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Cate Dunlap wasn’t the kind of girl who obsessed over underwear.

Well. Not usually.

She liked her lingerie drawer the same way she liked her emotions—organized, expensive, and behind a lock. Satin for when she wanted to feel dangerous. Lace when she was feeling cruel. And cotton? Please. She isn’t twelve.

But this pair—this ridiculous, barely-there, cherry-blush silk thong with embroidered hearts and a teeny, tiny bow at the front—this one was different. This one had a purpose.

A mission, if you will.

It was the kind of lingerie that didn’t scream fuck me. It whispered date me. Worship me. Maybe take me to brunch sometime and walk me to class.

Anyway. The thong.

Cate bought it on a Tuesday after a particularly chaotic orgasm left her trembling against the headboard with your hand still knotted in her hair and her heart doing its best impression of a hummingbird. You’d whispered something after. Not sweet—not exactly. But soft. Reverent. Something like, “You always sound so pretty when you come.”

And Cate—Cate had gone completely, disgustingly feral.

Hence: the thong.

She’d paired it with a matching bra, delicate and sheer, designed more for unraveling than actual support. She even wore a dress that night—backless, halter-tied, black and devastating. It wasn’t a date. Of course not. You didn’t do dates. Just flirty texts and shared vices and Cate half-draped across your bed until dawn, pretending her perfume didn’t cling to the sheets for days.

Still. Hope was a slippery thing.

When you opened the door that night, hair still damp from a shower, t-shirt hanging off your shoulder, Cate’s whole stupid heart curled into itself like a ribbon.

She said, “Hi.”

You blinked at her. Said, “Jesus Christ.”

So far, so good.

“Come in,” you added, stepping aside. Cate did, trailing her fingers over the wall just because she knew you watched everything. Every movement. Every breath. That was the thing about you—stillness like a trap, quiet like a scream.

Cate wasn’t used to being the more obvious one. She didn’t like it.

You followed her into your dorm, tossed your phone onto the couch, and muttered, “You’re gonna kill me one of these days.”

Cate smiled. “Only if you’re lucky.”

She waited. Waited for the look. For your eyes to dip—linger. For a comment. A hand on her waist, tugging her closer with that low, gravel-slick voice saying something filthy, something worshipful.

Nothing.

Cate unzipped her dress herself.

You were not okay.

You’d known a lot of versions of Cate Dunlap by now. Sharp Cate. Teasing Cate. Soft, sleepy, vulnerable Cate who clung to you in the middle of the night like she didn’t mean to. But tonight? This was a new kind of menace.

And the dress—God, the fucking dress—was bad enough. But then she had taken it off, just stepped out of it like sin incarnate, and you had almost whimpered.

You noticed the lingerie immediately. Of course you did. You weren't blind.

But it was new. Cate had never worn this before. Not for you, at least.

And it wasn’t slutty, not really. It wasn’t the kind of thing someone wore just to get railed. It was the kind of thing that meant something. Soft pink. Girlish. Stupidly delicate.

Your brain short-circuited.

Which—okay. Cool. Fine. No pressure. Just pretend you didn’t notice the tiny fucking bow. That was totally normal.

Cate was watching you now. Expectant. A flicker of something in her eyes, like she was waiting for—

No. You couldn’t say it. Couldn’t let on that you had been keeping track. That you knew every pair Cate had ever worn around you, whether they’d stayed on for long or not. That you’d fantasized about this—this exact look, this exact softness—for weeks.

Instead, you cleared your throat and asked, “Do you want the lights off?”

Cate’s smile faltered for a second. “Whatever you want.”

Fuck.

You had sex. Of course you did. Cate came twice. You pulled her apart like you were born to do it. Like you knew her body better than your own goddamn reflection. But through it all, Cate couldn’t stop thinking: she didn’t notice.

She didn’t notice the hearts. Or the bow. Or the way Cate had smoothed lotion over her thighs for an extra ten minutes just in case your hands wandered there first.

You didn’t notice because you didn’t care.

And fuck, that shouldn’t hurt. It shouldn’t.

You weren’t dating.

Cate rolled over afterward, tugging the sheets higher even though she wasn’t cold. Her back was to you. Always was. Easier that way.

“You okay?” you murmured.

Cate nodded into the pillow. “Mhm. Just tired.”

There was a pause. Then a soft shuffle of movement. You pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. Gentle. Hesitant.

Cate nearly cried.

You stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes after Cate fell asleep.

You hadn’t meant to ruin it.

You just—panicked.

The new underwear was…it was a lot. A message, maybe. A test?

You didn’t want to get it wrong.

Because if Cate was trying to say something—if she wanted more—then God, you wanted to meet her there. Wanted to take her on a real date, hold her hand in public, fall asleep tangled up without having to pretend it didn’t mean anything in the morning.

But what if it wasn’t that?

What if it was just lingerie?

What if pointing it out made Cate retreat? What if she laughed?

You turned your head, watching Cate’s spine rise and fall with every breath. She looked soft in the moonlight. Breakable. Her hair a mess across the pillow, lips parted in sleep.

You could say something tomorrow. Maybe.

If you’re brave enough.

Cate left in the morning without waking you.

She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled on her dress slowly, and tried not to look at the bra and thong clutched in her fist. The lace had gone slightly wrinkled. The bow was a little crooked.

She’d thought she could seduce clarity out of you. That maybe if she looked desirable enough, obvious enough, you would finally say what you were both thinking.

Instead, all she got was a vague goodnight kiss and a confusing tangle of limbs under the covers that left her chest aching worse than her thighs.

She stuffed the lingerie to the bottom of her purse and left the dorm without a word.

You knew something was wrong the second you woke up alone.

The sheets beside you were cold.

Cate always stayed for breakfast. Or at least long enough to pretend she wasn’t staying. She’d steal one of your t-shirts, sip coffee with her legs curled up on the couch, pretend she didn’t care that her lipstick was still on your mouth.

Always.

Until now.

You sat up, scrubbing a hand over your face, throat already tight with the worst kind of knowing. The quiet kind. The kind that didn’t shout or slam doors. The kind that crawled under your ribs and stayed there.

Your phone buzzed once.

[Cate]: thanks for last night. see you around. xx

See you around.

Not “breakfast?” Not “come over tomorrow?” Not even the casual “let me know when you’re free” that had started to sound suspiciously like dating even though you’d never said the word.

You stared at the message until it blurred. Your chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself, slow and silent and stupid.

See you around.

Fuck.

By 3 p.m., you’d gone through three cups of coffee, one panic attack in the gym showers, and two half-drafted texts you couldn’t bring yourself to send.

One of them read:

hey, did i do something?

The other was:

i noticed you left early. you okay?

Neither felt right. Too much. Not enough.

Instead, you sent:

can we talk?

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Then forty-five.

Cate was always fast at texting back. Always.

You started pacing your room, hands on your hips, heart in your throat. You didn’t even have a name for what you were. Didn’t have a label for this thing—this weird, hot, messy thing where Cate let you in but only halfway. Where you pretended not to care when you left with lipstick on your neck and perfume still clinging to your skin.

But you cared. God, you fucking cared.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the night before. The new lingerie. The silence. The way Cate had turned away from you in bed like it meant nothing.

But it had meant something. It had to.

Didn’t it?

Your phone buzzed again.

[Cate]: I guess. If you want to.

That shouldn’t have hurt. It did anyway.

Cate hadn’t been crying when you got there. Not at first.

She looked fine. Polished, even. Ponytail. Lip gloss. Wearing one of those expensive pajama sets that made her look like a 1950s housewife in therapy.

But you knew her too well now. Knew that the glossier Cate looked, the more fucked-up she probably felt.

You stood awkwardly in the doorway. “Hi.”

Cate nodded, stepping aside to let you in. She didn’t touch you. Didn’t smile.

You swallowed. “Did I do something?”

Cate blinked. “What?”

“I just—” You ran a hand through your hair. “You left before I woke up. And you never do that. And then you texted me like we were strangers, and now you’re—”

“I’m what?”

You exhaled, slow and shaky. “Distant.”

Cate laughed once, brittle and small. “You noticed?”

“Of course I noticed.”

You stared at each other for a second. Cate’s arms were folded tightly over her chest, like she was holding herself together through sheer willpower. You’d never wanted to touch someone so badly. Not even to kiss her. Just—to hold her. To fix it.

“Did I do something wrong?” you asked quietly. “If I did, I’m sorry. I mean that.”

Cate’s expression cracked like glass.

“You didn’t say anything,” she whispered.

“What?”

“About the lingerie,” Cate said. “It was new. I wore it on purpose. I—I picked it out for you. And you didn’t even notice.”

Your heart stopped.

“Cate,” you said, stepping closer. “I noticed. I noticed the second you took off your dress.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Her voice broke on the last word.

“Because I thought I’d make it weird. I thought—God, I thought maybe it didn’t mean what I wanted it to mean. And if I said something and I was wrong, then I’d lose you. Or you’d laugh. Or worse—you’d look at me like I was pathetic.”

Cate’s eyes filled so fast it made you ache.

“You’re not pathetic,” she said, voice crumbling. “You’re just—brave in every way except this one.”

Your breath caught.

Cate wiped at her cheeks, frustrated. “I just wanted to know if you were thinking about me like that. If you wanted more. Because I do. I do, and I’m scared all the time that I want too much and you don’t want anything.”

“Cate—”

“I’m not good at this,” she went on. “I’m good at being hot and fuckable and mysterious. I’m not good at being chosen. Or loved. I’ve never been the person someone stays for.”

You didn’t mean to grab her. You just—moved.

You crossed the room and wrapped Cate in your arms, one hand in her hair, the other on her spine, pulling her in so tightly it felt like breathing again.

Cate melted.

“I notice everything about you,” you whispered into her temple. “I just didn’t know I was allowed to.”

Cate clung to her, trembling. “You are.”

You stood there for a long moment, forehead to forehead, breath shared in the hush between apologies.

Finally, Cate said, “So we’re both idiots.”

“Apparently.”

“Do you want to be idiots together?”

You smiled. “Only if we can make out about it.”

Cate laughed through her tears, then kissed you hard enough to make you both a little dizzy.

You woke up first.

That was rare. Cate was usually up before you—already dressed, already glossy, already pretending she hadn’t just spent the night curled against you like the world would end if you drifted apart. But not this morning.

This morning, Cate was soft and unguarded and still asleep, her lashes dark against her cheeks, mouth parted slightly as she breathed.

You watched her for a long time.

You didn’t mean to.

You just…couldn’t look away.

Cate looked young like this. Not in the helpless way—never that. Just quiet. Real. Her hand was resting on your stomach, fingers splayed like she was marking territory even in sleep. Her leg was draped over one of yours, blanket tangled between you.

Everything about it should’ve screamed we just fucked.

But you hadn’t.

You hadn’t even taken your clothes off.

Last night had been all crying and honesty and aching truth between tangled limbs, and then Cate had curled into your chest like a heartbeat and just…stayed.

You were still high from it.

Carefully, you slid your hand into Cate’s hair, combing through the strands, gentle as anything. Cate made a sleepy noise and burrowed closer.

“Mm. Hi,” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

You smiled. “Hey.”

Cate blinked up at her, squinting. “You stayed.”

“I live here,” you said, deadpan. Clearly joking.

Cate whacked her lightly in the stomach. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” your hand settled on her waist. “You didn’t run.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

You searched her face. “You really want this?”

Cate’s brows knit. “You think I’d cry like that for someone I didn’t want?”

You were quiet.

Cate softened. “I want to try,” she said. “Whatever this is. But I don’t want to rush it. I mean—I do, obviously, I want to throw you down and ruin your life.”

You made a strangled noise.

Cate smiled. “But maybe we should…pace ourselves. Start over, kind of. Try being around each other without always ending up naked.”

You blinked. “Like…a no-sex thing?”

Cate bit her lip. “For a little while. Two weeks?”

You stared at her.

Cate quickly added, “We can still make out. And hang out. And flirt. And sleep in the same bed. Just—no sex. Let it build.”

You were still staring.

Cate’s confidence wavered. “Too much?”

You groaned and flopped backward. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“But is it a yes?”

You looked at her, eyes bright. “Yeah. It’s a yes.”

Cate beamed. “Okay. Two weeks.”

Somehow—against all odds—they’d made it to day three.

Except today? Today Cate was wearing glasses.

She didn’t need them—you knew that. But she wore them anyway, because apparently God wanted you to suffer.

You were seated across from each other in the campus library, Cate pretending to read from a psychology textbook, you pretending not to stare at the way her mouth moved when she chewed the end of her pen.

Cate looked up suddenly. “You’re not reading.”

“You’re chewing.”

“I always chew.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “That’s the problem.”

Cate grinned and crossed her legs slowly under the table. You made the mistake of glancing down.

You’d made out in three different hallways earlier. Cate had whispered something filthy in your ear right before you walked into the library and then immediately started acting innocent, like she didn’t make you want to combust.

You scribbled something on a notecard and slid it across the table.

You’re evil.

Cate wrote back.

You love it.

You bit your lip. Smiled. God, you really do.

Day seven and the pact was still very much intact.

The weather was perfect for a picnic. You brought snacks. Cate brought sunscreen and emotional damage.

You spread out a blanket under one of the big oak trees by the music building and just…talked.

Like you were normal. Like this was something people did.

You played music off your phone. Cate stole all the watermelon and fell asleep with her head in your lap halfway through a Fleetwood Mac song.

You stroked her hair, feeling like your chest was too small for her heart.

When Cate woke, blinking slowly, she looked up at you with that undone expression—soft, tired, safe.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she whispered.

“Like what?”

Cate turned onto her back, cheek still pressed to your thigh. “Like I’m something you want.”

You swallowed. “Because you are.”

Cate didn’t say anything. But she reached for your hand and threaded your fingers together, holding tight.

Day eleven was largely uneventful. Until Marie’s monthly movie night.

Cate sat so close on the couch that you thought your skin might ignite.

Emma kept glancing between you like she knew. Jordan, sprawled in a beanbag, said nothing but raised an eyebrow every time Cate laughed too hard at one of your dumb jokes.

Cate didn’t care. She leaned into your side like she belonged there.

You wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

No one said a word, but Emma texted you later:

did y’all get married during midterms or what the fuck is going on

You sent back:

it’s complicated

It was the last night of the pact. Fourteen days. No sex.

You’d made it.

To celebrate, you met on the roof of your dorm building, both a little early, both pretending you hadn’t been counting down the minutes. Cate had on one of your sweatshirts—massive on her, sleeves covering her hands. Her lip gloss was peachy-pink. Her cheeks were flushed.

You were already in pain.

You didn’t talk much at first. Just stood close, watching the campus lights blink on below you.

Cate spoke first.

“Do you think we’re better now?”

You looked over. “Better?”

“At this. At…trying.”

You considered it. “Yeah. I do.”

Cate smiled, slow and shy. “Me too.”

You turned to face her fully. Your heart in your throat.

“Cate.”

Cate met your eyes.

“I know we made a pact,” you said. “I know we’re technically still in the window.”

Cate tilted her head. “Are you asking to break it?”

“No.” You swallowed. “I’m asking if I can take you on a real date tomorrow night.”

Cate stared at you.

Like really stared.

And then—

“You mean like…” Her voice broke. “Public? Food? Reservations?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Like that. Like I come to your door and knock and tell you you look beautiful and open the car door and take you somewhere nice where I don’t try to fuck you in the bathroom.”

Cate blinked very fast.

You stepped closer. “You don’t have to say yes. I just—I wanted you to know I want that. I want to be your person. Not just your fuck, not just your fling. Your real thing.”

Cate made a small noise, then launched herself into your arms.

“Is that a yes?” You whispered against her temple.

Cate nodded into your shoulder. “Yes. God, yes.”

You held her tighter.

And somewhere below you, the world kept turning. Lights blinked. Cars passed. Someone started playing guitar in a neighboring dorm.

But on the rooftop, you just stood there, wrapped in each other like gravity didn’t exist.

Cate was buzzing—half excitement, half nerves—as she got ready for the evening. She kept checking the clock, adjusting her dress, touching up her eyeliner because tonight could change the trajectory of their lives forever. No pressure, though.

There was a knock.

Cate froze mid-lipstick.

A knock. Not a text. Not a here or a let me in.

A knock.

She pressed a hand to her chest for a second, willing her heart not to punch its way out through her ribs, then grabbed her perfume bottle and misted twice—once at her neck, once at her wrist—and opened the door.

And nearly passed out.

You stood in the hallway in a perfectly tailored black suit. No tie. Shirt unbuttoned at the throat. A thin silver chain glinting above your collar. Your hair was styled in that slightly messy, I got ready in five minutes but still look criminally hot way. And in your hands—

A bouquet.

Of peonies. And ranunculus. And roses.

Cate’s favorite.

She didn’t even know you knew the word ranunculus.

“Oh my god,” Cate whispered.

You grinned, nervous. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Cate said, taking the flowers automatically. “You’re in a suit.”

“You’re in a dress.”

Cate looked down at herself—sleek black silk, open back, heels that made her legs look insane—and then back at you, shifting your weight like you were shy.

You. Shy.

Cate was in danger.

“You look…” you paused, exhaling. “Like trouble.”

“Good trouble?”

“The best kind.”

Cate hid a smile in the flowers. “You’re allergic to these.”

You shrugged. “Worth it.”

Cate’s face did something embarrassing.

“Ready?” you asked.

Cate nodded. “Just let me grab my purse.”

Luke’s car was clean. Suspiciously clean.

You opened the door for her like some kind of movie boyfriend, even waited until she was buckled before walking around to the driver’s side.

“You detailed this?”

“Marie made me. She said if you got in and saw crumbs, I’d never get to touch you again.”

Cate laughed. “Smart girl.”

You smiled, a little crooked. “I really want to impress you.”

“You already do.”

You’d even made a reservation in the city.

Cate hadn’t even known you could make reservations. She wasn’t even sure you knew how OpenTable worked. But here you were, being led to a corner booth in a warm, bustling Italian place lit by low chandeliers and candles in wine bottles.

Cate slid into the booth across from you, heels kicking gently against your boots under the table.

You glanced down at the table, then at her. “So.”

“So,” Cate said, chin propped in her hand.

“You’re not nervous at all, are you?”

“I’m always nervous,” Cate said. “I just hide it better.”

You grinned. “Fair.”

You ordered. Cate asked the waiter what wine he recommended and actually listened to the answer, which made you stare at her like she’d just recited poetry.

You talked about classes. About music. About a professor who definitely hated you and possibly had a crush on Cate. You shared bruschetta and Cate moaned a little too enthusiastically over the burrata, and you said, “Jesus, you’re gonna get us kicked out,” and Cate just smiled with tomato on her lip like she was doing it on purpose.

Halfway through the meal, you reached across the table and took her hand.

Just—held it.

No fanfare. No commentary.

Cate’s heart hiccuped.

She squeezed back.

Later, with the city humming around them and the night stretching wide and warm, you walked side by side through Central Park—closer now, changed in some quiet, permanent way.

You walked slowly, Cate’s heels clicking against the pavement while you carried a little paper bowl of overpriced lavender-lemon gelato. Cate had insisted on one scoop, one spoon, which had been cute until she started stealing the biggest bites and making eye contact while doing it.

You were red from the ears down.

You found a bench. Sat close. Arms touching.

Cate licked the spoon, slow. “So.”

“So,” you echoed.

“This was nice.”

“It was.”

“I had a good time.”

“I’m gonna cry if you don’t kiss me soon.”

Cate blinked. Then smiled. “Really?”

You gave her the smallest, softest look. “Cate, I’ve wanted to kiss you since we left the dorm. I’ve wanted to kiss you since you opened the door. Since the first time you walked into my life and insulted my shoes.”

“They were hideous.”

“They were beloved,” you said solemnly.

Cate set the spoon down in the empty bowl.

Then cupped your face with both hands.

And kissed you.

Not like the other kisses—hot and urgent and pressed against doors or tangled in bedsheets.

This one was slow. Certain. The kind of kiss that says, I want everything with you. I’ll wait. I’ll try.

Your hand came up to cradle her waist.

You stayed like that for a long time.

When you finally pulled back, Cate rested her forehead against yours.

“Okay,” she whispered. “So maybe this is real.”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. It is.”

Cate reached for your hand again, fingers weaving through yours.

“Wanna make out in the backseat of Luke’s car?”

You choked on air. “Cate.”

“I didn’t say more than make out.”

“You’re a menace.”

Cate batted her lashes. “But I’m your menace.”

You laughed. Loud and real and completely in love.

And when you walked back to the car, still hand in hand, you thought, I want this every Saturday. Every morning. Every life.

You slid into the backseat like you were stepping into something private—something soft and delicious. The front seats were pushed forward just enough so your knees met, pressing into each other’s. Cate’s heels were off, tossed beside her like an afterthought. You had unbuttoned your suit jacket, chest open in that way that said both vulnerability and invitation.

“Okay…” you whispered, voice a mix of caution and need.

Cate leaned in, forehead to forehead. “Okay.”

Your lips met slow—testing the water, pulling back, murmuring breathless laughs. It was electric enough to charge the car, raw enough to make you both catch your breath. Cate’s hands fumbled with your shirt buttons, and you wove your fingers into Cate’s hair as if you were holding a lifeline.

Every kiss was a promise: we’re past the fuck-only games, past the no-sex pact, past all the shit we used to say to keep it easy. This was intimacy. This was dangerous. This was everything.

Cate’s fingertips traced under your collar, the faint scent of your suit mingling with the lavender gelato from earlier, and your breath hitched.

You paused, lips hovering at Cate’s earlobe. “We need—”

“Shh,” Cate whispered, pressing her mouth against your jaw, neck, collarbone. She moved with confidence, reclaiming what you’d both been staking a claim on for weeks. No hurry, just worship.

Your knees grazed. Thighs rubbed. Breathing got quicker. Your hand moved lower, brushing over the soft lace of Cate’s dress—which was risky, considering the no-sex pact had just expired. But you both knew: tonight wasn’t about breaking rules. It was about exploring new territory, together.

Cate gasped when your fingers dipped under the fabric, skimming her hip. “Baby…”

“Yeah?” you murmured into Cate’s hair.

“I think Luke’s car is…endorsing this.”

You laughed softly, teeth nipping at her collar. “Come on,” you whispered back, voice thick. “Let me show you how much.”

Cate drew you in again. Your bodies pressed close, voices lost to ragged kisses and murmured names. The glow from the parking lot light filtered through the glass, haloing you in a blur of anonymity—a world away from dorm rooms and half-formed feelings.

You broke for air finally, foreheads together, chest to chest, both trembling.

“Are you okay?” you asked, voice gentle.

“Yeah,” Cate whispered. “Better than I’ve ever been.”

You cupped her face. “Same.”

You kissed again—slow at first, then deeper, as if catching up for all the time you’d held back. Clothes wrinkled. Heat pooled. But the magic wasn’t in the horny energy; it was in the closeness, the safety, the joy of touching someone who finally asked to hold you and meant it.

Eventually, you checked the time on your phone. “We should probably—”

Cate sat up slightly, hair mussed, face glowing. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moved to leave.

Instead, you gathered your arm around Cate’s shoulders and tugged her into a spooning position, legs curled in, head tucked into her neck. Cate’s hand found yours and held it tight.

You fell silent, letting the engine’s hum and night air fill the space between you. A moment after midnight, and everything felt just right—unrushed, safe, and exactly what you’d needed.

“Good date?” Cate asked, voice muffled.

“The best,” you whispered back. “Let’s do this again.”

Cate squeezed your hand. “Definitely.”

You stayed there together—no rush, no pretense, just real and warm in the backseat of Luke’s car—both of you feeling a little drunk on possibility, and more in love than either of you dared to admit until now.

It should’ve been the beginning of something easy.

But instead, the next few days unfolded in careful restraint.

No sleepovers. No sex. Just kisses in stairwells, long glances across classrooms, and the way your hand would brush Cate’s lower back as you walked side by side, close but never too close.

It was maddening. Perfect. A slow burn Cate couldn’t shake.

By Thursday, she was wound tight and glowing with nerves.

She’d planned the perfect surprise—just the right balance of lace, confidence, and please take me apart. All you had to do was walk through the door.

Now she was painfully, suspiciously calm.

She’d worn her hair down on purpose. Laughed too hard at your jokes at lunch. Spent a frankly unholy amount of time trying on lingerie in front of her mirror after class, talking herself in and out of each pair like she was choosing a weapon for war.

This one was the winner.

Midnight blue lace, barely-there, with a tiny velvet ribbon at the waistband. No hearts this time. No hopeful little bow. Just elegance. Confidence. Pick me, and know I pick you right back.

She tucked it under a silk robe and waited for the knock.

You showed up with snacks and your guitar, acting like you didn’t already know you’d be sleeping over. But the moment you stepped inside and saw Cate—curled on the edge of her bed, robe slipping off one shoulder, a smile just this side of wicked—everything in you short-circuited.

Cate stood. Moved slowly. Closed the distance between you with a kind of quiet certainty.

“Hey,” she said, soft.

“Hey,” you echoed, already breathless.

“You staying?” Cate asked, voice velvet.

You didn’t answer.

You just leaned in and kissed her.

It started sweet. Familiar. The kind of kiss you give your person after a long day, when you’ve missed their mouth even though you saw them five hours ago. But then Cate pulled at your shirt, tugging it over your head, and things went molten fast.

You tumbled back onto the bed, laughing breathlessly into each other’s mouths. Cate pulled her robe loose, letting it fall away as you hovered above her, lips brushing the hinge of her jaw.

And then—

You saw them.

The panties.

And froze.

Your hand paused at Cate’s hip, fingers just brushing the lace. Your eyes widened.

“You—” you blinked. Swallowed. “You wore new ones again.”

Cate’s stomach dropped. “You noticed?”

“Cate,” you breathed, reverent. “How could I not?”

You sat back on your knees a little, just enough to look. Cate flushed under the attention—hot, pink, adored.

“These are…” you dragged your fingertips along the edge of the lace. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Cate tried for coy. “I mean. You didn’t say anything last time.”

You looked at her, the weight of it settling in your eyes. “Yeah. And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

Cate’s lips parted.

“I noticed those too,” you went on. “The pink ones. The hearts. The little bow. I just…I got scared. That it meant something.”

“It did mean something,” Cate whispered.

“I know that now.”

You leaned in. Kissed just above the waistband.

Then lower.

And again, just at the inside of her hip.

Cate’s breath hitched.

“These,” you said, voice rough, “mean something too. Don’t they?”

Cate nodded. “They mean I wanted you. Tonight. On purpose.”

You met her eyes. “I want you too. Still. Always.”

Cate’s hands curled in your hair, tugging you in. The kiss that followed was desperate. Heated. Laced with all the restraint you’d shed since the pact ended and your love stopped hiding.

And this time—when you kissed your way down and pulled the lace aside with slow, worshipful fingers—Cate felt seen.

Not just wanted. Known.

After, Cate was sprawled like a queen.

Flat on her back, robe discarded on the floor, lips kiss-swollen and hair an absolute mess. She looked ruined in the most luxurious way—like she'd just been thoroughly adored and hadn't stopped smiling since.

You lay beside her on your stomach, cheek pillowed against the bare curve of Cate’s hip, one arm draped across her stomach like you were trying to anchor yourself there. Your breath was still a little uneven. Your body still humming.

“Okay,” Cate said, voice lazy, satisfied. “So you do care about my underwear.”

You groaned into her skin. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying.” Cate turned her head, grinning. “Took you long enough.”

“You don’t understand,” you mumbled. “They were so intense. You wore literal embroidered hearts. It was a statement.”

“I was trying to get your attention!”

“You had it,” you muttered. “You’ve always had it.”

Cate’s smile faltered slightly. Softened.

She reached down and carded her fingers through your damp hair, gentle and rhythmic. “You could’ve told me.”

You tilted your head just enough to look up. “I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

“You couldn’t have.”

“I almost did.”

Cate was quiet for a second. Then: “But you didn’t.”

You turned fully onto your side, propping your chin on Cate’s stomach. “Yeah. Somehow.”

You looked at each other for a moment in the low light—Cate’s bedside lamp glowing amber, casting shadows across your freckles, your still-reddened cheeks, the way your lips curved upwards just barely like you didn’t even know you were smiling.

Cate nudged you. “You were really good.”

You blinked. “At the date?”

“Sure. That too.”

Your ears went pink.

Cate giggled, threading a leg through your. “God, you’re so easy to fluster.”

“You’re so mean.”

“I’m not! I’m sweet. And thoughtful. And I wear special panties just for you.”

You groaned again and collapsed against her. “You’re never gonna let this go.”

“Not a chance.”

A beat passed.

Then, quietly—

“Cate?”

Cate hummed.

“Can I say something kind of stupid?”

Cate looked down at you, hand still in your hair. “Always.”

You hesitated. Then, softly: “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Cate’s chest ached.

“I know that’s probably pathetic,” you added quickly. “But I—I didn’t think this kind of thing got to be mine. You. Us. Something real. Something that doesn’t come with an expiration date.”

Cate leaned down and kissed you gently. Just once.

“It’s not pathetic,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

You buried your face in her stomach.

Cate played with a strand of your hair. “I think I might buy another pair.”

Your voice was muffled. “Of what?”

Cate smiled. “Special panties.”

You immediately sat up, eyes wide. “Are you trying to kill me again?”

Cate just grinned. “Maybe.”

You growled, lunged forward, and tackled her back into the pillows.

You kissed until you were breathless all over again, laughter tangled in your mouths, a future together spilling out across the bed like sunlight.