Summary: You got a man. But you also got a weakness—and her name is Olivia Miles. You already folded. Hard. And the worst part? She don’t even know.
Warnings: cheating-adjacent behavior, obsessive thoughts, flirty banter, reader down bad, SMUT
Vibe: slow burn thirst, bold internal chaos, external chill
I say it every time the school throws one of these athlete mixers—outdoor event, plastic tables, lukewarm lemonade, and every sport on campus packed into one space like it’s supposed to build “camaraderie.” But really, it’s just an excuse to flex. Track kids in compression shorts. Volleyball girls tall as hell. Basketball players posted in the shade like royalty.
And then there’s me. Cropped white tank, dark jeans low on the hips, lip gloss catching every bit of sun. My boyfriend trailing behind me, already complaining about the heat.
“Why would they throw this outside?” he says for the third time, fanning himself with a program like that’s doing something. “This shit dumb.”
I hum in response, eyes already moving. Not for food. Not for the check-in table. I’m looking for her.
She’s leaning back on a picnic bench with her team, one leg up, glasses perched on her nose like she never even thought about taking them off. Puffball sitting high, curls tight, and she’s wearing some loose-ass tee rolled up at the sleeves, shorts low on her waist. Talking soft. Laughing low. Calm like she’s home.
She don’t try. That’s the problem.
She doesn’t walk in like she owns the space. She doesn’t scan the crowd for attention. She doesn’t flirt loud or look thirsty. She just sits there, real still, real solid—like she already knows she’s the reason you can’t think straight.
And I’m trying to keep it together, but I’ve already failed.
I shift on my feet, arms crossed, watching her laugh at something one of her teammates says. That little smile curve on her lips? That shit should be illegal. My thighs tense without permission.
“Yo, you want a drink or something?” my boyfriend asks. He’s beside me, but I swear he sounds like he’s miles away.
I don’t even look at him. “Nah, I’m good.”
“You sure? You been standing still like five minutes.”
I shrug, still staring. “It’s the heat.”
My best friend’s on my other side, and I can feel her looking at me. I don’t turn. I don’t blink. I just whisper, “Shut up,” before she can say anything slick.
Because she knows. She’s the only one who knows I’ve been in love with a girl who don’t even know I exist. Or worse… does and just ain’t said shit.
Because let’s be real—if she walked up right now, stood in front of me and said,
I wouldn’t even wait for the end of the sentence.
“So?” (Block my blessing for what?)
I’d say it with my chest. With my hand out. With my life ruined.
But for now, I’m frozen, stuck in place watching her lean forward to tie her shoe, goggles sliding down a little, and she pushes them back up with two fingers like she been doing it since birth.
My friend coughs into her hand—laughing, really—and leans in.
“Girl, close your mouth before somebody sees.”
I suck my teeth. “Ain’t nobody looking.”
And she’s right. I’m locked in. Focused. Gone. Olivia don’t even know the chokehold she’s got me in. Or maybe she do. Maybe that’s why she moves like that—calm, unreadable, like she’s watching everything but only caring when she feels like it.
And I swear to God if she even glances this way? It’s over for me. My relationship, my dignity, my sanity. Gone.
“Yo, let’s go sit in the shade or something,” my boyfriend says, tugging my hand like a toddler.
I glance at him. Back at her. She just laughed again—eyes closed this time, head tipped slightly back. God. Even her breathing fine.
I let him lead me away, but my eyes never leave her. And I know it now—clearer than ever. I don’t want her number. I don’t want a chance. I want her attention. Just once. Just enough to ruin everything.
I’m sitting at the table, but my body’s still catching up. Still humming from the brush of Olivia’s arm. From that accidental touch. That soft “my bad,” the little half-smile, the way she smelled like clean sweat and lemon lotion and power.
My boyfriend didn’t even blink. Didn’t see the way my breath caught. Didn’t notice my knees locked under the table like I’d been tased.
“She mad chill though,” he says now, shoving fries in his mouth like he ain’t just walked past a god. “I get the hype.”
I blink at him. Don’t speak.
He leans back in the cheap metal chair, stretching like he did something. Like we just came out of a moment and not me out of a crisis. He wipes his mouth, still chewing, and then—
“Probably all the gay girls hypin’ her up though. You know how it is. Pride Month—everybody suddenly like, ‘Oooh, I like girls now.’”
He laughs. Like it’s a joke. Like it’s clever. “That shit so corny.”
I freeze. Fork in hand. Mid-air. Half a cherry tomato skewered and dripping, forgotten. My friend on the other side of me goes still. She looks at me out the corner of her eye, then down at her plate.
He doesn’t notice. He never notices. Because right now? I’m not looking at him. I’m staring at my plate like it insulted me personally. And inside? I’m burning.
Because first of all, you had the audacity to speak on gay girls while I’m still trying to come back to earth from brushing shoulders with Olivia fucking Miles.
Second of all, who told you to bring Pride Month into this? Who said your straight ass could even speak on what it means to “act” gay?
“That so?” I say finally, voice low, deceptively even.
He nods like I asked for insight.
“Yeah, I mean—whatever makes ‘em feel seen, I guess. But it’s wild how many girls I seen switch up this month.”
Switch up. Switch up? I look up at him real slow. Then I smile. But my hand is still shaking slightly on the fork. And in my mind? I’m not here anymore.
In my mind, I’m standing up from this wobbly-ass table.
Walking back to the other side of the lawn where Olivia’s still sitting with her team. Leaning back like nothing happened. Glasses low. Neck glinting in the sun. Looking fine as ever in her sweats like she don’t even know what she did to me.
And I walk right up to her. Tap her on the shoulder. Say, “Hey. Wanna help me prove a point?” I wouldn’t even explain. She wouldn’t need me to.
Because if my boyfriend really thinks girls liking girls is some kind of trend? Cool. Let me go trend with someone who’s everything he’s not—quiet, composed, fine, and real.
Let me trend in Olivia’s mouth. In her hoodie. On her lap. On camera. Public.
“Babe?” he says, laughing lightly. “What? You mad now?”
I look at him and blink like I just woke up from a vision.
“No. I’m good,” I say. But my voice is like ice.
My friend slides her soda across the table and mumbles, “Hydrate, bitch. Before you act on it.”
I don’t storm off. I walk calm. Controlled. Very demure. Plate left, water bottle in hand, telling him I need to pee like I’m not seconds from losing it. I don’t look back. Don’t want to. My friend don’t stop me—probably hoping I do what we both know I want to do.
The bathroom’s empty when I walk in. Cool. Dim. I head for the mirror, splash water on my collarbone, trying to steady my breathing. But I already feel her before I see her.
Door creaks. Footsteps. Her. I don’t have to turn. I see her in the mirror.
Olivia. 5’10”. Loose shorts. Hoodie on. Puffball fresh. Those glasses pushed down her nose like she’s about to read me like a damn syllabus.
She don’t say “hi.” Don’t ask how I’m doing.
“That’s your man?” she says, slow, real casual.
I blink. Straighten. “Yeah.”
She leans against the wall, arms crossed, one foot kicked back like she got all the time in the world. Like she ain’t even surprised.
“Mm.” She nods once, smug. “Makes sense.”
I turn to face her. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her smile is slight. Sharp.
“Nothing. You just looked real hungry for someone.”
My breath catches. I say nothing. She lets the silence hang heavy between us like it’s part of the game.
“Ain’t my business,” she shrugs. “Just funny.”
I squint at her. “What’s funny?”
She uncrosses her arms. Takes one step forward.
“You actin’ like you’re loyal.”
I freeze. My chest stutters, legs suddenly too stiff.
She knows. Not the details—but the look. The energy. The way my body locked up when she brushed it earlier. And she’s smiling now. Not big. Not mean. Just… knowing.
“If I asked, you’d come,” she says, real low.
It’s not a question. It’s not even a tease.It’s a fact. I should be offended. I should say something. Remind her I’m in a relationship. Tell her she doesn’t know me like that. But I don’t.
“You don’t even know me,” I say instead, but it comes out weak. Like a whisper.
She tilts her head, licking her lips once like she tasting the lie.
“Don’t need to. I know the type.”
She steps back like she’s done. Like she just dropped the mic and don’t need to repeat herself. She shrugs again.
“You ain’t loyal. But I don’t mind.”
And just like that, she turns and leaves. Doesn’t wait. Doesn’t look back. The door swings shut behind her, and I’m standing there—palms sweating, chest heaving, thighs clenched. She just called me a hoe. And I let her.
The mixer’s too hot, too loud, and I’m too fine to be annoyed the way I am.
Tube top hugging tight across my chest. Shorts short enough to ride when I sit. Edges laid. Anklet sparkling. I didn’t come here to play humble—I came to be seen. And yeah, I showed up with my boyfriend, but the second I spotted Olivia stretched out on that bench? Oversized tee, sweats slung low, one arm thrown across the back.
I already knew what kind of time I was on.
We sit across from her at first. Then, like the world is just that sick and sweet, space opens up next to her—so I take it. Slide right in. My boyfriend don’t blink. He still talking about his lift numbers, the heat, the protein shakes that “aren’t hitting right.”
I’m nodding. Smiling even. But the second he turns his head? I lean into Olivia, real slow. Let my lips graze her jaw. Just a whisper of a kiss.
She doesn’t move. She looks down at me, eyes low, grin teasing the corner of her mouth like “this what we doing?”
And yes. It is. (Got the idea from Johnson family vacation ifykyk)
I sit back like nothing happened. Take a sip of my drink, legs crossed, pretty as ever. Olivia doesn’t say a word. She just chuckles under her breath. Real low. Real smug.
When my boyfriend looks back, she’s already leaned back again, stretched out like she’s tired, like nothing’s going on. He doesn’t notice that her hand is close to mine now. That my pinky is brushing hers under the table like I’m trying to behave and failing.
He says something dumb again. About girls being “extra gay” during Pride. How “half the team switch up for clout.” I laugh. Loud. Mean. Because while he’s talking, my hand’s already drifting to Olivia’s thigh.
Eyes on the sky. Head tilted back, smirk barely there. She’s relaxed, like this don’t mean shit. Like I’m just another girl acting bad because I can. But I feel her shift, just a little, to make room for me.
My thumb brushes the seam of her sweats. My nails trace slow, just enough to tease. Her breathing doesn’t change. She’s built for this.
My boyfriend turns to say something else.
Olivia raises her eyebrows at me like “Be good.”
I lean in again. Soft. Sweet. My lips graze under her ear, just once. Then I sit up like nothing happened. She’s grinning now. Full on. And when my boyfriend looks between us, confused for a second?
We’re just sitting. Just two athletes at a picnic. But the energy?Unforgivable.
I smile, innocent. “Perfect.”
She finally speaks. Voice smooth, low, deep in her chest.
“Girls do be switching up.” She looks straight at me.
“But some of..been on this side.”
My breath catches. My boyfriend’s still laughing. And I’m still being a hoe—just quieter about it.
Later in the day, the sun’s still out, but it’s lower now. That heavy golden hour that makes everything look softer than it feels. People are hanging around, talking in smaller groups. The music’s still playing, but it’s background noise now. Fading.
I’m standing next to my boyfriend again, and he’s going off about something dumb. Mad about someone saying he was too slow in a drill. Still pissed about how “the media don’t respect real athletes.” Still pretending like I’m listening.
Because Olivia’s leaning against her car across the lot, arms folded over that same oversized tee, chains glinting in the sun, her sweats hanging just right. She’s watching me. Calm. Amused. Like she knew this would happen. Like she planned it.
She doesn’t say anything. Just lifts her chin a little.
Eyes locked on me. Everything in my body tightens. My breath catches. My skin buzzes. It’s not a question. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command.
One second, my boyfriend is mid-sentence. The next? I’m gone. I don’t say goodbye. Don’t make excuses. I just walk—fast, locked in, like my body belongs to her now and I’m just trying to catch up.
When I climb into her car, shorts tight between my thighs and lip gloss sticky on my mouth, she doesn’t ask me anything. She just watches. Quiet. Calm. Steering wheel gripped with one hand like she’s still thinking about whether I deserve what I came for.
I don’t even sit back. I turn to her, chest rising, blood hot, lips parted. Because I already said yes.
I don’t even know who moves first. Maybe I do. Maybe it’s me that launches across the console like I’ve lost my mind. Maybe it’s her that pulls me in with a hand on the back of my neck like she’s starving.
Our mouths crash, messy and wet. Tongue deep. Lips slick. Teeth brushing. My thighs grind against the seat as her hand slides up, slow, dangerous, right under the hem of my tube top. She doesn’t grope. She doesn’t tease.
She grips. Chest to chest. Mouth to mouth. And then her hand’s in my hair, yanking just enough to make me gasp.
She pulls back, just slightly. Breath heavy. Eyes dark. Then—like she’s annoyed I even needed the warm-up—she kisses me again, tongue pushing past my lips like it belongs there.
I moan straight into her mouth. She swallows it and smirks.
Her hand drops to my throat. Doesn’t squeeze—just holds it. Firm. Dominant. Like a reminder: you came here. You said yes. This is mine now.
I’m straddling her lap before I even realize it, knees pressed against her sweats, hands sliding under the collar of her shirt like I need to feel every inch of her. My hips roll without rhythm. I can’t help it. I need her.
She finally speaks. Voice deep, quiet, thick with control.
I shake my head. Lying. She chuckles, low in her chest, like “you better not.”
And then she slides her hand into my shorts—no warning, no permission—just takes it. Knuckles brushing heat, middle finger dragging through slick like she expected me to be soaked.
And I am. Pathetic. I moan again, jaw hanging open, throat still in her grip. Her lips find my neck, tongue trailing, teeth scraping. And she takes her time.
Slow strokes. Pressure where I need it. Fingers moving with intention, like she wants to memorize every twitch I give her. My hands claw at her shoulders. Her jaw. Her thighs. I don’t even know where I am anymore.
She’s not even whispering anything sweet. She’s just watching me. Lips parted, breathing steady, watching the way I fall apart on her fingers like it’s nothing.
We’re in a fucking parking lot. Anyone could see. My boyfriend could come walking any second. But she don’t stop.
She just presses her thumb up harder, fingers moving deeper, wrist rolling with purpose—and when my legs shake and my eyes roll back, she pulls my face to hers, kisses me so deep I forget how to breathe.
I come with her tongue in my mouth. Her hand on my throat. My body choking on it, falling into her like I belong there. And she never stops smiling.
Your thighs are still twitching in her lap, breath warm against her collar as you try to gather yourself. She’s not helping. Her fingers are still wet, still coated in the slick she worked out of you with slow, devastating control, and she brings them to her mouth like it’s nothing. Sucks two fingers clean while staring straight ahead, jaw flexing slow as her lips wrap around them with a hum so casual it makes your gut twist.
Your heart’s still pounding, body open, hips sore from how hard you’d pressed into her palm, chasing something no one had ever given you. And she just wipes the rest of you on your inner thigh like she’s done this before—like you’re a routine.
She doesn’t say anything, but you lean in anyway, unable to sit still. Your lips begin pressing soft, lingering kisses against her neck, like you’re still offering something. Something sweet. Something needy. Something that says I’d rather die right here than go back.
She leans her head back with a quiet laugh, like your kisses tickle more than tempt, and her hand rests heavy on your thigh, thumb stroking once as her other drapes casually behind your back. You feel safe for half a second. Like she might let you stay.
Then her voice drops, amused and cruel in that soft, low way she’s got when she knows she has all the power.
“Nah,” she murmurs, lazy smirk spreading across her lips, “go back before he start bitchin’.”
The kisses stop mid-press, your lips just barely touching her collarbone. Your body stays right there, still soft and flushed and open, but something inside you folds in. You don’t pull back. You don’t move. You just go limp.
She doesn’t notice right away—or maybe she does, and just doesn’t care. Her hand stays where it is, thumb now tapping gently against your thigh like she’s calling time on your moment. You don’t answer. You just let your head fall against her shoulder like you’re not really there anymore.
Because what the fuck does she mean go back?
You just gave her everything. Let her touch you in ways no one ever had. You didn’t just come—you unraveled. On her fingers. In her lap. With her hand tight on your throat and her mouth owning every sound that left you.
And now she wants you to leave?
You don’t respond. Not out loud. You just lay there, breath shallow, eyes wide and unfocused. The kind of stillness that comes with being dropped too fast after being held too good. Like you’re emotionally concussed.
She shifts slightly, maybe to nudge you off. Maybe to stretch. She doesn’t say it again. She doesn’t have to. You were never supposed to stay.
And she’s not going to let you pretend otherwise. Not even for a second.
But you do. You pretend. Just for one more second. Just long enough to memorize how she smells. How she breathes. How it felt to belong to somebody who knew exactly what to do with you.
And then you climb off her lap like your knees don’t shake. Like your chest doesn’t ache. You shut her door behind you like it’s just a car and not a place you finally felt something real.
And when you walk back across the lot, shorts clinging, lips swollen, thighs still wet? You don’t feel like a girl with a boyfriend.
It’s been a few weeks since I told him I was done. And I meant it—sincerely. I stood right in front of him, arms crossed, voice steady, and said, “This relationship is over.” He blinked at me like I told him I wanted to try a new hairstyle. Like it was a suggestion. Not a fact.
He kissed my forehead and said, “You just mad. It’s whatever.”
No, it’s not. It hasn’t been for weeks.
I’ve been living in peace, or trying to. Acting single, claiming it every chance I get. Laughing louder, dressing finer, letting people ask questions I don’t care to answer. I haven’t touched him. Haven’t even looked at him long. Meanwhile, he’s out here calling me “his girl” in group chats and making dumb little jokes like we’re still locked in.
And Olivia? She hasn’t said much since that day in the car. But I’ve seen her. In passing. On campus. Sitting in the back of lecture halls like she owns the walls. Always posted up somewhere quiet, laid-back in sweats and an oversized hoodie like she didn’t change my life in one afternoon. Her presence alone makes my spine hot. I haven’t been near her long enough to breathe right since.
Today I’m in class, zoned out, pretending to take notes while scrolling my phone. It’s hot, and I’m irritated. I’ve got on this tiny tube top that keeps slipping, shorts barely holding onto my hips, and I already know I look too good to be this bored.
The professor’s droning on and I’m one bad mood away from walking out, so I ask to use the restroom, and head into the hallway with my water bottle in hand, trying to gather myself. And I hear it.
I hear him. His voice echoing just around the corner, louder than it ever needs to be.
“Yeah, nah, it’s just been weird. My girl been actin’ mad different. But it’s cool though. You know how they be.”
My girl? I round the corner, ready to check him, until I see who he’s talking to—and stop dead in my tracks.
She’s leaned against the wall, arms crossed, one ankle kicked over the other, hood pulled up. Her jeans are low, her shirt’s wrinkled, and her expression? Cool as hell. Like this isn’t awkward. Like this isn’t the dumbest situation to ever unfold in human history.
She sees me. Of course she does. Her eyes flick up the moment I appear, and she grins a little. That slow, cocky kind of smile like she smelled the tension before I even turned the corner. She doesn’t even look at him when she speaks.
“Oh word?” she says, like they’re boys or something. “That your girl?”
He nods too hard. “Yeah. We just going through something. But yeah. That’s me.” I want to evaporate. Olivia finally turns her head toward him. One brow lifts.
“…She single now or what?”
And it’s so calm. So nonchalant. Like she asking about the weather. Like she doesn’t already know the answer. Like she didn’t have her fingers inside me while I was moaning her name in a Honda.
He laughs, a little confused, a little fake. “She be actin’ like it, but nah. That’s mine.” I roll my eyes so hard I see the inside of my skull. Because sir. I told you. I TOLD YOU.
I don’t say anything. Just shake my head and keep walking. Past them. Down the hall. Don’t even break my stride.
“I am single,” I mumble under my breath, loud enough for Olivia to hear, not him.
And I hear her chuckle behind me. That same low, knowing laugh she gave me when she said “go back before he start bitching.” I grip my bottle harder.
It’s been weeks since she touched me in the car, and my body hasn’t been the same since. Every time I close my eyes, I remember the way her fingers moved—like she already knew what I needed before I did. I came fast that day, embarrassingly fast, but it wasn’t the speed that shook me. It was the way she watched me come apart, the way she held me still and made me feel like I couldn’t hide anything. Not from her.
Since then, I’ve tried to move on. I’ve had my hand between my thighs almost every night, telling myself it’s fine. I can do it on my own. I’ve made myself come, sure—but it never hits the same. The memory of her—her voice, her smirk, the weight of her on me—gets me there faster than I want to admit. But it always feels like a copy. A watered-down version of something my body now knows how to crave. If it were her again, if it were her voice whispering in my ear while she split me open, I know I wouldn’t last a minute.
I’ve tried to act normal. In class, in public, around people who think I’m fine. I’ve walked past her a few times on campus—her posted up in some hallway, legs stretched out, hoodie up, like she’s above time itself. She never says much. She always watches me. That calm, unbothered look on her face like she knows I’m the one holding out.
I see her outside the lecture hall, sitting back with her hood up and her phone in her hand, like the sun doesn’t bother her. My stomach flips the second I spot her. I hesitate for one breath, then walk over without thinking it through. She glances up when I approach, not surprised at all.
“What’s up, baby?” she asks, her voice low, lazy, teasing.
I stop in front of her, eyes scanning her face, then her chest rising beneath the hoodie. My mouth feels dry.
“I need you,” I say, my voice too quiet.
She raises an eyebrow, lips curving slightly. “You need to talk?”
I shake my head. “No. I need you to fuck me.”
For a moment, she just watches me. Then she leans back and pulls one of her earbuds out, eyes scanning my face like she’s checking if I’m serious.
“You finally done playing?”
She stands slowly, stretches like she’s just been waiting for me to get it together, then nods toward the hall. I follow her without hesitation.
It’s quiet when the door shuts behind us, but my body’s screaming. I don’t wait. I grab her hoodie, pull her down into me, and kiss her like I’ve been starved for weeks—and I have. Our mouths crash, her tongue sliding over mine, fast, wet, messy. She’s grinning into it already. I can feel her smirk between kisses, feel her hands sliding under my shirt like she’s here to undo me.
I try to climb into her, hands clawing at her hoodie, but she pulls back and spins me around with one hard tug. My hip hits the desk. She presses against my back, one hand gripping my neck, the other dragging my shorts down like she’s done waiting.
Her breath hits my ear before her fingers hit my pussy.
“Still thinking about the car?”
I can barely get the moan out before her fingers slide between my legs. She doesn’t tease. Doesn’t warm me up. She just slides two fingers in like she already knows the depth, like she never forgot how I clenched around her.
My hands grip the desk, knuckles white. She’s already curling them. Already fucking me. I gasp, hips twitching back into her, thighs soaked. She laughs against my neck—low and mean.
“Goddamn, you’re pathetic. You been dripping like this since the first time, huh?”
I can’t answer. My breath’s caught somewhere between a scream and a sob. She adds pressure with her palm, rubbing my clit slow while she drags her fingers in and out of me, steady, precise. She knows my body now. Remembers every reaction like she wrote it.
I try to move. Try to push back for more. She grips the back of my hair and yanks my head to the side—not hard, just firm. Controlling.
“You don’t move unless I tell you to,” she says, her voice close, like she’s smiling. “You wanna come, you stay still.”
Her fingers speed up just slightly. The heel of her hand presses harder into my clit. I moan into the desk, biting my lip, body trembling.
She’s watching me. I know it. Watching the way my ass shakes every time she hits that spot. The way my spine bends. She leans in closer, tongue dragging along the shell of my ear.
“You tryna fuck yourself all month and couldn’t make it hit, huh? Poor baby.”
I nod, but it’s not enough. My whole body is vibrating now. My legs start to shake and she feels it.
Her fingers stay deep, wrist rolling. My clit pulses hard against her palm. I cry out, jaw slack, hips starting to twitch against her. I can’t stop it. I don’t want to.
She laughs again. Darker this time.
“You gonna come all over my hand again? Do it.”
It hits me sharp. I whine her name, my thighs clamp down, my back arches and all I can feel is her. Her fingers. Her breath. The tight grip in my hair keeping me still while she finger fucks me through the hardest orgasm I’ve had since the last time she did this.
She doesn’t stop. She fucks me through it. Past the shaking. Past the twitching. Still smiling while I moan into the crook of my arm and beg for breath I can’t find.
When my knees start to give out, she pulls her fingers out slow and wipes them on my thigh. Then she pushes my head forward with one hand and leans over me again, mouth close to my ear.
“Don’t come back to me begging like that unless you’re ready to get used to it.” I don’t speak. All I can do is breathe and take it. Because I’ll be back.
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