?

Which brings you to now. Pacing across the living room like a woman possessed, your fingers brushing your lower lip like you do every time that you're nervous, your socked feet moving across the creaky hardwood floors of the apartment while your mind absolutely screams at itself.

Ellie, of course, is on the couch, the picture of infuriating serenity, legs spread wide, arms folded behind her head, flannel shirt unbuttoned over a tank top in that way that makes you forget your own name for a second too long. She’s chewing on the end of a red Twizzler like it’s a cigarette and watching you like you’re the most fascinating documentary she’s ever seen.

“You’re spiraling,” she says, chewing obnoxiously loud. “Wanna tell me why, or should I just guess?”

You stop, turn, stare at her.

“Okay, so,” you start, hands on your hips, trying to ignore the fact that her jeans are riding a little lower than usual and that the hem of her boxers is showing and it’s really not fair. “Before I say anything, I need you to promise not to laugh.”

Ellie raises an eyebrow. “That’s a tall order.”

You shoot her a look. She lifts her hand in surrender, still grinning as she sits up, leaning forward slightly, expression suddenly open, not teasing anymore. Just curious. “Alright. I promise.”

You take a deep breath in, then another. Then, “I might… have told my parents I have a boyfriend.”

Silence. Dead silence.

Ellie blinks. “Sorry, come again?”

“A boyfriend,” you repeat, wincing. “I told them I’m seeing someone and that I’m bringing him home for Christmas.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Ellie stares at you. “…Do I even wanna know why?” she asks.

“I panicked,” you explain quickly, talking with your hands, words tumbling over each other like they’re fighting to escape. “They kept asking if I was seeing anyone. They’ve been trying to set me up with every available man in a three-state radius and then my mom started with the it’s just a phase crap and I— I don’t know, I just— I said I had someone so they’d stop.”

“Okay…” Ellie says slowly, tilting her head. “And I’m guessing they want to meet him.”

“Yup.”

She hums, finishing her Twizzler and dusting her hands off from crumbs that are not there. “So what,” she asks. “You’re gonna show up with an imaginary boyfriend? Have dinner with an empty chair?”

There’s another beat of silence, heavy and loud during which you just stare at her, cheeks flaring up.

Ellie leans back again, the corner of her mouth twitching as she raises one brow. “Why do I feel like I’m getting involved?”

You scratch the bridge of your nose, head lowering just enough so you’re looking at her through your lashes, like you’re embarrassed to even ask this. “I need you to come with me.”

Ellie stares at you again, so you rush to clarify. “Not as you. I mean, yes, as you, obviously, but like— not as you you. As the boyfriend. Well, okay, not as a boyfriend. More like… as my girlfriend. But you know, faking it. Obviously.”

You stare at Ellie, trying not to visibly wither under her gaze. Her face is unreadable, your pulse is loud.

The silence stretches just long enough for you to want to melt into the hardwood.

And then she says, in a voice so casual you want to throw something at her, “You want me to go full dyke on your conservative parents?”

You groan, one hand covering your eyes. “Don’t say it like that.”

“But that’s what this is, “she argues, already grinning like she’s having the time of her life. “You want me to march into your parents’ house, hold your hand in front of your mom who still signs Facebook posts with a cross emoji and make your dad’s forehead vein pop.”

You sigh. “Pretty much.” And then, quieter, lowering your hand. “Please. Just for the holiday. I’ll cook dinner for a week, deep clean the bathroom. I’ll do your laundry.”

Ellie’s still grinning. “You already do my laundry.”

“Ellie.”

She pauses for a moment. Then shrugs. “Sure. I’ll do it.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not?” She stands, stretching her arms overhead, her tank top riding up just enough to flash the soft line of her stomach, and your eyes do that terrible, traitorous thing where they follow it. “Could be fun. Plus, if I get to traumatize a couple of bigots and make you squirm a little, well… Merry Christmas to me.”

You cross your arms, huff, open your mouth to argue, to protest that you’re not going to squirm, that it’s strictly platonic, that you’ve got this under control, but Ellie’s already walking toward the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Better start practicing calling me babe, roomie.”

And the worst part?

You love the idea of being able to call her that. Even if it's all pretend.

You are barely out of the city limits and you're already questioning every decision you’d ever made. Specifically the one where you told your conservative, god-fearing parents that you were bringing your boyfriend home for Christmas.

Even more specifically the one where you decided your fake boyfriend would be Ellie Williams.

You’re driven this highway more times that you can count — always the same roads, the same pit stop with the aggressively Christina billboards, the same playlist that loops old Phoebe Bridgers song until you’re ready to veer into traffic — but this time, it’s different.

This time, Ellie’s in the passenger seat.

This time, your heart is trying to hammer its way out of your ribs.

She’s got one leg kicked up on the dash, hoodie sleeves rolled to her elbows like she’s trying to be your downfall without even meaning to, sunglasses pushed up into her hair although there is no sun for her to need them, fingers tapping out an offbeat rhythm on the leather armrest likes she’s been perfectly relaxed since the second you pulled out of the driveway.

And you hate her for it.

Because you, on the other hand, are white-knuckling the steering wheel and chewing the inside of your cheek eat as your try to focus on the road and not the girl in your passenger seat.

“You’re quiet,” she says eventually, voice casual, not teasing, not concerned. Just observing, which is somehow worse.

“I’m driving.” You say, not even looking at her.

“You’re spiraling. Again.” She corrects, like she’s reading a script she’s already memorized. “And not even silently. You’re doing that thing with your mouth.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you’re trying not to bite your lip because it’s already chapped, so now you’re just pressing your tongue against your teeth like a little weirdo.”

Your risk a glare. “Why are you even here.”

Ellie shrugs. “Free food, a chance to ruin a Republican’s weekend, and the faint hope that you’ll finally admit you have a crush on me. Take your pick.”

You nearly swerve into the next lane.

She grins like she knows exactly what she’s doing, and you hate her. You hate her so much. Which is a problem, considering you’re also fully in love with her, and she’s about to walk into your deeply religious, Fox News before dinner household and pretend to be the mysterious boyfriend you told your mother about in a blind panic.

You groan. “God, I shouldn’t have dragged you into this.”

Ellie snorts, shrugs. “Babe, I’ve been to a Trump-voting uncle’s wedding in Kansas once. I can handle your mom."

You hate how easily the word babe slips out of her mouth, like she’s practicing. Like she doesn’t even have to try to make your heart to somersaults in your chest.

“Don’t call me that.” You mutter.

“But I have to call you that,” she says, voice syrupy with fake offense. “We’re in love, remember?”

You slam your blinker on just for something to do with your hands.

“I swear to God, Ellie—”

“I mean, I could call you something else,” she muses, tapping her finger against her chin. “Sugarplum? Angelcakes? Snugglemuffin?”

“Do you want me to crash this car?”

Ellie grins, wide and smug, like she has already won.

You don’t look at her again. Can’t. Not when your hands are trembling just slightly on the steering wheel. Not when your stomach is doing that horrible fluttering thing it only does around her. Not when every new mile feels like the edge of a cliff.

Because the worst part of all of this wasn’t the lie, or the fake dating, or even your parents.

It's the fact that Ellie is really good at pretending.

Too good.

And you aren't pretending at all.

When you finally get to your house, it looks exactly as you left it: same lawn, same cracked front step, same chipped Mary statue in the flower bed, same stupid wind chime your mom bought on sale from a christian gift shop that played “Amazing Grace” whenever there was even a whisper of breeze.

You pull up slowly, your foot hovering over the brake like your body is trying to stop you before your brain can catch up. Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears. Your palms are sweaty on the steering wheel.

Ellie stretches next to you, arms overhead, hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of tattooed skin just above her jeans, her boots thudding back to the floor with a casual clunk.

“Well,” she says, peering out the windshield. “This is… aggressively suburban.”

You swallow. “Yup.”

“Is that a Virgin Mary in the bushes?”

“Don’t look directly at her. She’ll smite you.”

Ellie snorts. “Can’t wait.”

You kill the engine. The silence after it cuts out feels heavier than it should, like the air itself is preparing for impact.

Ellie leans over to grab her bag from the back seat and you take the opportunity to not look at her, instead staring down the familiar outline of your childhood home like it might open up and eat you whole. The porch light is already on, even though it’s barely 6pm. Your mom probably put it on a timer.

You open the door before you can overthink the whole situation. The sky is that cloudy December gray that always makes you feel like time is standing still. The cold bites at your skin the second you step out, rounding your car to grab your overnight bag from the trunk with a little too much force.

You take one deep breath and turn toward the house.

Ellie walks up beside you, her leather jacket slung over her hoodie, bag thrown over one shoulder like she wasn’t about to commit emotional arson in a god-fearing household. Her other hand reaches out and gently tugs your bag away from you without asking, slinging it over her free shoulder like it weighs nothing.

You blink. “You—”

“I’m your girlfriend, right?” she says, not looking at you. “Chivalry and shit.”

Yeah, you feel like burying your own body right now.

When you knock on the door, it opens before you can even retreat your hand.

And there she is: your mom, in her holiday cardigan, hair perfectly curled a big wide smile on her lips that drops immediately as soon as her eyes lays on Ellie.

You can see her recalculating, her gaze trailing from Ellie’s smudged combat boots to the rings on her fingers, to the way she’s standing half a step closer to you than anyone should be. She’s trying to do the math, trying to reconcile the image of the boyfriend she was promised with the woman currently rocking a forearm tattoo and a backpack covered in band pins.

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares.

You step forward. “Mom, this is Ellie. My—“

You hesitate. Ellie doesn’t.

“Girlfriend,” she finishes brightly, stepping in and offering a hand like she’s meeting your parole officer. “Thanks so much for having me. It’s nice to finally meet you, ma’am.”

“Oh,” she says, eyes flicking to Ellie’s hand like it might bite her. Then slowly, hesitantly, reaching for it. “Her… girlfriend.”

Ellie grins, shaking her hand. “Guilty.”

You cough into your sleeve to hide the sound you make. Before anyone can speak again your mom ushers both of you inside like she’s on autopilot, and Ellie follows you with her usual saunter, the one that screams I’ve never once been embarrassed a day in my life. And your dad, looking up from his recliner in the living room, just stares when he sees her. Dose’t stand, doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say a word.

Ellie waves. He grunts.

Your mom clears her throat so nervously you can feel the scratch in her throat in your own. “Well, let’s eat. Dinner’s going cold.”

Ellie follows you to the dining table, her hand brushing your lower back just slightly; the kind of gesture that is meant to look instinctive, but isn’t. You know that. You know it’s part of the act. You have to remind yourself of that.

But your skin burns anyway.

Dinner feels like a war. Polite, calculated violence in the shape of casserole dishes and butter knives. You knew it was going to be bad the second you saw what tablecloth your mom had set the table with.

Not the everyday one. Not the Christmas one, even. But the white lace one she's only ever used when company was coming over. Real company. Important company. Straight company. People with church connections and J names and conservative mortgages and painfully well-behaved dogs.

The roast is on the table. The wine is poured. The fucking candlelight is flickering like you this dinner was meant to be leading to your engagement over brisket. 

Ellie pulls out your chair for you like she was born to make this worse and you sit down too fast and try not to scream while your mom blinks a few too many times at the gesture, like she isn't sure if she's witnessing something sinful or just polite. Maybe both. Maybe it’s the overlap that's making her nauseous.

Ellie takes the seat beside you; close, because the table is small, but also it’s not that small. She could be sitting like a normal person, leave a little room. Instead, her knee touches yours. Her thigh touches yours. Her elbow brushes yours every time she reaches for her glass and she never apologizes for it. Not once.

You mom asks Ellie about her plans for the future in a voice that sounds like she’s trying not to gag, your dad stares daggers across the table like Ellie’s presence is a personal insult, and she — sweet, polite and perfect — is playing it all off like it’s a goddamn game show.

She says things that never happened, making them up on the spot, like “We met online. Not like, on a dating app. something adjacent.” and, “She tole my fries on our first date and I fell in love immediately,” and “I think we balance each other out, y’know?” I’m the chaos she’s the structure.”

And you? You’re dying.

Melting into your chair, cheeks flushed so hard you’re surprised you’re not catching fire, barely able to chew because Ellie’s got one hand under the table resting lightly against your knee and every now and then she taps like she’s checking to see if you’ll fall apart.

Your mother laughs in that brittle way she does when she’s uncomfortable. “And how long have you two been… seeing each other?”

Ellie squeezes your knee. Gently. Like a secret.

“Eight months,” she says.

Your pulse trips over itself. She’s lying so easily. Too easily. Her voice calm and steady, like she has rehearsed it, like she has been ready to say it the second the opportunity presented itself. You glance over at her and she is already looking back, smiling like this is a game she is currently winning.

“It started kind of slow,” she adds, dragging her thumb across the fabric of your jeans twice, like it meant nothing. “But once it clicked, it clicked. Y'know?”

Your mom doesn’t answer, just blinks. The fork in her hand hovering awkwardly over the salad bowl like she has forgotten what it is for.

“We were friends first,” Ellie continues, turning back to your parents. “Best friends, actually. We do everything together.”

You open your mouth to interrupt, to maybe soften the edges of whatever this performance is, but Ellie keeps going.

“She takes care of me when I’m sick. Makes soup. Sleeps on the floor next to the couch like some kind of nurse from a tragic wartime romance.”

You shut your mouth again. Hard.

“She also steals all the covers,” Ellie goes on thoughtfully, tilting her head. “And she kicks in her sleep. Which I forgive, because she makes this little noise when she’s dreaming, like a puppy. It’s kind of adorable.”

Your mom looks actively in pain. Your dad mutters something that sounds like “Dear Lord."

Meanwhile, you want to crawl under the table and expire next to the dinner rolls.

Ellie, on the other hand and to no one’s surprise, looks thrilled. “Sorry,” she says, turning back to you with a hand on your thigh now, fully resting there, like it belongs there. “Am I embarrassing you, baby?”

You stare at her, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. She only grins wider, so hard that it makes you want to slap her and kiss her and slap her again.

“I just really love her,” she says, loud enough that your mom’s wine glass wobbles when she sets it down too fast. “I mean, it’s easy. Look at her.”

Your dad makes the kind of noise people usually make before a heart attack.

You tried to speak — to say “Ellie, stop”, or “they’re going to throw holy water on you”, or maybe just “please” — but she leaned in again, conspiratorial this time.

“Do you think it’s too much if I feed you a bite?” she asks quietly. “Like, if I cut up your ham for you? What would the Pope say?”

“Ellie,” you hiss, too late.

Because she’s already picking up her knife. Already slicing the meat like she’s your personal chef-girlfriend from some unholy sitcom. Already placing a forkful on your plate with the most sincere look of devotion you’d ever seen on her face.

“There you go, angel,” she says. “Just how you like it.”

Your mom stands up to “check the pie.” Your dad asks if anyone wants iced tea and then leaves the room entirely.

Ellie sits back in her chair, glowing. You stare at your food. At your lap. At the fucking flickering candle between you. Every part of your body is humming like an exposed nerve.