Constantly Moodboarding

The store’s annoyingly bright lights feel like they're drilling into her skull, and this current customer keeps aggressively tapping their credit card onto the chip reader the wrong way.

“Miss—,” Megan starts.

“It’s Ma’am.” The senior corrects, immediately complaining about how the youth is just sooo disrespectful nowadays. 

“Ma'am,” Megan fixes sarcastically. “The um—the chip reader isn't on the pin pad, it’s actually right abov—“

The old lady immediately waves her off—or more accurately waves their old leathery palm towards Megan’s face in a quick circular, shut up, ‘I know what I’m doing’ motion—with an annoyed expression on their face, and overall decides it’s in her best interest to ignore Megan’s attempt at advice. 

Continuing to smack the card against the PIN pad like it owed her money. 

Megan closes her eyes, slowly, in a self-regulation sort of manner before she loses her shit on this lady. She’s only here because she doesn’t have enough protected paid sick time off (ppto) to cover for this shift. 

Megan briefly wonders if death would actually hurt less than another hour of this, but then—naturally—moves on to daydreaming about Dani. (Her not quite yet girlfriend?) 

Specifically about Daniela pressing cool hands to her forehead as a makeshift ice pack if she’s lucky, and then maybe kissing her fever-flushed skin if she somehow got even luckier—when the sound of automatic doors sliding open decide to interrupt with an increasingly; due to her rising fever, obnoxious chime, like its been doing all fucking day.

Except this time, it’s not a tired middle-aged parent and their snotty kid begging to be bought the newest iPhone.

It’s not even an elderly person coming in with a “virus” that turns out to just be their screen brightness turned all the way down.

It’s Manon. 

Which—objectively, might be worse.

The continuous beeping of the card reader in front of her is what pulls Megan’s eye off of Manon, at the front of the store’s doors, and back onto the lady in front of her. Who's staring right back at her?

“You can remove your card now ma’am.” Megan mentions, noticing that's the reason the machine keeps beeping, wondering why the lady hasn’t done so already. 

“Just give me my shit—Meg-un,” says the elderly woman reading out Megan’s name tag antagonizingly as she removes said card from the reader.

“And I want it double bagged. Y’all’s bags here be flimsy and cheap as I-don’t-know-what.” The woman finishes off resolutely, even though all she’s buying is a charger.

Once finished bagging—double bagging, Megan hands the bag to the woman, who snatches it with an audible thrash that only an—admittedly—cheap plastic bag could make. 

The woman then leaves the register with a huff.

Gets catcalled by Manon on the way out for apparently being a GILF. 

Smacks Manon upside the head for being an unmannered delinquent. 

Which leads to a ‘Ow—FUCK, all I said was you look good ma.’ from Manon being halfheartedly yelled, because yeah even Manon knows she was doing too much. Probably deserved that one.

Anywho, the elderly woman continues on her way and once fully out the store, and in Megan’s direct line of sight opens the plastic bag she really didn’t need, tosses it into the trash can and continues on her way into the parking lot with just the small box the charger came in. 

Bitch?

But also back to Manon. 

Manon, who's rubbing the back of her head, quite literally stumbling into view, high as a kite on her own supply and wearing sunglasses indoors like she's in a bad spy movie.

Hoodie half-up, beanie haphazardly on in a way that obviously had to be effortless, because of how crooked it is, yet still somehow hot; in that filthy-hot kind of way.

(Like James Franco? Or more accurately that Pete Davidson type beat. Either way that older lady definitely would’ve let her hit if she was at least twenty years older. Because after 40 who’s really counting age gaps.)

Pupils so blown out Megan wouldn’t be surprised if Manon couldn’t even physically see the register.

Still. Somehow? Manon manages to actually spot Megan, and with all the grace of someone on a—twelve hour edible can muster, walks up to Megan’s register, and leans way too far over the counter; likely to stabilize herself—invading both personal space and ignoring social etiquette, respectively.

“Yo. Megs,” Manon begins—way too loud for how close they are to each other, slapping both of her palms down on the checkout’s counter. 

“Y’all sell phones here?” Manon asks. Currently on a mission to find another cheap, disposable burner phone, because Sophia threw her last one right out the passenger side window. 

Manon can actually remember it like it was yesterday. Because it was, just—yesterday. But still. 

Manon was flooring it down the freeway, their usual not-really-an-argument about what they are, being ping-ponged back and forth in the car. 

Then Manon cracks a joke that’s a little too true, a shade too disrespectful for Sophia’s taste—and Sophia snaps.

No warning either, just batshit-bipolar-like-grace, and next thing Manon knew, she saw her burner phone flying out the window at 95 mph. 

Megan interrupts by clearing her throat. Sick of seeing Manon stare off into space, Manon’s pupils getting a tad bit more dilated by the second, looking off like she’s remembering something particularly romantic.

Megan blinks slowly through their own feverish haze because—remember—Megan is sick, like sick sick. “...Yes.”

Then gestures weakly at the entire wall of devices behind them labeled 'CELL PHONES' in six-foot letters. Cause DUH. 

Megan, seeing Manon locking back into present time, decides to give Manon more grace than she probably deserves and just rubs her temple before muttering. “This is a Best Buy Manon.”

Manon nods in satisfaction, as if Best Buy selling phones was some brand new news—and then grins way too wide before slapping a hand flat on the counter again, pulling out a couple hundred dollars in straight cash from (somewhere?) deep within her hoodie before asking with utter seriousness. “Can you get me some shit that—doesn’t track?”

Pause. “Also, do ya’ll take EBT?” Manon presses, because old habits die hard, and she’s high, so old habits die even harder.

Megan stares confused at Manon and then at the cash in Manon’s hand. Coughs into her arm. And stares some more. 

Giving a Manon a stare that silently screams, ‘Why are you asking for EBT if you clearly have enough cash in your hand?’ And also ‘I know you got money’ stop playing with me.

Because Megan likes pocket watching in her, ‘on the clock free time’.

“...Manon,” Megan says eventually while scratching the back of her neck, semi-confused, “this is Best Buy, not a black market, everything here can be tracked, and no we do not take EBT.” 

Manon lifts her head to meet Megan’s gaze—eyes unfocused but still convincingly unimpressed with Megan’s answer—like it’s Megan’s fault, and then glances around a bit before remembering where she is. 

Now poking the “This transaction will be monitored for security purposes” sign with intense focus. 

“...What does this mean?” Manon trails off, voice hushed, clearly paranoid. “…Watched? Who? By what? ..Cameras?” Manon then slowly turns her head toward the ceiling corner. 

“Are they watching me right now? I cannot go to prison Megan. I’m way too sexy (and easy). I’d leave with too many child support checks to pay. Sophia would actually—fucking kill me.” Manon blanches dead serious. (because apparently that’s where Sophia draws the line? honestly what Megan does know about Manon and Sophia’s long term situationship confuses her) 

Manon, though, is genuinely a touch panicked by the thought of prison itself. More than a sprinkle narcissistic of what would inevitably (in her opinion) happen in her time there—after all, she did earn the nickname MeretNoMerits Bannerman during her very first year of college.

For admittedly, a—justified reason(s). Two words. Ran through. 

Because in Manon’s very own, mind you—only three years ago, words verbatim, ‘when the dick is that good, moaning is quite literally not even not an option; these bitches can actually formulate thoughts to choose, on whether to, or not to do. It just happens.’ 

A hoe phase that was only a constant, before meeting her beautifully manipulative counterpart—Sophia in the middle of sophomore year. 

That sexy-conniving-crazy-bitch. Though some half hearted threats made by Sophia literally can’t work because of said gigantic hoe phase, which Manon doesn't know whether or not to be grateful for.

Threatening to leak dick pic’s for one—does not work if a decent chunk of the entire college's female student body has already seen it in some capacity. 

Also that's a tad too invasive for Sophia’s flavor of revenge. And it’s hypocritical to slut shame someone when keeping in mind her best friend is—was—perhaps at the same level of slutiness, or maybe a tad bit worse.

That’s why—Sophia threatens to toss electronics out windows instead. The minor but multiple inconveniences route is—much more efficient in aggravating Manon. 

Sophia—who is so similar and yet so wonderfully different from her; and Manon supposes Daniela; who would partake in more Manon-like habits, just more commonly with men instead. 

Deciding to mentally throw Daniela under the bus, Manon’s mind drifts—absentmindedly—remembering how Daniela had a whole university subreddit page dedicated to her. 

Which for Megan's blissfully unaware sake, has thank God, since been deleted. 

Though Manon might or might not bring it up at a later time, depending—entirely, on how vindictive she’s feeling at the moment. Especially if Daniela decides to short her $15 on another deal again. 

Because—believe it or not, Manon’s weed prices are not negotiable—like some, refuse to believe. 

The family and friend's discount Daniela “gets” through Sophia, is made up bullshit. 

“What you are, is high out of your mind Manon,” Megan says, cutting Manon back to present reality—again. 

Manon at least doesn’t disagree and instead just shrugs—and moves onto another topic, either by choice or more likely brain fog, Megan’s not too sure.

“Why are you all pale n’ shit? You dying?” Manon prods, since this is her version of moving onto another topic.

“I'm fine,” Megan lies as she glares weakly at Manon, before breaking into a sudden coughing fit that has her clutching at the countertop to stay upright.

“No, I'm serious. No bullshit—You look like shit.” Manon adds unflinchingly judgmental and also (HELLO) hypocritically? in her ebbing and flowing weed induced state.

“Thanks. That’s exactly what I needed to hear. From you, of all people," Megan mutters between raspy, uneven breaths as she adjusts her name tag—each breath sounding like something increasingly asthmatic and just overall sick. 

“Manon. Please. Either buy something or actually just go away. I do not need this right now.” Because yes, there’s still a line forming behind this drug-addled circus act currently blocking an entire register just to emotionally torture her.

Manon though, predictably, couldn’t give a fuck less about the line—or the people in it. 

But she did come here for a reason, so at the sudden reminder of actually having one, she does decide to drift off into the aisles of Best Buy, wholeheartedly looking for what she came here for, after having her fill of messing with Megan at her job. 

Which leaves Megan to get flirted with by the next person in line. 

Some lady who could only be described correctly in the accurate acronym usage of the word milf (not gilf), who apparently read ‘unasked-for discount’ as ‘take me now.’ 

Megan really can’t help but stare blankly and adjust her glasses uncomfortably, wondering if she’s already starting to hallucinate due to her fever or if this is just some sort of late-stage retail psychosis. 

$

Manon and Sophia are prowling through the back aisles of CVS—the kind where condoms are basically chained to the shelves and a Plan B might as well require a signed confession to God.

Sophia taps her acrylics mindlessly against the cart’s handlebar, while watching a worker unlock the shelf.

Their cart’s already a quarter full—not that she’s paying for any of its contents—but it’s getting annoying to push. 

Or maybe the fact that she’s pushing it in the first place is what makes it annoying. Doesn’t matter. She’s irritated regardless. 

Manon, sweatpants slung low enough to show a teasing outline of her dick print through her boxers; which Sophia eyes can’t help but linger on, looks for the largest boxes of branded condoms with an unnecessary amount of flair, skipping right past the average section, and looking deliberately towards the large and extra large area. 

“You want ribbed? Glow-in-the-dark? Or extra thin so you can pretend it’s not even there?” Manon throws out somewhat considerately and also intrigued to know Sophia’s answer.

Sophia considers her options before tilting her head and casually pointing at the glow-in-the-dark-ones just because if they actually end up using them for once—why not make it interesting. 

“Those.” Sophia drawls as Manon swipes the glow-in-the-dark’s off the shelf and tosses the condoms into the cart next to the birth control like they’re just a bag of chips. 

They then continue down the aisles, straight towards the reason Sophia specifically came here with Manon for. 

Medicine for Sophia and Daniela’s shared pet cat, Anastasia. 

Manon cannot help but lean against the pharmacy counter, drumming her fingers on the glass display case as Sophia fills out paperwork for actual cat medicine—for a UTI, supposedly—which literal cats can also get. 

A fact Manon refuses to believe, convinced this is just Sophia’s version of a euphemism.

“You’re fucking with me,” Manon says convinced, squinting at Sophia signing papers. “Your cat was just trying to gut me when I picked you up and now it suddenly has ‘urinary issues’?”

Sophia doesn’t even bother looking up from signing her name on the registration sheet. “She and—you were holding her wrong.”

Manon scoffs. “Holding her wrong my ass—that little asshole has a personal vendetta against me.” Manon then leans in close, voice dropping semi accusingly. “...Unless this ‘cat medicine’ isn't actually for that cat?”

Sophia rolls her eyes so hard it should hurt, before putting down her pen and giving Manon a deadpanned look and then throwing an apologetic one to the ‘kinda vet? pharmacist whatever lady’ who’s definitely overhearing all this shit from over the counter, but also—wisely deciding to not get involved. 

“It’s for my literal pet cat Manon.” Sophia says—slowly enunciating each word, just so Manon can hear how ridiculous any idea otherwise sounds out loud. 

Regardless, Manon's fingers twitch toward the waistband of Sophia's two piece designer sweat suit with zero subtlety—like she's about to yank it down right there in the veterinary pharmacy checkout line, just so she can check herself.

Sophia—clocking—the slight twitch of Manon’s fingers gives Manon an immediate smack on the wrist. 

An action that not even a second later, is accompanied by a lowly hissed warning of, ‘Stop it. Not here.’ (Although Sophia doesn’t actually make a move to step back or even move away from Manon to fully prevent such behavior.)

Manon does not flinch—but, the slap does manage to make her pause for a second mid-CVS-store-grope. 

A look of accusing disbelief continues to rest on Manon’s face. 

Sophia, finally handed over the first part of the medication by the pharmacist, shakes the prescription bottle in front of Manon's face for emphasis. 

Her smirk teasing but sharp—laced with something that’s dangerously close to mocking, even though they both know their on-again-off-again situation doesn't technically ever include strict exclusivity clauses. 

Still, Manon is irked (and feeling a bit betrayed because they’ve been doing good for the past two weeks straight) at the mere thought of someone else having Sophia in that sort of way. 

Knowing that at least when she does her trifling shit, if nothing else, she’ll make the effort to fully wrap up. 

So if 1+1 equals 2…then there should be NO FUCKING REASON why Sophia's should ever be burning, UNLESS she’s fucking with someone else. 

Which Manon is still convinced of. 

“Soph, you're moving mad weird. Already doing—entirely, way too much.” Manon says warningly clearly not giving a shit about subtly at this point.

“And you’re being childish as—fuck.” Sophia returns before paying for the medicine—not with her own money obviously, and also not truly caring about how bothered Manon may or may not be.

Manon clicks her tongue and pushes the cart forward when Sophia gets handed the rest of her ‘cats’ medicine.

“Aight, so it is like that. You sneaky bitch—who is he?” Manon says indignant, tone still surprisingly even despite the conversation and transparent annoyance/jealousy. 

Though there is a hard to miss edge underneath—like she doesn't fully care but could and would also definitely crash the fuck out at any given moment and go hunt someone down.

Like the predator if he was in a quan millz book. 

Even so, Sophia pays her no extra mind and only glances over at Manon again, when she and Manon make it to the general checkout lanes and out of the strictly pharmaceutical lanes—she slowly raises one perfect eyebrow while watching Manon slide their more general items onto the conveyor belt.

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s for my pet cat, Manon. Pet. Cat. Who has been having difficulty urinating which you know” A beat passes. 

“She pissed into my shoe, which took precision and calculation—two feet—away, from her litter box, while looking dead at me.” Manon says unimpressed.

“Oh my god my poor baby, just couldn’t make it those two extra feet.” Sophia says sincerely empathetic. “She probably thought your shoe—was—the litter box Manon.”

Manon blinks once—then scrutinizes Sophia like she might be joking. 

But no, Sophia is completely stone-faced while, now, watching the cashier scan their shit into bags; looking at the different selections of medicine, unsure of which ones her cat will actually agree to swallow.

“Mhm, sure.” Manon hums, still not convinced.

Sophia, finally sick of the silent accusations, levels Manon with a look drier than CVS-brand lube and grabs some gum from the checkout display and puts it onto the conveyor with unnecessary force. “Cats hide illness until they're actively dying, Manon. Something you would have hopefully learned if you actually attended more than half of your biology lectures.”

Manon bites back a comment—something she only has enough grace to do when concerning Sophia, and instead pulls out her phone. Likely Googling all about actual cats, just to see if Sophia’s lying to her face. 

All the while, some poor employee continues scanning and bagging items for two ridiculously attractive people that really can’t be trusted not to argue at least 40% of the time they’re next to each other.

Sophia looks away in exasperation but doesn’t actually say anything else as Manon pulls out her phone. 

Only calling for Manon’s attention again in the store when it's time to pay, as Manon half-heartedly mutters something about ‘high-maintenance-ain’t-shit-ass-bitches’ under her breath and also undeniably loud enough for Sophia to hear. 

Sophia, again, deliberately—ignores her. Knowing that the end of the night is going to end with her riding the attitude out of Manon anyways. 

$

Megan slips into her early morning lecture thirty minutes late—extremely uncommon for her.

She coughs into her arm, trying to appear composed, but the fever has already betrayed her, turning one cough into a coughing spell. 

All it would take from anyone in the room is one look at her and it would be crystal clear, she’s sick, worn down, and barely holding herself together. Pants about to fall off her ass. Don’t give a fuck no more. All that.

Fortunately, the professor—Megan being one of their favorites—spares her the humiliation ritual of a mid-lecture callout as she hobbles towards a seat. 

Had she been anyone else, especially Manon or Daniela, who are—at the moment, both skipping this class, respectively, it would have been a different story. 

The closest open spot is next to Sophia. 

Megan could make the effort to find another seat, but right now, the thought of walking any farther is exhausting, and she doubts Sophia will kill her for sitting next to her—even if she is feverish. 

Though sitting within Sophia’s presence is intimidating in ways that make Megan’s stomach twist all over again anyways. Daniela’s best friend. Manon’s sometimes girlfriend. Effortlessly pretty. Unnervingly nice. 

That kind of nice that makes you pause—in a, is she really that nice or is this just soft-edged mockery, sort of way. 

Sophia’s smile seems warm, but the tone, the tilt of her head, always keeps you on edge. 

More than that, Megan’s never even been around Sophia one-on-one before—theres always been Dani or Manon as a buffer.

So after a moment longer of consideration and standing up like an idiot while everyone else in the room was already sitting down, Megan bites the bullet and sits her ass down next to Sophia, extremely careful—not to topple over. 

Sophia slides over—politely, making room, though Megan can’t tell if it’s wholly because she’s just being considerate or if it’s because she thinks Megan might be contagious. 

The silence is brutal. Pointed? At least on Sophia's side. 

Megan’s brain is going static, even if it’s not expected for people to talk during lectures. 

Sophia however, doesn’t seem to share Megan’s anxiety. 

Her eyes flick from Megan’s outfit to her face and back again—disturbingly clinical-like, but not quite making the leap and reaching rude. 

Sophia’s scanning, if she's being—internally—honest, trying to figure out what about this quiet, hoodie-wearing, nerdy girl has caused Daniela to drop her usual succubus-like antics and wait patiently or as patiently as Daniela can wait. 

Showing almost nun-like levels of self-control to not bluntly tell Megan exactly what she wants—and make it happen. A level of restraint Sophia didn’t even know Daniela was genuinely capable of.

Not that Sophia’s ever cared about whether or not Daniela decided to whore herself out to the student body masses. 

She’s only ever hoped that Dani stays safe and never comes back pregnant—since Sophia believes herself to be too young to be appointed into a godmother position. 

But, for the past month or two, it has been a bit of a quiet ease—not having guys constantly crying on their shared doorstep begging to be let in—after being converted into yet another, pussy-whipped frat bro.

Sophia’s eyes once again flick towards Megan. 

Megan sits on the edge of her seat—too nervous to even check her phone, in case Sophia sees it and somehow manages to even judge the wallpaper. (Sophia wouldn’t.) 

Sophia, despite her own situation with Manon, decides that if Megan’s going to be sticking around she might as well get the subtle shovel talk and interview out of the way. 

Rewardless of currently being in a room full of at least a hundred other people. 

So far, in Sophia’s books, Megan is 3-0 from previous encounters, one instance including letting them (Sophia, Daniela, and Manon) all crash at her apartment when they were blackout drunk, and not trying to pull any weird-shit.

So far so good. Better than 67% of the competition already. 

“So, Megan. What do you like about Dani?” Sophia inquires, eyes on her notes, feigning only casual interest.

“I mean—she’s funny. She’s nice. She’s—” Megan stops, laughing nervously, scratching the back of her neck—a habitual tic—when Sophia doesn’t react at all. Fuckkk. 

“Those are adjectives, Megan. I’m asking what about her.” Sophia bulldozes on, unimpressed and then showing—zero signs of sympathy when Megan has another near-death sounding coughing episode. 

She does however unflinchingly continue to sit next to Megan, instead of shaking in disgust, or moving a couple seats down, like some probably would/should have, which Megan guesses is better than nothing, all while intermittently writing down notes about whatever it is that the professor is now yapping about. 

Moments later Sophia’s gaze finds its way back to Megan—with the calm surgical curiosity of someone who wants a real answer. This time trying a different approach.

“Dani said you’re studying bioengineering.” Sophia brings up, having found out through round-about-observations Sophia has made on Megan through Daniela.

Namely Daniela going on a rant about how she's basically been celibate for so long (a month and a half) she can feel her uterus caving in on itself. 

Telling Sophia how she had to hold back from telling Megan ‘How about you let me bioengineer this pussy onto your dick’ when Megan told her what her major was, because it really—was not—the time.

Megan and Daniela were in line for coffee at a crowded shop before going to a mutual class that they shared , some suburban soccer moms were in the back having a brunch get together, some of their husbands were obviously staring at her, some children were in the front stealing from displays, and some elderly were on the side enjoying the time they have left on earth. 

So yeah. Not the time.

Anyways, bioengineering.

“Yeah.” Megan agrees with a casual shrug, because it’s true also—what else was she supposed to say or do.

“So… you’re the reason she—suddenly knows what tissue scaffolding is—I was starting to believe she just thought it was just another word for skincare.” Sophia’s tone’s bone-dry, not mean, but teasing—the kind of joke only a best friend could make. 

Megan blinks, laughs nervously, but then—something in her face hardens a little. “Well… I mean, Daniela got into this class too. Her advisor literally advised it. And I doubt her grade changes solely based on what—you may or may not believe—she knows.” Megan says out loud with a scoff before she can stop herself. 

The words slip out faster than she means them to—and her tone is sharper than what she’d normally allow even when dealing with Manon—defending Daniela without even thinking.

Sophia freezes slightly from writing more notes down and looks up. And actually smiles. Not a full grin—just a little corner-tilt, like she wasn’t expecting that. (She was. But Megan doesn’t need to know that.) 

Megan, realizing she might’ve just led herself to an early death, after—unexpectedly, sassing Sophia.

Megan looks ready to apologize in about fifteen different languages, which she doesn’t even know.

Sophia however, waves her off innocently, even more silently amused after seeing Megan’s panic stricken face—she looks at Megan weirdly proud. 

Standing up for Dani without calculation.

Sophia makes a mental note to actually text Daniela about Megan's condition later. Knowing Dani would—jump at the excuse to play nurse.

And they need to hit an actual grocery store later today anyway—they’re completely out of coconut water and the medicine from CVS with Manon, did absolutely nothing for the cat; poor Anastasia. 

$

The automatic doors slide open, and Daniela struts in with all the confidence of a regional manager about to do a quality check of the store.

Behind her, Sophia trails with an overweight and ailing creature tucked into her designer jacket as she coos softly at it.

They head straight for the pet care aisle, deciding to get the most mind-consuming part of their haul out of the way first. Sophia holds up a bag of organic, grain-free, salmon-flavored cat food.

“This one says holistic, Dani.”

Daniela squints at the price tag and nearly drops her phone. “Soph, that costs more than our shared Netflix subscription—hell no.” Daniela grabs a cheaper bag off the shelf—Meow Mix. 

“She doesn’t need to eat better than we do. The vet said she’s obese. Stop enabling her.” Anastasia—looks offended, or as offended as a cat can look. 

Like meow ‘why is this bitch rationing my shit?’ meow?

Sophia rolls her eyes but ultimately sets down the overpriced bag and reluctantly takes the Meow Mix. “Fine. We’ll get the literal garbage. Since apparently our love for Anastasia has limits.” She flips the bag over, scanning the nutrition labels.

“That—‘literal garbage’ is what kept her alive for—years, before you even showed up,” Daniela says right back to Sophia, slightly offended. “You can barely even carry her Sophia. This is an issue.”

Anastasia bares well taken care of teeth at her first owner. And leans back into her second more spoiling one—comfortably. 

Daniela rolls her eyes, used to it.

Sophia waves her off and continues to halfheartedly read the ingredients, and then eventually drops the Meow Mix into the cart—partly because it’s acceptable, mostly because she can’t juggle both the bag, and the heavy-as-fuck cat at the same time.

A moment later, after the Meow-Mix-ordeal, Sophia subsequently reaches for a bag of expensive organic cat treats—only for Daniela to immediately snatch it out of her hand. 

“No.” Daniela denies as she puts it right back onto the shelves. Anastasia—actually hisses at Daniela for this offense.

“No—you’d absolutely love to give me your number? Fine shyt.” Suddenly comes from a deeper and distinctively male voice, behind her, pointed towards Daniela.

What the—fuck? Daniela thinks as she turns and sees two familiar frat dudes from their university show up behind her and Sophia.

“Damn your friend bad too.” His friend says talking about Sophia. 

Which objectively the guys aren’t bad looking. And they must have money. If not, Sophia would have already been getting itchy, something that happens whenever Sophia gets hit on by someone with no money or a perceived low credit score.

Or she would’ve taken one look at their chains and taken out the diamond tester she keeps up her ass (in her purse) because how—dare—brokeys even try to hit on her. 

But neither of those things have happened, so Daniela concludes, as she stares at Sophia, that this; the frat bros, must be some upper echelon shit. 

Daniela still isn't going for it. Being called fine shyt is not going to cut it anymore. Better try some, ‘you are the moon, and the galaxies, and the stars in between them’, type shit. 

Sophia meanwhile considers the friend for a moment before remembering that right now her and Manon are on good terms so really there’s no need to even use him for his money. 

Sophia adjusts the cat in her arms and with an air of finality even though neither of them have said anything to either of the men they both turn back around with a synchronized scoff and continue looking over pet care options talking back and forth about what’s best for Anastasia.

“Damn it’s like that? Can’t even give a thank you?” One of them says, which one?—doesn’t matter. 

The two frat boys eventually leave.

From there, Daniela and Sophia continue shopping for basic stuff. Pet care. Animal medicine. Human medicine. Toiletries. Actual groceries. 

Daniela veers suddenly toward the refrigerated desserts with all-consuming-focus before grabbing a can of whipped cream from the dairy fridge and then a little later making sure to stop in the snack aisle for some neon jumbo fruit roll-ups. 

Meeting back up with Sophia in the juice section, she then drops both items into their cart next to the DayQuil & coconut water. 

Sophia eyes the new additions skeptically, petting the cat who is still purring contently in her jacket. “Megan’s sick Dani. At this point, likely, bed-ridden levels.”

“I’m entirely aware of that,” Daniela replies with a knowing hum—even as she keeps adding enough pineapple and cranberry juice into their shared basket to start a small juice bar. “Do not question my methods. Also, do you think it’s too much if I get chocolate syrup too?”

“Sprinkles,” Sophia supplies helpfully, “less stickiness, easier cleanup.” Daniela gives her a thoughtful nod in thanks for the advice.

They eventually make it to the fruit and vegetable stands—Daniela half-distracted, scrolling through her phone; and Sophia actually picking fruit—until something on her screen makes her aggressively squeeze the life out of an already bruised avocado.

She’s mid routinely checking of Megan's follower count, like any girl typically does when stalking. Not that there even is much to track on Megan’s account—which Daniela prefers. 

Daniela taps through Megan’s followers list, which had gone up exactly one in the past 48 hours (34 to 35)—only to land on a brand new profile. 

The account is public, but just the pfp is enough to invoke irritation within Daniela, who had been hoping Megan's increased follower count was due to a bot. 

Instead it’s some blonde MILF posing with two kids and what is clearly a whole-ass husband at Disneyland. 

Husband or not, Daniela does not—hesitate, to send a dm.

@thedanielaavanzini: I'm literallyy pregnant, stopp trying to hit up my baby daddy, do you have no shamee bitch. YOU are actively aiding into creating a broken home

Daniela doesn’t bother to double-check grammar or tone—just hits send and pockets her phone. 

The situation was solved. For now at least—but if it comes back and bites her in the ass, she’ll just say she was drunk when she sent the dm. 

Even if it says sent at 2:32pm. Day drunks are a thing. Ask her tía all about it. 

Because what’s an afternoon where you’re drunk before 5pm. ‘una tarde.’

A couple minutes later Sophia comes back to their cart with her picked out fruit and vegetables haul and their obese ass cat. 

They head to the cash register. 

Sophia digs into her wallet—her actual wallet, with her own money for once—and uses her card to pay, since it’s her turn to pay for their shared groceries.

Daniela slowly drapes herself over Sophia’s shoulders in the most broke boyfriend looking way possible—chin fully resting on top of her shoulder, arms dangling around her waist like a human-backpack, just to annoy her. 

Sophia exhales through her nose and turns slightly to give Dani the flattest look known to mankind—she then softly shoves Daniela’s face away with one hand while swiping her card with the other, all while letting out a halfhearted (fake) disgusted groan.

$

Unwanted smoke curls from a pot where something vaguely resembling sauce—boiled when it was supposed to be simmering.

A single onion sits half-chopped, abandoned like a casualty of war. 

Sophia, is perched at the counter that windows their kitchen with her MacBook, watching with increasing trepidation, as Daniela aggressively stirs what could have once been the sauce for pasta—now reduced to clumpy despair.

“You do realize you’re not supposed to cook on the highest setting possible, right?” Sophia unhelpfully supplied because Daniela does—know that, even if she then lowers the heat slightly, coincidentally. 

Daniela makes it a point to stir even more aggressively, catching a limp piece of burnt vegetable carcass using her wooden spoon and shoving it back into the pot. “Girl whatever.”

Sophia sits and watches for a moment longer—before snapping her MacBook (shit was 1k+, so she will be making the effort to continuously call it a MacBook and not just a laptop—thank you) shut and sliding off the counter in faux disbelief. 

“Move.” She nudges Daniela out of the way—only for them to both watch helplessly as the clumpy sauce then reduces into something resembling sludgy tar in real time. 

Sophia huffs and tosses the now semi-charred wooden stirring spoon into the sink and points an accusatory finger at Daniela and then at Daniela’s failed culinary experiment like it’s Exhibit A in court. “That was at least $20 worth of organic bullshit. Wasted.” 

Daniela scoffs at Sophia and then grabs a regular metal spoon and pokes at the pot's charred remains with a grimace. 

It makes an unplanned and unsettling crunch sound—it shouldn’t have.

Sophia pinches the bridge of her nose and takes this as a sign, by what is clearly—divine intervention—telling her she should only be exclusively exploiting other people's wallets, this meal being resolute proof that spending her own money—must be a bad omen. 

Daniela leans back against the counter, crossing her arms—though there's still a smear of sauce on her sleeve that ruins any attempt at cool detachment. “This was supposed to be the meal that was going to lead to my back being blown out tonight. It was supposed to be sexy.” She complains.

Sophia pauses mid sitting back at the kitchen counter with her MacBook reopened, eyebrow arching. "Cooking?"

“No,” Daniela huffs, putting the pot inside the sink with an audible clunk. “Nursing. I was gonna come over and feed Megan little bites—hover all concerned-like, ‘accidentally’ lean extremely close while checking her temperature. Fall over. Land on her lap. Bounce on it. The works.”

Sophia considers this for exactly three seconds before tilting her head teasingly, “So your plan was ‘fuckable nurse’ but ended up ‘questionable cafeteria lady’.”

Daniela narrows her eyes and shoots her a ‘not too much’ look before grabbing a takeout menu off the fridge and running through the most believable options with one manicured nail trailing down the paper. 

The new plan is ordering food and pretending it was homemade, hoping Megan does—not notice the difference. 

Distantly—but not that distant since they are less than ten feet away from each other—Sophia laughs at the obvious change in plans.

Daniela stares at her for one long moment—arches an eyebrow, and leans against the kitchen counter. “Something funny, Soph?” she sarcastically questions. 

“Why don't you share with the class how’d you go about seducing Manon then—since apparently, I'm going about this the wrong way.” Daniela challenges Sophia, now calling up the takeout spot on her phone, waiting for someone to pick up so she can place her order.

Anastasia meows judgmentally from somewhere in the living room—as if already siding with Sophia and whatever she’s about to say. 

That tiny—overweight—little shit. She should’ve got a dog.

Sophia shrugs from her seat, gaze lazily flicking up from her MACBOOK, giving Daniela a somewhat amused, ‘are we really doing this rn’ disbelieving smile to which Daniela shrugs back at—still on hold, and still challenging her.

Sophia decides to bite and rolls her eyes like the answer is painfully obvious. “Like this,” Sophia says dryly, pulling out her phone with a bored flick of her wrist. “I text her, ‘Come over. I'm horny and want to play house.’”

Daniela looks equal parts disgusted and unsurprised at her methods—then at her own phone, wondering what’s taking so-fuckingg-long, before returning her attention back to Sophia. 

“Or, I turn my location off and wait an hour or two before Manon—inevitably—tries to kick the door down.”

Sophia pauses in consideration and goes with option number #2 today.

$

It’s not too long after the takeout arrives before rapid—unignorable—knocks from the front door echo through their shared apartment. 

Anastasia is hissing in contempt.

Sophia is looking smugly at Daniela, gliding to the door—because if it works it works. 

Daniela is diligently repackaging the takeout she ordered into her own tupperwae—for authenticity purposes—while Sophia answers the door.

The door swings open—revealing an annoyed-looking Manon who looks seconds away from scaling the building via fire escape just because Sophia’s phone said—Location Not Available—for more than an hour straight—holding up her hands in a ‘How dare you do this to me’ way.

Manon freezes upon seeing Daniela standing in the kitchen with her arms crossed and an unimpressed expression perfected over multiple semesters of dealing specifically with these two.  

Manon slowly points an accusatory finger at Sophia while narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “What—the fuck?” Manon hisses.

Sophia’s location was off for almost two hours. But she’s home and so is—Daniela?

Manon—seriously—doubts Sophia would bring someone else around, when—she, Sophia herself, at the very least, wasn’t even home alone. 

Either that or they’ve reached new levels of I don’t give a fuckery in this everlasting situationship (relationship). 

But then again, it’s not like Daniela’s her biggest fan—at all. She wouldn’t ever say anything, if Sophia ever did choose to do—exactly that with someone who was so clearly not Manon.

Maybe Manon should still push past Sophia and check her bedroom. 

Sophia rolls her eyes at Manon’s overtly readable calculating face, and yanks Manon through the doorway—door slamming shut behind her. 

Pulling Manon down by her chain to meet her in a hungry kiss, Sophia’s hand sliding around the back of Manon's neck to keep her close.

Not particularly gentle. And definitely not sweet. 

The kind of kiss that says ‘stop thinking so hard’ without words—Manon’s hands teleport to grab two palmfuls of ass with zero shame.

Apparently all has been forgiven?

Daniela disapprovingly watches the whole scene unfold from the kitchen, mulling over grabbing a nearby spray bottle of water or windex—either would work—to spray both of them apart. 

Daniela decides to interrupt—this moment—by turning on the sink's garbage disposal. Which thankfully manages to pull Sophia and Manon away from each other.

Disgusting. 

Sophia pulls away from Manon’s mouth just enough to side-eye Daniela at the interruption. 

Daniela shakes her head with a grimace, definitely—not about to apologize. They could’ve waited until she was gone to do that nasty ass shit. “Take your freaked out, toxic ass foreplay—out of our shared doorway.” Daniela demands.

Anastasia (agreeing?), plants a paw on Manon’s ankle, peering up at them, and glares in judgment before licking her other paw in clear disdain. 

Manon glares back at the cat and then even more so when Sophia fully exits out of Manon’s hold, and leans down to scoop up her—beloved pet, cooing lovingly at it. Spoiled little shit. 

Manon rolls her eyes at Sophia as she takes the cat with her into the living room.

Manon herself walks over to the kitchen counter and judges the container Daniela is holding—which Daniela tells her is allegedly, her “homemade meal” for Megan.

One look and Manon can instantly tell Daniela did not cook that. “No way—you—made this. Looks too edible.” Manon says not even three full seconds later. 

Daniela, unaffected and uncaring of Manon’s doubt, doesn't even bat an eye at the accusation. “And yet,” she says smoothly, “Megan will appreciate my effort all the same.” 

Daniela heads for the door not a moment later with her purse; containing medicine for Megan, her lipgloss, and the container of homemade food (takeout).

“Do not touch my whipped cream, my fruit rolls up, or—my fucking sprinkles while I’m gone. Those all have future uses.” Daniela warns, eyeing both Sophia who's still holding Anastasia and Manon who immediately went to go check the fridge and kitchen cabinets, for exactly that—as soon as—Daniela shut the front door behind her. 

$

Daniela watches Megan eat the "homemade" food with half-lidded eyes, having lied straight through her teeth when peeling back containers like this wasn’t clearly restaurant garnish staring them right in their faces. 

Megan profusely thanked her regardless. As she should.

Because if Daniela said she made that meal then she made-that-meal. 

Even if it tastes exactly like the very same food from the very same takeout place that Megan frequents every other week.

Regardless Megan eats in earnest, the look on her face suggesting that Daniela could probably get away with convincing her this food was made by fairies and she’d nod along.

Anyways, Daniela can tell Megan is sick.

But perhaps it can be sweated out?

It's going to get sweated out.

A/N: please DO NOT CRUCIFY ME ya'll ikikikiknowww i lacked severly at the end but this is all i got left in me for this meizini agenda.. I can’t lie…im a sodanon truther or a sodani or a maphinz truther frfr (i always have been) like the characterization always eats. but fr what made me post was i looked at the dates and how long its been and was like let me just edit the draft of what i have rn

Manon stumbled against Sophia, who had both arms draped around her shoulders. Her phone nearly slipped from her hand again as she squinted at the screen from behind Sophia’s shoulder.

“Fuck… ev’rything’s spinnin’,” Manon slurred, nearly elbowing a guy holding a red Solo cup in the process, even as her other hand clutched Sophia’s waist to stabilize them both.

Sophia shook her head and lightly but repeatedly slapped Manon’s cheek, trying to get her to focus—their current off period be damned.

“Focus, Manon. Either call someone, or I’m throwing you into an Uber alone and letting you figure it out.” She glared at a dude leering in her direction. “I don’t trust these randoms to not ‘accidentally’ take Dani and I to a second location.”

Right.

Daniela—who also looked admittedly fucked up.

Yet comparatively a bit less than both of them—snatched Manon’s phone before she could fat-finger her way into dialing 911 by accident. Lord knows Manon’s the last person who wants to be calling the cops. Dani scrolled through Manon’s long contact list and eventually finding what she was looking for, without hesitation, hit Megan's name.

$

Outside, Sophia is slumped against a lamppost, looking like she’s one wrong move away from either passing out or throwing hands. Dani, still upright though swaying dangerously, is busy taking dramatic Snapchats of Manon attempting to lick her own elbow when Megan finally pulls up.

Dani, ever graceful, somehow manages to buckle herself in—then immediately leans her entire body weight against Megan’s deliciously and surprisingly strong arm from shotgun.

Manon closes her eyes and takes deep breaths, counting them silently, to make sure she doesn’t projectile vomit all over Megan’s car. Somewhere in that blurry window of time, she feels Sophia slump into her and mumble something that sounds suspiciously like, “I hate jungle juice,” before passing out mid-sentence.

$

Megan unlocks the door to her apartment and flicks on the lights before turning them right back off as soon as everyone actually makes it inside. 

The place is messy-but-lived-in, books and gaming equipment scattered across the living room like a geeky hurricane just tore through. She’s not exactly a master of interior design, but at least there’s enough open space for everyone to either crash or combust in peace.

Megan glances back at Manon and Sophia before deciding they could probably handle themselves and instead decides to look over Daniela.

Manon immediately collapses face-first onto the couch with a noise that can only be described as tragic. Her limbs sprawl out like a fallen starfish, one sneaker still half-on. 

Sophia barely manages an eye roll before flopping down beside her—too drunk to care about personal space—letting one of Manon’s arms drape over her back as if that somehow counts as watching over her.

“You know,” Manon mumbles after a long pause, voice lazy and slurred, “I could get used to this… as long as this doesn’t come with you making me feel guilty about everything for the rest of my life.” Manon continues quietly, aware of how they are basically cuddling. 

Sophia tilts her head to see Manon’s face in the dim light that the night’s glow provides, catching the lazy drunken smile tugging at Manon’s lips. “You should feel guilty. All the time, actually. That’s how I manage to keep you coming back so easily anyways. Via manipulative guilt trip. Also, gaslighting doesn’t work if the person you’re gaslighting knows they’re being gaslit,” she adds factually, a strange moment of drunken clarity even as her actions betray her tone, one hand idly brushing a loose strand of hair off of Manon’s forehead.

“Right,” Manon hums, eyes half-lidded.

A small laugh escapes Sophia, quiet and careful. “You’re a mess,” she says, shaking her head, though the hand that stayed on Manon’s hair lingers a second longer than necessary.

Manon hums in agreement—or acknowledgment—leaning just slightly closer until their arms brush more than they probably should. Subtle, almost invisible, but in the dark and quiet, it feels like a declaration.

For a few minutes, they stay like that—half asleep, half aware. The soft stillness on the couch feels dangerously like peace. A couple seconds later, they both, are out cold.

$

Meanwhile, Dani—miraculously still upright despite all known biological laws—is wandering the apartment with the unabashed curiosity of a cat in a stranger’s home. She picks up framed photos, peers into the fridge, pokes at a leaning tower of clean laundry on an armchair, and generally behaves like someone both nosy and deeply unbothered about being caught.

Then, suddenly, Dani freezes. The color drains from her face.

She grabs Megan’s arm with surprising urgency.

“I need to go to your bathroom. Now.”

Her voice is tight but she makes sure to clearly enunciate each word—no trace of playful bravado like she’s had in any and all other encounters. Just raw, immediate panic.

$

The bathroom tiles pressed icy against Daniela’s bare knee as she hunched in front of the toilet—her usually flawless hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, one hand gripping the porcelain like it was the only thing keeping her from falling into another dimension. She breathed hard, eyes closed, against the last rebellious waves of nausea that refused to quit. Her forehead glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, and a shaky breath escaped through clenched teeth. This is so not sexy.

When it became clear that nothing else would be coming up anytime soon—and because Daniela Avanzini did not do “puking gracefully”—she groaned, partly from nausea and partly from sheer indignation. This was not how she was supposed to look: hair plastered to her neck with sweat, face pale and clammy, dignity in absolute shambles.

She didn’t hear Megan come back in—not at first. She just felt the soft pressure of a cool washcloth against the back of her neck a moment later.

Megan had only hesitated for half a second before sinking down beside her.

Then came warmth—gentle but admittedly shaky fingers sweeping aside tangled strands before pressing the damp cloth carefully against overheated skin.

Megan thankfully did not say anything stupid like You okay?—because obviously she wasn’t—or, worse yet, try to sound reassuring, as if needing help puking wasn’t humiliating enough. They just stayed crouched beside her, close but not crowding, waiting until her breathing evened out before nudging forward a glass of water.

When Dani finally felt a bit better, her eyes—glassy and exhausted—met Megan’s behind crooked glasses that hadn’t been adjusted in hours. And something tight in Dani’s chest loosened without permission.

She cleared her throat, wincing as it burned from stomach acid but not from embarrassment, even though her mascara was streaked down her cheeks and she probably smelled like death. Physically, she was still shivering, pale and clammy in her tank top.

She wanted to make a joke—to pull herself back to normal, pretend she wasn’t affected—but the words stalled in her throat as Megan studied her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. Finally, she managed a weak, “I must look like shit right now.”

Megan didn’t even blink. They just wiped the corner of Dani’s mouth with the washcloth—gently, a little nervously—then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear again like it meant nothing. Like this wasn’t weirdly intimate.

“Yeah,” Megan said softly, voice low and honest. “You look like absolute shit.”

That (confirmation?) makes Daniela press pause on her own self-pity party. Unsure if that was supposed to be Megan’s version of comforting or if it was a joke. Either way, she turns to glare at Megan so fast her vision blurs, and she’s half-convinced she’s just given herself whiplash.

“You’re supposed to lie and say I still look hot.”

Megan leans back against the bathroom cabinet, legs crossed. “If it helps, you’re still the hottest person I’ve ever seen—even with vomit breath and mascara all over your face.”

Megan doesn't exactly apologize for their honesty. Instead, they reach out and rub small circles into the tense muscles at the base of Dani’s neck, fingers pressing just hard enough to make her groan involuntarily, making her decide all is forgiven—right before it’s her turn to finally pass out.

$

Morning eventually comes with all its merciless clarity.

Daniela wakes curled inside an empty bathtub.

Dani blinks awake—confused, disoriented, and definitely hungover, judging by how fast she regrets opening her eyes. The bathtub creaks ominously as she sits up slowly, wincing at how stiff her neck feels despite the pillow beneath it.

She quickly begins to notice a few very important things:

She has no memory of getting this blanket or pillow (though it smells faintly like lavender laundry detergent, which she definitely appreciates).

There’s a glass of water and two aspirins sitting neatly on the tub ledge within reach. (Dani reaches for those painkillers like they’re salvation itself.)

From somewhere beyond the bathroom door, there are sounds of life—Sophia-sounding noises in particular.

$

Sophia jerks upright on the couch with a gasp, her heart pounding as she takes in the unfamiliar apartment. The last thing she remembers is Manon drunkenly calling someone for a ride—and now she’s waking up on some stranger’s couch with no sign of Daniela. Panic sets in fast.

“Where the fuck is Daniela?” she demands, immediately rounding on Manon like this is somehow her fault—because, in Sophia’s mind, it usually is.

Manon groans loudly from beneath a throw pillow, as if that flimsy barrier might shield her from Sophia’s wrath. “Jesus Christ—can you not? My head feels like it got run over by an eighteen-wheeler.”

Sophia ignores her completely. Best friend duties come first—even when hungover.

“Manon. If your nerdy-ass friend did anything weird to Dani—” 

Right then, Daniela herself stumbles out of the bathroom looking half-dead and entirely unimpressed. Her hair is a wild tangle, and yesterday’s makeup is smeared across her face. Like a final girl at the end of a horror movie who’s officially lost her will to live yet some other force takes the wheel and keeps her alive. (Run on but accurate.) She squints at Sophia through one barely open eye.

“I’m right here, Soph. Also, you’re loud as fuck.”

The sheer force of Daniela’s sleep-deprived exasperation actually makes Sophia pause mid-rant. Then—because best friends have priorities—Sophia narrows her eyes suspiciously, taking in Dani’s wrecked appearance before hissing under her breath,

“…Did you sleep with Megan?” (Another crisis to be debriefed, immediately.)

Daniela blinks slowly, expression flat as cardboard. “Not… yet?” (Postponed.)

Manon raises an eyebrow from the couch. “Why do you sound so disappointed?”

Though Manon’s not sure who exactly she should be asking this question to.

Sophia sinks back down beside her, letting Manon wrap an arm lazily around her shoulders—a quiet, wordless apology for shouting in her ear earlier. She opens her mouth to respond but hesitates as a yawning Megan shuffles out of her own bedroom—because they are the guests here—looking impossibly innocent in an oversized Minecraft T-shirt and sweatpants. Oops.

$

“So,” Manon drawls, stuffing her hands into her pockets near the door, “this was fun. Let’s never do it again.”

Sophia elbows her in the ribs but doesn’t disagree—already scrolling through her phone for a ride while Dani lingers by the door, taking one last look at Megan’s stupidly cozy apartment—and maybe at its stupidly soft-looking occupant, who somehow didn’t decide to kick them all out at three a.m. for being disasters.

“Never,” Megan replies immediately from where they’re washing dishes at their sink, though there’s no real heat behind it—just resignation laced with quiet amusement.

Dani can’t help but smile at that, finding herself watching Megan again—watching how their shirt sleeves hang just a little too short on their arms, how they carefully dry each dish before putting it away.

Apparently domestically makes her horny. God, she really needs to get herself together.

“Earth to Dani.” Sophia’s voice cuts through her thoughts like a bucket of ice water to the face. Daniela blinks, tearing her gaze away from Megan’s hands to find Sophia watching her with a knowing grin.

Megan rubs the back of their neck awkwardly before offering, “Uh… if you guys ever need a DD again, I guess I could be around?” It comes out sounding more like a question than an offer.

Sophia gives Megan a grateful smile before turning to Dani.

Daniela abruptly moves even closer to the door before she does something stupid—like pull Megan into a sudden kiss. “We should go,” she announces, grabbing her now fully charged phone, because yes, Megan even charged her phone.

Sophia blinks. “Like… now now?”

“Yes, now now.” Dani says through gritted teeth to Sophia and then refuses to look at anyone—least of all Megan, still drying dishes by the sink. “Manon’s currently hungover enough to be tolerable, and she probably has dealings to do, you likely have lecture notes to catch up on, and I have…” She waves a vague hand through the air. “Things.”

Megan turns around again to fully face them, dish towel still in hand. Their expression is unreadable—carefully constructed neutrality—but their fingers twist slightly in the fabric.

Manon yawns dramatically from where she’s standing by the door, one arm draped casually wrapped around Sophia’s shoulders, as Daniela decides to apparently tell her how she’s going to be spending her own day, “First of all. Don't you ever worry about what the fuck I got going on.” Manon decides to immediately clear up. “Second off. Things? What do you have to go do today? Another frat bro? Or a long overdue consultation with your gynecologist?”

Manon has the audacity to laugh—actually laugh—while giving Sophia a you know it’s true look before continuing, “I bet you’re real disappointed they don’t actually have a loyalty rewards program. By now, you probably would’ve had at least eight free consultations ready to be claimed. Knowing your habits, Daniela, you’ve probably been due for a—”

“Manon, for once in your weed-dealing, dick-slinging-to-every-bitch-around life—whether you and Sophia aren’t or are, mind you, actually together—please shut the fuck up,” Daniela hisses, half-pleading/threatening to say more, sharing fleeting but pointed eye contact with both Manon and Sophia, silently begging the latter to get her sometimes girlfriend under control.

But, Sophia, has decidedly chosen to be Switzerland after realizing, in a roundabout way, that when she really thinks about it, Daniela technically dissed her too. Dani’s on her own.

Manon scoffs, raising an eyebrow, and—with an air of total unbotheredness—opens the front door of Megan’s apartment for herself and Sophia to exit, while waving goodbye to Megan via a little nod of acknowledgment and not an actual wave.

Sophia sighs like she’s witnessing something both painfully obvious and profoundly stupid (because she is). She gives Daniela a semi-apologetic shrug and actually waves goodbye to Megan gracefully as she follows Manon out, already pulling out her phone to compare Lyft and Uber prices for the ride home.

Once the door shuts, Dani actually turns to Megan, waving a finger between herself and where Manon had just been, like she’s making some grand distinction. “For the record, I’m clean.”

Megan blinks owlishly at her, bemused, and nods—especially as Daniela makes her own hasty exit a second later.

Daniela then stomps down the hallway of Megan’s apartment building toward the elevator—where Sophia and Manon are probably waiting because Sophia definitely forced Manon to hold up for her. She’s going to kill Manon. And then maybe Sophia afterwards, for not even attempting to defend her honor.

$

Sophia lets herself in with the spare key she definitely wasn’t supposed to steal and duplicate (but did anyway). The TV is blaring some crime documentary, and Manon is stretched out on the couch, barefoot and unbothered, in boxers and an undershirt, half-watching, half-scrolling through her phone.

Manon looks up in acknowledgment as Sophia lets herself in and kicks off her heels by the door before returning her attention to her phone. Sophia scans the all-too-familiar apartment for any irregularities—or, more commonly, evidence of another bitch being around—because a break to Manon and a break to Sophia apparently mean two separate things, which—mind you—they are currently on—before sitting next to Manon and sinking into her pleasantly comfortable couch.

It’s the only time Sophia can go on dates with rich men and come back with designer bags without feeling guilty about it—and the only time Manon can sleep with, apparently, “the whole female population,” in Sophia’s words, without Sophia threatening to ‘deadass “bomb her apartment or hire a prostitute to seduce her and transmit every disease genetically possible to her—hopefully creating and giving her some rare, incurable super-illness that’ll for sure kill her before she ever gets to turn thirty,” also in Sophia’s words.

Not that Sophia doesn’t go on dates with other people even when they are together—because free designer is free designer—but she never actually lets them hit. Meanwhile, Manon does the exact opposite, but at least refuses to spend a single dime on any girl that isn’t her.

Which works for their (lovingly?) mutually toxic ways. Anyway.

Sophia leans back into the couch on the opposite end, examining her nails with surgical precision, “Manon, I need 3k by tomorrow."

“And I need a bj by tonight. Now what?,” Manon mentions blasely (performative) as she continues to check through her Telegram, Snapchat, and Instagram. For obvious money making reasons. 

“Excuse me?,” Sophia turns away from whatever is on the TV and towards Manon, giving her an unimpressed look as Manon eventually lifts her head to give her the same-look right back; only slightly less intimidatingly since Sophia has perfected it down to a Picasso level art form.

Manon rolls her eyes and leans back further into her couch completely unbothered. “Guess we both want things that we can’t have, Soph.” 

“Are you really not going to give me 3k?” Sophia voices incredulously and indignantly, as she looks around and sees money quite literally laying around everywhere, she could just take some and run, but she’s classy. So instead, she’ll be taking it nice and bundled with the cute bank bands around them and handed willingly into her pretty awaiting hands.

Manon sighs fakely exasperated. “I know you did not just come here for money Sophia. You’ve got at least two cash cows that I literally know by name. In the same way that I know, that you know, what my dm’s look like.” Sophia's right eye lowkey twitches at the mention of the numerous other bitches who would truthfully jump at the opportunity. 

“You’re such a dick.” Sophia says with a click of her tongue to end the conversation, which means that she then in turn decides to get a little bit more comfortable on the couch, and places her legs on top of Manon's lap. Which Manon does not push off and instead traces absent circles over Sophia’s ankle bone—just enough to make her skin prickle with awareness.

$ idk how plot wise but somehow everyone ends up back in Megan’s apartment again 🤪 like a week or two later

Manon’s laugh rings out—aimed at Megan this time, though mocking the whole argument between Megan and Sophia—and Dani narrows her eyes before giving Manon a sharp kick under the table, hard.

"What the fuck—" Manon groans, rubbing her shin.

Megan turns from their heated debate with Sophia about whether plants themselves count as a food group, glasses slightly askew from all the gesturing. "Is everything okay over there?" Megan asks, genuinely concerned.

Daniela waves a dismissive hand before Manon can rat her out. "Peachy," she lies smoothly—then blows a kiss into the air with exaggerated sweetness.

Which causes Sophia to roll her eyes, while Daniela could feel Manon’s stupid perceptive eyes burning holes into the side of her skull.

"Anyway—" Dani stands up, purposely nearly knocking Manon over in her chair in the process, "—who wants to order actual food? I'm buying."

Manon uprights herself and then squints at Daniela suspiciously while continuing to halfway pay attention to Megan and Sophia carry out their weirdly academic food group discourse like they’re speaking some alien language. "Since when do you offer to pay for shit?"

Daniela flashes a razor-sharp grin that doesn't reach her eyes as she digs through Manon's discarded jacket pockets for Manon’s wallet, as Manon’s attention predictably ends back up on Sophia. "Since I'm feeling generous. (She lies, currently with one of the several of Manon’s cash cards in her hand.)

$ 

The food arrives in organized non-reusable plastic bags, filling Megan’s apartment with the smell of syrup and fried carbs. Daniela barely waits for Megan to set everything down before snatching a container of pancakes and immediately dropping half a slice onto their lap.

"Oops," she says, not sounding sorry at all as she leans over to "help" wipe it off—her fingers lingering just a little too long on the fabric of Megan’s sweatpants.

Sophia nudges Daniela softly under the table while mouthing real subtle as she then continues eating her own food, occasionally feeding Manon small bites off her fork.

Megan, now approximately 90% sure they're being flirted with (but also 100% convinced she must be misreading things) just stares fixedly at a random spot on the wall like it holds all life's answers. Their ears burn red anyway.

Manon scoffs genuinely at this exchange, surveying this trainwreck unfolding in real time and—without missing a beat—reaches across Sophia to pluck bacon directly from Dani’s plate all while shaking her head in disbelief.

"If you two don’t fuck soon I swear to god I'll lock you in Megan's nerd-cave closet myself. Because this is too much, I’m trying to enjoy my breakfast."

Sophia swats Manon’s arm half-heartedly telling Manon to leave them alone. 

$ 

Somewhere between coughing fits and flustered denials, Manon accidentally (purposely really, sue her, she’s helping her friend despite what it might look like) knocks over an entire pitcher of syrup onto Megan’s shirt, which at least gives everyone something else other than sexual tension to panic about temporarily—though now there’s a sticky shirt involved which… might not actually help matters long-term if Dani’s wandering gaze is any indication—

Daniela watches a single drop trail down Megan’s collarbone before she can stop herself—hungrier than any breakfast spread could fix—stares unabashedly at Megan's soaked shirt like she's never seen anything sexier in her life and just. Snaps.

Her hand darts out, swiping the syrup off their skin with her thumb like it’s nothing, but her voice is rough when she mutters, "Messy." It sounds filthy.

Megan freezes like she made direct eye-contact with one of Medusa’s snakes. Sophia starts fake-coughing immediately knowing this was probably part of Manon’s half-baked plan. Manon smirks for a second and then recoils and looks away as Dani unashamedly licks the syrup off her own thumb without breaking eye contact with Megan.

"You look a mess, Megan," Daniela says finally, tilting her head with mock concern. "Poor thing…"

Megan finally comes back to life, and fumbles with their drenched shirt over their head, revealing pale skin and a surprisingly decent set of abs... and suddenly everyone forgets what they're supposed to be doing.

"Oh," Dani says even more intrigued now. 

Daniela leans back to better admire the view, hearing a mumbled “Could you be more obvious?” from somewhere in the background. Daniela, though, looks like she's seconds away from licking syrup directly off those abs if it means she can prove a point. Because yes she could be more obvious.

Manon whistles slowly through her teeth, leaning back in her chair with a grin that signals she’s weirdly proud. "Alright, didn't expect you to have that hiding under there, Megs. Points for the surprise factor, I guess."  This is better than Monday night football she contemplates. Actually basketball. She prefers watching basketball anyways.

Manon then locks back in and dramatically slow-claps from her seat at the table. "Best breakfast entertainment ever," she announces to no one in particular as Megan flees toward the bathroom like a startled woodland creature at near light-speed. The second the door slams shut, Daniela whips around to face Manon with narrowed eyes, not sure whether to be grateful or annoyed, before deciding to be annoyed on Megan’s behalf.

"Was all that really necessary?" Sophia intervenes with a stern tilt of her head, before Daniela gets to ripping Manon a giant new one.   

Manon just shrugs and hums as she steals a piece of french toast from Sophia’s plate, clearly not feeling the need to apologize. "Somebody had to speed this along. I was helping."

$ 

Meanwhile, from behind the closed bathroom door a suspiciously long silence… then water running… then what sounds suspiciously like Megan quietly chanting ”get it together get it together get it together—” into their hands. That thank GOD no one else can hear.

Dani chews slowly on her fork, not even eating anything at this point—just vibing with metal between her teeth as she stares at the bathroom door with unreadable intensity. Then suddenly—

“Actually,” she announces abruptly while standing up far too fast to be seen as anything but overeager. “I should go... help her.” (Absolute lie.)

Manon now gives Dani a slow clap because wow that was pathetic. But before anyone can truly protest, Dani is already halfway across the apartment—knocking lightly before letting herself in without waiting for an answer. Deciding that cornering Megan with direct confrontation is probably the best way to go about this.

“So when are you gonna stop being cute about everything and just kiss me?”

Megan barely has a moment to process what's happening before Daniela's stepping into their personal space—all dark eyes and smug smirks—while closing the bathroom door behind her with a decisive click. 

"I— what?"

Dani rolls her eyes but doesn't move from where she's lounged against the sink, arms crossed like she’s not at all affected by how close they’re standing. (She is.) "Kissing me," she repeats slowly, as if explaining basic math to a child. "You should do it."

Megan swallows hard—like their throat has gone completely dry in 0.3 seconds flat—before blurting, "...Why?" The second it's out of their mouth, Megan looks like she wants to die. She’s selling.

Dani grins—sharp and dangerous and so fucking pleased with herself. "'Cause I know you want to," she says simply, tilting her head up just enough that Megan eyes fully catches onto her stupidly perfect cheekbones. Fully intentional. “And because I really want you to.”

$ 

Sophia side-eyes the still-closed bathroom door where suspiciously no water has been running for a solid few minutes now. Sophia then decides to be the bestest friend ever and dramatically covers Manon's mouth so that Manon can’t shout and ruin a possible moment that's likely happening. (Even though technically Manon did majorly help to orchestrate it.)

Presently however, the poorly lit lecture hall smelled like stale coffee and existential dread—perfect conditions for Manon’s preferred mode of attendance. Physically present, mentally elsewhere. She slumped even further into her usual seat in the back row, near the emergency exit—optimal for quick departures—barely registering the professor’s monotone drone about... something with graphs? Economics? Art history? Doesn’t matter.

Her notebook—if you could even call it that—was a graveyard of half-assed bullet points, doodled dollar signs, and half-finished dealer math. Ounces to grams, profit margins scribbled next to reminders like "tell Jason he still owes me $20". With exactly one bullet point from Week 2’s lecture; which definitely isn’t relevant anymore considering how far into the semester it is.

The professor paused mid-slide to ask a question no one volunteered to answer. Silence stretched until—oh hell no—their gaze landed on Manon, like she wasn’t actively wearing headphones as a do not fucking call on me forcefield.

A few baited breaths passed by and apparently, the professor thought better of it. Instead choosing to drone on about some theory Manon had already decided didn’t apply to real life (or at least not hers).

Her phone buzzed against her thigh—another client hitting her up between classes, like clockwork.

Next to her, some over-caffeinated poli-sci major shot a glare at the screen glow disrupting their furious typing. Manon flipped her hood up higher, chewed lazily on her pen cap, and opened the text.

Client #12 needed a re-up before 3 p.m. Megan.

-

Manon rolled up to Megan’s shitty off-campus apartment exactly seven minutes late—not that she cared about punctuality, but Megan always texted her some dumb clock emoji when she wasn’t on time.

She made her way to the front door like she always did, hoodie half-zipped, headphones on (even though no music was playing), and the faintest scowl already forming. Megan swung the door open like they'd been waiting behind it the whole time—before Manon even knocked.

“Jesus,” Manon muttered, shifting one side of her headphones off her ear. “You got a sixth sense for when I pull up, or what?”

Megan just grinned, leaning against the doorframe with zero urgency to move aside before taking their arranged bag from Manon.

“No, I just saw you park from my window.” A pause, purely for dramatic effect. Then they nodded toward the Nintendo Switch booted up on the TV. “Are you staying this time, or are we doing the usual five-second transaction?”

Manon scoffed and shoved past them into the dimly lit living room—strewn with textbooks and half-empty energy drinks from what was clearly an all-nighter.

Megan ignored the scoff entirely, already flopping onto the couch and grabbing a controller from her gaming setup (which took up way too much space for someone whose main priority really should’ve been studying).

“Cool cool cool—” Megan waved dismissively at the Venmo notifications lighting up Manon’s phone. “Sent already.”

Manon blinked slowly, before actually checking her own phone herself, just long enough to confirm the payment actually did indeed hit—priorities first. It did. Cool. Manon then moves to sit down next to Megan. “…The fuck kinda loser plays Mario Kart on a Tuesday afternoon?”

But Megan just stretched lazily towards another controller buried under what looked suspiciously like last week's psych notes before holding it out towards Manon. "The kind whose midterm got rescheduled.”

She snatched the controller from Megan’s hand so fast they actually flinched in surprise. "One race," Manon warned, jabbing a finger toward Megan as she aggressively selected Bowser (because duh). "Mind you, I’ve got better shit to do. And if you start that 'best two out of three' bullshit, I'm taking your weed back."

Megan, meanwhile, looked like Christmas came early despite death threats being thrown around casually.

-

An hour and a half into Manon’s 2:7 losing streak, she was elbows-deep in Megan’s snack stash—questionable gas station chips and exactly one sad-looking protein bar—while Megan explained drifting mechanics like it was a fucking TED Talk.

Manon chewed loudly just to interrupt them. “I get it. You hold this button. The car drifts a little better. Groundbreaking. I should get going.”

But then—somehow—she didn’t.

When the next race started and Megan whooped after winning again (thanks to one well-timed mushroom), Manon didn’t even flip them off this time. Instead, she leaned back against the couch with an annoyed grunt and groaned.

There was no real heat behind it anymore—just something almost resembling amusement under all that habitual irritation.

Megan didn’t say shit. Just unpaused the game and let Waluigi cruise straight into a banana peel—self-sabotage as solidarity, or whatever—while pretending not to notice Manon silencing her phone and ignoring her texts with way more force than necessary.

After a beat, Megan tossed a chip at her head (distraction tactic).

“Bowser sucks on Rainbow Road anyway,” they lied, blatantly, nudging the controller toward her instead of pressing start. “Switch to someone faster.”

A pause that wasn’t awkward.

“Or… we could order shitty pizza and roll up? I do expect a discount next time, if we’re using out of the stash you just gave me.”

Manon stared at them for approximately three lifetimes before sighing so hard it should've deflated her lungs permanently—then grabbed the controller anyway and muttered something suspiciously close to "Extra mushrooms." without looking up from selecting Donkey Kong this time (character development!) — while Megan grinned at their shared screen like they hadn’t just witnessed something fragile click quietly into place between them in silence (losers).

-

It’s a Thursday.

Manon’s Audi’s leather seats were warm from the midnoon sun, but Sophia barely seemed to notice—too busy scrolling through her phone with one hand and sipping an iced matcha latte with the other (overpriced, somewhat pretentious, and ordered without asking Manon if she wanted some, even though she was the one who paid for it. Typical but not necessarily annoying).

Manon drummed her fingers on the steering wheel at a red light.

“You just gonna sit there playing sugar baby simulator on your phone, or what?”

Sophia didn’t even look up. “I’m researching which of these places won’t give me food poisoning when you finally decide to feed me,” she said coolly, tapping through some bougie brunch spot’s menu like this was a UberEats consultation—never mind that Manon was already behind schedule trying to get work done between stops.

Because oh right—someone took forever picking out shoes earlier. (“It matters if they look cheap,” Sophia had insisted, while Manon mentally calculated how many eighth-sales equaled to three pairs of those designer heels.)

Manon rolled the window down halfway to let the smoke escape as she lit up, side-eyeing Sophia’s pristine manicure as it tapped through her phone.

“No, but seriously.” Sophia still didn’t glance up, now comparing two nearly identical black blazers that probably cost more than most people made in their bi-weekly checks. “You do need to eat something that isn’t takeout or gas station shit, Manon.”

-

Manon’s Audi eventually idled outside some frat house that reeked of stale beer and bad decisions. The windows were rolled down just enough to let in the sound of some dude fumbling with his wallet as he leaned into the driver's side window.

Sophia didn’t even glance up from her phone—just kept scrolling through what looked like a very serious analysis of Yelp reviews for downtown food spots, while Manon handled business with one hand and drummed impatient fingers on the steering wheel with the other.

“Forty even,” Manon said flatly, palm outstretched until cash hit skin. She didn’t bother counting this time (short her once and see what happens), just tossed the bag into his waiting hands and rolled up the window without so much as a thanks for your patronage.

Sophia finally looked over, unimpressed. “Do you ever say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ in this job?”

Manon shrugged, merging back onto the road like she hadn’t almost run a red light.

“Do you ever stop spending money you don’t have?”

She nodded toward Sophia’s screen, where three separate shopping carts were open across tabs—all high-end shit neither of them needed, but Sophia wanted anyway. Aesthetics, or whatever nonsense her best friend Daniela had probably convinced her was essential this month.

If Manon didn’t buy it for her, she knew Sophia had at least five different guys on speed dial who’d be more than willing to.

Sophia exhaled sharply through her nose, annoyed but not denying it before turning back to texting Daniela—probably complaining about Manon driving like an escaped convict again —while absently reaching over to adjust all the AC vents she could reach toward herself without asking because control issues were basically foreplay for them.   

-

A few minutes after Manon parked in front of Sophia and Daniela’s shared off-campus condo, ready to drop Sophia off, Daniela managed to sneak up and slide into the backseat of the Audi—knee-high boots propped on the center console, long acrylics tapping against her phone screen while a group chat blew up about someone’s party later that night.

“So,” she said, flashing a grin sharp enough to cut glass at Manon through the rearview. “You giving me that bestie rate today or what?”

Manon didn’t even glance back—just adjusted the mirror to glare at her directly.

“Bestie rate? The fuck is that?”

“Y’know,” Daniela continued, scrolling through what looked like seventeen unanswered texts from thirsty ex-flings before landing on Venmo. “Friends and family discount.”

Sophia exhaled sharply, like the conversation was physically painful.

Manon tossed a pre-rolled blunt into Daniela’s lap before Sophia could even really start protesting.

No discount.

But also no arguing when Daniela sent half payment anyway, then posted up comfortably in the backseat—eating the leftovers they’d brought back from their not-date date with zero remorse—while updating some dude’s contact name right in front of them.

🚫 James (2/10 stamina) → 🗑️

-

Manon kicked Megan’s door open without warning—because fuck knocking, but more so because the door was unlocked and Megan knew she was coming over—just in time to witness them dramatically lose a game of Fortnite while shoveling cold pizza into their mouth like a starved animal.

“Kinda pathetic,” Manon announced, tossing her bag onto the couch—where it landed directly on top of Megan’s once-again-neglected psych homework. “You stream this shit and people actually watch?”

Megan didn’t even pause mid-bite, talking through a cheese stretch like a heathen. “Bro, I have three viewers right now and one is my mom.”

They gestured vaguely at the screen, where their pixelated character got headshotted into oblivion.

“Also, you reek like weed and poor decisions—Sophia let you in her vicinity today?”

Manon flipped them off but stole a slice anyways.

“No, and either way it’s none of your business.”

A lie so obvious it practically echoed. Megan knew everything—mostly because Manon complained about Sophia whenever they were on one of their off-periods (every three weeks).

“Help me study for this exam and I’ll give you some free shit,” Manon finally said.

-

Megan snatched the bag of chips out from under Manon’s arm and crunched obnoxiously.

“So let me get this straight,” they started, flipping through Manon’s sad excuse for notes. “You sell to half the business majors on campus but don’t know what supply and demand means?”

Manon sighed and rubbed the back of their neck already exhausted. “I know it enough to know I’m the supply.”

Megan rolled her eyes so hard it was audible—impressive—then slapped a highlighter into Manon’s hand like a motivational grenade.

“Okay, actual dumbass, here’s how we survive this.”

They yanked their laptop toward them and began typing at lightning speed:

✏️ Supply = U Got It ✏️ Demand = These Clowns Want It ✏️ Profit = Charge More Than They Deserve

Manon squinted over Megan’s shoulder—partially impressed, mostly offended by how little Megan believed she already knew.

“This is how you passed?” she muttered, watching Megan add diagrams in different colors. (Crash Course for People Who Hate Academia edition.)

Yet by hour three of their study marathon, the apartment smelled like burnt popcorn and desperation.

Megan had commandeered the iPad, aggressively scribbling econ concepts with one hand while shoving gummy worms into their mouth with the other (multitasking king).

“Okay,” they said, pointing at a disturbingly detailed doodle of a crying Walmart bag boy labeled INFLATION. “This is you if you drop out and ever stop dealing.”

Manon threw a textbook at them (missing on purpose, probably), but begrudgingly copied down Megan’s chaotic—but more academically serious—bullet points:

Monopolies = When You're the Only Plug on Campus (Congrats)

Opportunity Cost = Choosing Between Sophia's Attitude & Your Dignity (Losing Either Way)

GDP = Girlfriend Denial Problems Revisited Quarterly (See Also: YOU)

Fiscal Policy = When the Government Is Your Sugar Daddy but Stingy

Manon stared at it for way too long before deadpanning, “…Are we learning, or are you just bullying me into retention?”

By 9 p.m., the living room floor was a warzone of highlighted notes, empty energy drinks, and one (1) singular peanut butter spoon that had somehow become Manon’s emotional support object.

Eventually, Manon glanced at the time and sighed. “Fuck. Quick drop-off or two. You wanna come with me?” 

Megan comes with purely for the plot of it all. Literally. 

-

Manon’s knuckles rapped against Sophia and Daniela’s condo door—sharp, impatient.

Megan lingered behind her, peering over Manon’s shoulder with the nosy curiosity of someone who had zero sense of self-preservation.

“This is where you make your deals sometimes?” Megan whispered—loudly, like she hadn’t just spent the last hour watching exactly that happen.

Before Manon could shut her up with an elbow to the ribs, the door swung open.

Daniela appeared mid–iPhone war, hair tousled from a pregame nap, crop top barely not indecent. One hand aggressively holding onto her phone, the other gesturing at Manon like bitch you better have my usual.

“No, Marco, Marcus? Whatever the fuck—listen. I don’t care if you ‘planned your whole week around me’—oh my god, actually? Hang on.”

Because then she saw Megan.

Awkward. Nervous. Wearing a dumb yellow electric animal shirt (Pikachu) and drinking a White Monster like it was a personality trait. Looking like a lost puppy who just wandered into a wolf den.

Daniela blinked once. Then, without missing a beat, hung up mid-sentence on whatever (mark?) was saying and slid her phone into her back pocket.

Her whole vibe shifted in 0.5 seconds. She leaned against the frame like she hadn’t just ghosted a man in real time.

“Damn, Bannerman,” she drawled, gaze flicking from Manon—expected and therefore ignored—to Megan.

“Who’s this?” Daniela asked, tongue poking at her cheek as she raked her eyes over Megan like she was scanning a menu.

Right on cue, Sophia appeared behind her—radiating the energy of someone who absolutely did not care about any of this. (Liar.)

Arms crossed tight enough to crease her sleeves. Wine glass in hand. The Look™ locked on Manon, reserved exclusively for when her tolerance had dropped into the negatives.

“Why are people standing in my doorway?”

Daniela, now fully committed to the slowest eye-fuck in recorded history, crossed her arms too.

Megan choked on air. Understandable, considering she was currently being laser-scanned by the hottest girl she’d ever seen in her life.

Manon looked between them in a mix of disgust and disbelief—no offense to her annoying drop-off turned begrudgingly close friend.

Sophia, meanwhile, looked like she’d stepped straight out of a high-budget villain origin story and into overpriced sweats—sipping wine clearly meant for someone twice her age.

Intimidating pretty privilege in its final form.

Megan blinks out of their awkward staring contest with Dani’s collarbone and stammers something unintelligible. Manon shoots her a look—sharp and unimpressed—that clearly says you’re embarrassing yourself; lock in.

Daniela doesn’t seem to mind. She just gives Megan a slow, knowing smirk, equal parts salacious and amused, which in turn earns her a pointed really? look from Sophia. 

-

Manon had officially decided. Enough was enough.

She brushed past both Sophia and Daniela without a word, dropped the supply Dani had asked for onto the kitchen counter—just a couple Geekbars and some pre-rolls—and held out her hand in a universal pay me now motion.

Sophia swatted her arm like she’d just committed a crime. Manon didn’t even flinch. Physical touch was her love language anyway.

Daniela paid her no mind.

Manon, currently being elbowed by Sophia for “bringing strays into my apartment again,” didn’t even have time to respond before she heard Megan gasp.

Daniela had just stolen Megan’s drink straight out of her hands. Took a slow, deliberate sip—maintaining eye contact like this was some kind of fucked-up mating ritual.

And then—because boundaries are fake—Daniela had somehow already stolen Megan’s phone, added her number (unsolicited but welcome), and was mid-rant about zodiac placements.

While feeding Megan stolen bites of Sophia’s abandoned sushi.

Like some kind of predator trying to domesticate its prey.

Disturbingly effective tactics, to be honest.

Manon, however? Not amused.

Currently in an off period with Sophia, she was in no mood to watch Megan get seduced via spicy tuna and bullshit astrology takes.

So she made the only rational decision available: be the world’s biggest cockblock.

She grabbed Megan by the back of her shirt and physically dragged her toward the door.

To her surprise, it took more effort than expected—Megan had some resistance in her after all—but Manon got the job done.

She slammed the door behind them with a final shout. “Pay me by Sunday, or I’m charging you interest like I’m a fucking student loan, bitch.”

-

“Cute,” Daniela muses, opening up the front door a moment later and watching Megan be pulled and forced to catch up with Manon down the hall, their height difference comically exaggerated by perspective.

“You usually go for jocks,” Sophia cuts in, equal parts curious and incredulous. “That one’s definitely not playing football.”

“And I thought trust funded jocks were more your thing,” Daniela shoots back, voice light and teasing. “You know—big, dumb muscleheads who buy you stuff and don’t ask questions.” She says knowing full well Manon doesn’t exactly fit that description either—maybe a third of it, on a technicality.

Sophia scoffs and half-turns toward her, the picture of mock offense. “I have layers.” She flicks an imaginary speck off her shoulder with theatrical flair. “And you owe me new spicy tuna rolls.”

Daniela rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue—mostly because she did just give Sophia’s food away. For a good cause, though. The Tragically-Fine-Nerd Foundation.

“Hmm,” she contemplates, gaze lingering on the hallway, “she looks like the type who might combust if you touched her.”

She pauses, blinking, lips pressing together—suddenly aware she’s just admitted verbally to ogling the complete opposite of her usual type. And, annoyingly, kind of meant it.

“Maybe I’m branching out,” she defends out loud, a little too fast, and unprompted. Nevertheless, a wicked smile rises on her face a moment later.

Sophia makes a face—part judgment, part warning she knows is going to be ignored. “I hate when you get that look.” She points at Dani, deadpan. “Do not corrupt the nerd.”

-

The front door clicked shut at 7:47 AM—another girl slipping out before the sun could make things awkward.

Manon barely registered the sound, already half-buried under her own hoodie on the couch, arm slung over her face to block out the early light leaking through her blinds.

-

She slid into the seat next to Megan exactly three minutes late, the sharp scent of her vape still clinging to her hoodie.

A hickey peeked out from under her collar—poorly hidden, not that she cared—as she dropped her bag onto the floor with a thud loud enough to earn a glare from two rows ahead.

Megan didn’t even look up, already scribbling notes like they gave a single shit about this class.

“You smell like regret and cheap perfume,” Megan muttered under her breath, at least serious about the cheap perfume part.

“Regret’s a strong word,” Manon said breezily, snagging one of Megan’s highlighters just because. Green today.

“I had fun,” she casually tells Megan. Too casually. Somewhat forced.

Across the lecture hall sat Daniela, radiating disapproval so thick it could’ve been carved with a dull plastic spork.

Her sharp eyes flicked over—just long enough to clock the hickey under Manon’s hoodie collar—then rolled her eyes so hard it could’ve powered the campus grid for a week.

Judgment incarnate.

She leaned toward Sophia to whisper something, and Manon would bet good money it was about her rebounding “trashy habits.”

Sophia, for her part, refusing to make eye contact didn’t even turn around—already having blocked Manon on everything but CashApp and Venmo—her favorite modern-day olive branches. Good for her. No, seriously.

Meanwhile, Daniela had no such qualms. She toggled seamlessly between scathing glares at Manon and slow, semi-inappropriate winks in Megan’s direction—weaponizing charm and contempt in equal measure.

The duality of women.

Which—okay. Would be fair. But considering who’s doing the excessive judging it’s surely hypocritical.

Judgement unironically coming from someone whose entire dating history could be summarized as campus fuckboy bingo.

Up until, apparently, very recently.

Since meeting Megan.

A fact Manon had noted and was genuinely tickled by.

Megan cleared their throat pointedly while Manon continued to ignore the lecture going on in front of them in favor of checking her phone again and checking out Sophia (priorities).

“You know Dani thinks you’re gonna give me secondhand STDs just by sitting next to me?” Megan whispered. Half-joking. Trying to lighten the mood. Even though neither Sophia nor Daniela were sitting anywhere close enough to logically be dampening it in the first place.

An amused snort escaped Manon before she could stop it.

Once again. That hypocritical bitch. But way more importantly, Sophia looks so fine today. Fuck.