lexi

alexia putellas

alice’s world

Colorful Rings

First Day Jitters

Pillow Talk

Tiny Traitor

Sleep? Never.

broken vows series

Chapter One

Chapter Two - Laundry Day

Chapter Three - The Before

Chapter Four- The Space Between Us

Chapter Five - The After

Chapter Six - Room 1102

Chapter Seven - Echoes of Us

Chapter Eight - Fruit from the Poisoned Tree

Chapter Nine - Negative

Chapter Ten - Burn the Bridge

Chapter Eleven - You Did This

Chapter Twelve - This Might Get Messy

Chapter Thirteen - Fractured Pieces

Chapter Fourteen - Secondhand Lies

Chapter Fifteen - The Ghost in the Closet

Chapter Sixteen - One Slice Away

Chapter Seventeen - Not a Date

Chapter Eighteen

• chronological order •

Part Three > Part Nine > Part One > Part Four > Part Two > Part Five > Part Six > Part Seven > Part Eight > Part Ten > Part Eleven > Part Twelve > Part Thirteen > Part Fourteen > Part Fifteen > Part Sixteen > Part Seventeen > Part Eighteen

standalones

Jealous? Me? Never

In My Defense, It Was Pretty

Blame the Hormones (But Also, Her Face)

Car Kiss

She Said What?

paige bueckers (series)

Part One: One More Drink, One More Mistake

Part Two: Unfinished Business

Part Three: The Art of Losing

leah williamson

the silent play series

I just updated the masterlist with it. I actually forgot I had written it (I found the other day when I was scrolling through my tumblr) but I don’t really like it anymore, so I’ll probably change it or add it to chapter eighteen and make that chapter seventeen instead.

mdni

If you want to read the full series, it’s pinned on my Tumblr in my masterlist. After an entire year, it’s finally here. I hope you guys like it!

marked - from the broken vows series - chapter eighteen

You arrived at the bar a few minutes later than you meant to.

Ellison was already there.

You spotted her almost immediately, leaning against the bar like she belonged there, like every room knew to make space for her. Cream pants, a white shirt, a leather jacket thrown over it all.

Fuck. She looked good.

Too good.

For a second, she reminded you of Alexia a few years ago.

That same kind of certainty.

That same easy confidence, like the world had never once given her a reason to doubt herself. Like everything she believed in was solid beneath her feet.

It was strange, almost cruel, how much could change, how drastically someone could become someone else.

You pushed the thought away and walked over to her.

“Hi,” you said. “Sorry if I’m late.”

Ellison turned to you, her face brightening. “Oh, don’t worry, you weren’t. I just got here.”

You smiled, relieved in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.

Ellison tilted her head. “So, how are the post-party nerves?”

You let out a breath, dramatic but sincere. “Honestly? Happy that it’s over. And seriously considering never doing it again.”

Ellison smiled. “That’s probably what everyone says right before they do it again.”

“I’m serious.”

“Of course you are.”

You laughed, and then she did too, and you liked it immediately. The sound of it. The way it loosened something in her face. The way it made her seem warmer, less impossible to reach.

“Next year,” she said, “when you’re sending out invitations and pretending this was your last one, I’ll remind you of this conversation.”

“Please,” you said. “I’m begging you. Be cruel if you have to.”

“Oh, I will,” she said lightly. “I’ll do what’s best for you.”

The conversation stayed soft after that, easy and light, and somewhere in the middle of it you started really looking at her.

Not just at the clothes, or the confidence, or the way she held her drink.

Her.

The small expressions she made when she listened. The way her eyes stayed on you like she wasn’t half anywhere else. The way she seemed so sure of herself, and somehow still curious.

And despite yourself, you wanted to know more. Maybe that was why, when she said something else you were a beat too slow to answer.

It was embarrassing, the force of it. The simplicity. She was beautiful, yes, but that wasn’t even the worst part. The worst part was how easy she was to be around. How quickly your body had decided that she could be trusted.

You took a sip of your drink, mostly to give your hands something to do.

And then, sharply and without permission, you remembered the first time you and Alexia had gone out for drinks. The same low light. The same charged feeling of sitting across from someone and being absurdly aware of every small movement: fingers around a glass, the tilt of a smile, the quiet thrill of being chosen for the evening.

The memory caught hard enough that you looked away.

“You disappeared,” Ellison said.

You looked back at her. “Sorry?”

Her mouth twitched. “For a second. You got that look people get when they’re either remembering something tragic or trying very hard not to kiss someone.”

A laugh escaped you, startled and a little breathless, mostly because the alternative was choking on the truth.

“Those are wildly different situations.”

“Are they?”

Her tone stayed light, but her eyes didn’t leave your face.

You could feel yourself wanting her attention with an intensity that made you feel younger than you were, and not in any flattering sense. Younger as in raw. Younger as in unfinished. Younger as in capable of making stupid, needy decisions and calling them instinct.

You wanted her to keep looking at you.

That was the dangerous part.

Not even wanting to sleep with her, though you did. That part was blunt, physical, almost simple.

The dangerous part was wanting to be wanted by her. Wanting her attention to land on you and make you feel less like a woman in the middle of a divorce and more like someone still fully alive inside her own body.

Ellison tipped her head. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Thinking instead of talking.”

You smiled into your drink. “Occupational hazard.”

“That bad?”

You could have lied. Probably should have.

Instead, you said, “I’m out of practice.”

“With talking?”

“With this.”

Something in Ellison’s expression softened, just slightly. “Having a drink?”

You laughed.

“Sure,” you said. “Let’s call it that.”

Ellison smiled, but didn’t answer right away. For a second she just looked at you, like she was considering whether to let that sit or say something that would make it worse.

Then, from somewhere behind you, a laugh cut through the noise of the bar: bright, familiar, impossible to mistake.

You turned before you meant to.

Claudia.

She was across the bar with her girlfriend, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass, the other moving as she talked.

For one brief, cowardly second, you thought maybe she wouldn’t see you.

Then she did.

Recognition crossed her face in pieces. First surprise. Then warmth. Then, quick enough to be almost invisible, her eyes moved to Ellison. Took her in. Came back to you.

Nothing in her expression changed, exactly.

That was the problem.

Claudia had always been too perceptive to need to show her hand. She just seemed, suddenly, to understand more than you wanted understood.

She said something to her girlfriend and started toward you.

Of course she did.

“Hey, you,” Claudia said, leaning in to hug you, quick and easy and familiar enough to make something in your chest tighten. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to Nora’s birthday. It was Lina’s mom’s birthday too, and we couldn’t miss it.”

“No, it’s okay,” you said. “Really. Nora loved the present, though.”

“I’m sure she did.”

Claudia smiled, then looked at Ellison with effortless openness. “Hi, I’m Claudia.”

“Ellison.”

They shook hands.

“Nice to meet you,” Claudia said, and she meant it, which somehow made it worse.

“You too.”

Claudia’s gaze moved between you once, briefly, with the calm of someone noticing more than she let on. Then she looked at Ellison again.

“I don’t think I know you,” Claudia said to Ellison. “Are you two old friends?”

“Not really,” you said.

Ellison smiled, easy. “I coach Nora.”

Claudia’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Oh.”

It was a small reaction, almost nothing, but you felt it anyway.

“She’s been training with her for a few months now,” you added, hearing the extra explanation in your own voice and hating it a little.

Claudia nodded. “Right. Of course.”

Her girlfriend appeared at her shoulder then, smiling, and Claudia made the introductions with her usual easy warmth. For a few minutes the conversation stayed harmless. Nora’s birthday. Lina’s mother. The party. Some joke about children having better social lives than the adults responsible for them.

You smiled when you were meant to. You even meant some of it.

But something underneath had shifted.

Maybe it was only that Claudia belonged to a part of your life Ellison didn’t know. Or maybe it was the opposite, that Ellison had entered your life through Nora, through this newer, smaller, more fragile version of it, and Claudia had understood that immediately.

Either way, you felt suddenly too legible.

When the conversation began to thin, Claudia touched your arm lightly. “I’m glad I ran into you,” she said.

“You too.”

And you meant that, which was annoying.

Her eyes held yours for half a second longer than necessary, warm, knowing, careful not to say anything she didn’t need to. Then she smiled at Ellison again.

“It was really nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Ellison said.

Claudia and her girlfriend drifted back into their seats, and for a moment you watched them go without really seeing them.

Beside you, Ellison was quiet.

Then, after a beat, “That was subtle.”

You laughed despite yourself, looking down at your drink. “Was it?”

“Not especially.”

You glanced at her.

There was no judgment in her expression. Just a kind of dry steadiness that made it hard to decide whether you wanted to laugh again or kiss her.

“She knows Alexia,” you said at last.

Ellison nodded once, like she’d already guessed as much.

“Right,” she said.

You turned the glass slowly between your hands. “And she knows enough to know what this might look like.”

Ellison’s mouth twitched. “What does it look like?”

You looked at her then.

At the calm confidence of her face. At the fact that she was making you answer your own question.

“That,” you said, “is not very nice.”

“No,” she said lightly. “But it is a real question.”

You looked down at your drink and turned the glass once between your hands, suddenly too aware of them, of yourself, of the noise of the bar pressing back in around you. Music low under everything. Glasses knocking together. Someone laughing too loudly near the door.

When you looked up, Ellison was already watching you.

Not impatient. Not offended. Just quiet in that deliberate way people got when they were choosing not to crowd you.

For a while neither of you said anything.

The bar kept moving around you, careless and loud, but it felt far away now, as if the room had shifted slightly out of reach. You could feel your pulse in strange places. Your throat. Your wrists. The space just under your skin.

Claudia was gone. That should have helped.

Instead, the feeling she’d left behind stayed lodged in you, sharp and humiliating, like being seen too clearly and all at once. Not by her, exactly. By yourself. By the version of yourself standing here with a drink in her hand and Ellison in front of her and too much of the past suddenly crowding in at once.

You looked back at your glass because it was easier than looking at Ellison.

When you finally spoke, your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

“I think maybe I should go.”

Ellison held your gaze for a second, then nodded.

“Okay,” she said.

That was all. No argument, no attempt to make it lighter than it was. She just reached for her pocket, set some cash on the bar before you could protest, and slid off her stool.

You followed her out into the night almost without thinking.

Outside, the air felt cooler than it should have. Cleaner. The noise from the bar dulled the second the door shut behind you, leaving only the street, the traffic further off, the sound of someone laughing at the corner.

Then Ellison looked at you and said, quietly, “I get it.”

You frowned a little. “Do you?”

A small smile touched her mouth, but it faded quickly.

“I get enough of it,” she said. “You don’t have to explain.”

The gentleness of that made something in your chest tighten.

Ellison tucked her hands into her jacket pockets. “I know where you are in your life,” she said. “I’m not trying to push you into anything.”

You looked at her, really looked at her, standing there under the streetlight with her face gone softer than it had been inside.

“If you want a friend,” she said, “I can be that.”

The words landed more heavily than they should have.

Maybe because they were kind. Maybe because they weren’t. Maybe because there was something unbearable in hearing her make herself smaller for your sake, even gently.

You stared at her.

At the patience in her face. At the restraint. At the fact that she was letting you leave without asking for anything, letting you retreat with your dignity intact, as if that was all this had been, as if the last hour had not shifted something live and reckless awake in you.

And maybe that was what did it.

Maybe it was the kindness. Maybe it was the way she said friend like she would mean that too. Maybe it was just that you were suddenly terrified of letting the night close over without touching her.

Before you could think better of it, you stepped toward her and kissed her.

Not carefully. Not with the hesitation you’d carried all evening. Just the sharp, undeniable fact of wanting, finally given somewhere to go.

Ellison made a startled sound against your mouth, brief and soft, and then kissed you back.

Her hand came up to your jaw, warm and steady, and for one impossible second everything in you went quiet. No Claudia. No Alexia. No divorce, no fear, no past crowding in to tell you what this meant.

Just this.

Just her mouth on yours, the cool night air, the feeling of having crossed something you wouldn’t be able to uncross.

When you pulled back, it was only far enough to breathe.

Ellison was still looking at you, her hand still lightly against your face, her expression unreadable in a way that made your pulse jump all over again.

“Well,” she said softly.

You laughed once, breathless and a little wrecked. “Yeah.”

A small smile touched her mouth.

Ellison’s hand stayed lightly at your jaw for one more second, then fell away.

She looked at you for a moment, like she was recalibrating.

Then she said, quietly, “My place is close. We can call you an Uber from there.”

You knew what she was doing. Giving you an out inside the invitation. Making it easy to say yes without asking for too much all at once.

You held her gaze for a beat, long enough to feel your pulse kick again.

“Okay,” you said.

Something in her expression shifted at that. Not surprise, exactly, but a small, contained warmth, like she’d expected you to refuse and was trying not to show she was pleased.

“Okay,” she said back.

And then, because apparently neither of you trusted the moment to survive too much examination, you just drifted into step beside each other and started down the street.

When stepped into Ellison’s apartment, the contrast hit you immediately. It was sleek, modern, and impeccably neat. Clean lines, soft lighting, and that quiet sense of order that felt expensive.

“Well, this is nice,” you said, glancing around.

Ellison raised an eyebrow, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “Did you think I lived in a dump?”

“I didn’t think anything, actually,” you replied honestly.

She leaned against the kitchen island, watching you. “I know you don’t know me… but I was a good player.”

“I mean, I’ve never really known much beyond Alexia and Europe, if I’m being honest.”

“It’s fair,” she said with a soft laugh. “You shouldn’t know.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Well… do you want something to drink while you order the Uber?”

You narrowed your eyes, studying her. The air between you had shifted.

“Do you want me to call an Uber?”

Ellison held your gaze, her voice low and steady. “I don’t. But if that’s what you want to do, then that’s it. I didn’t bring you here with expectations.”

The alcohol had loosened something bold inside you. You took a slow step closer, eyes locked on hers.

“No expectations then?”

The phrase hung between you like a challenge.

Ellison didn’t move, just watched you with that intense, unwavering stare. You kicked off your heels, feeling the cool floor beneath your feet. Then, without breaking eye contact, you began unbuttoning your blouse one button at a time, deliberate and unhurried.

She stayed perfectly still, her eyes never leaving yours, even as your shirt parted.

You moved closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body. Your fingers dropped to your pants, unbuttoning them slowly.

Only then did Ellison’s gaze finally drift downward, tracing over your exposed skin. Her eyes burned with unmistakable hunger, dark and heated.

Ellison exhaled sharply, like she’d been holding her breath. She finally pushed off the kitchen island and closed the distance between you. Her hand rose slowly, almost reverently, and brushed her fingertips along your collarbone, then down the center of your chest.

“You’re really doing this,” she murmured, voice husky. Her thumb grazed the edge of your bra, sending a shiver through you.

“I thought you said you didn’t bring me here for that.” you teased, though your voice had grown breathy.

A low, dangerous smile curved her lips. “I didn’t. But I’m not about to stop you either.”

She leaned in, her mouth hovering just inches from yours. You could smell her perfume, something warm and subtly sweet, you could feel the heat of her body.

When you didn’t pull away, she closed the gap, kissing you deeply. Your hands found her waist, pulling her closer. Ellison’s fingers slid into your hair, gripping just tight enough to make you gasp against her mouth. She walked you backward until your back met the cool edge of the kitchen counter, trapping you between her body and the marble.

She broke the kiss only to trail her lips along your jaw and down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point. One of her hands moved lower, skimming over your ribs, your waist, then boldly cupping your ass and pressing you harder against her.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispered against your skin, “and I will.”

You answered by arching into her touch, fingers tugging at the hem of her shirt.

“Don’t stop.”

Ellison let out a soft, satisfied sound

Her hands were everywhere, kissing, touching, exploring. Confident and sure, like she’d imagined this moment more than once.

The tension snapped the second you told her not to stop.

Ellison grabbed your waist and lifted you onto the kitchen counter like you weighed nothing. Your legs parted instinctively as she stepped between them, mouth claiming yours in a deep, greedy kiss. There was nothing polite about it, tongues sliding, teeth nipping, breath mixing hot and fast.

You yanked her shirt up and over her head. She did the same to your bra, tossing it behind her. Skin met skin. Her hands were everywhere, squeezing your breasts, sliding down your stomach, gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks.

She broke the kiss only to drop lower. Her mouth latched onto your neck, sucking hard, then moved to your breasts. She took one nipple between her lips, biting just enough to make you gasp, while her hand pinched the other. You arched into her, fingers tangled in her hair.

Ellison pulled back, eyes dark and wild. She pushed your thighs wider apart, staring at your soaked pussy like she wanted to devour it. Without a word, her tongue dragged slowly up your slit, tasting all of you, before she dove in.

No teasing.

She ate you like she was starving: mouth wide, tongue fucking into you, then sucking hard on your clit. Two fingers pushed deep inside, curling instantly against that spot that made your vision blur.

“Fuck yes,” you moaned, head falling back against the marble with a thud.

She groaned against your pussy, the vibration making your thighs shake. Her free hand gripped your ass, pulling you harder against her face as she devoured you. The sounds were obscene, wet, filthy, relentless. You could hear how soaked you were with every thrust of her fingers and every swipe of her tongue.

Your hand tightened in her hair, hips grinding against her mouth. Ellison looked up at you, eyes locked on yours while she sucked your clit and fucked you harder with her fingers. The eye contact was almost too much.

You were close already, the pressure building fast and brutal.

“I’m gonna—fuck—Ellison,” you moaned, the words breaking apart.

She didn’t slow down. If anything, she got more aggressive, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster, growling against your pussy like she needed you to come just as badly as you did.

The orgasm ripped through you violently. You cried out, thighs clamping around her head, body shaking as pleasure flooded every nerve. Ellison kept licking you through it, drawing out every last pulse until you were a trembling, gasping mess on her counter.

When she finally stood up, her chin was wet with you. She kissed you fiercely, letting you taste how much you’d come for her. You reached for her pants immediately, desperate to return the favor, but she caught your wrist with a dark smile.

“Not yet,” she rasped, voice wrecked. “I’m not done with you.”

She pulled you off the counter, spun you around, and bent you over it. Your breasts pressed against the cool marble as she kicked your legs apart. From behind, she reached around and slid her fingers back inside you, fucking you deep while her other hand rubbed your sensitive clit.

You moaned loudly, pushing back against her hand, completely lost in the feeling.

Then she saw them.

Her hand slowed as her eyes caught the tattoos you had forgotten about, the ones that had become so much a part of you that they barely registered anymore. A small, “A” was inked on the lower left side of your back, and just above the curve of your ass on the right side sat a “11”. Both of them somewhat hidden, but impossible to miss in this position.

Ellison’s fingers stilled inside you for a second.

You suddenly became hyper aware of them. The marks you’d gotten for Alexia years ago. Still there. Still on your body. The realization hit you like cold water. You felt exposed, vulnerable in a way that went far beyond being naked and bent over her counter.

Ellison traced the “11” with her thumb, then brushed over the “A” on the other side. She didn’t say anything, but you could feel her gaze burning into your skin. She leaned down and kissed the “11” softly, then the “A”, her lips lingering as if she was processing what they meant.

Even as she started moving her fingers again. Slower.

Deeper

Your mind was spiraling.

Overthinking.

The pleasure was still there, but it was now tangled with guilt, shame, and memories of your Alexia. Her mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting softly while her thumb circled your clit with devastating precision.

You were trembling, so close again, when your phone started ringing from inside your purse.

You reached for it with a trembling hand.

Ellison felt you tense instantly. Her mouth slowed against your shoulder, her fingers still buried deep inside you as her other hand settled carefully at your waist.

Alexia.

The screen lit up with a flood of angry texts.

Your stomach sank.

The phone kept ringing, vibrating angrily in your palm. You stared at the name, the heat that had been consuming you moments ago now clashing violently with a cold rush of tension.

You set the phone down without answering. The ringing finally stopped, but the damage was done. Frustration swirled in your chest.

Then something else took over.

You turned around sharply, grabbed Ellison’s face with both hands, and kissed her hard, desperately. She made a surprised sound against your mouth before melting into it, kissing you back. You pushed her backward, guiding her out of the kitchen and down the short hallway toward what you thought it was her bedroom.

The moment you reached the bed, you pushed her down onto it. Ellison looked up at you as you climbed on top of her, straddling her hips. You kissed her deeply again, grinding down against her as your hands roamed over her body.

For a few blissful moments, it worked. The heat returned. You kissed down her neck, her chest, tasting her skin while your hand slipped between her thighs. Ellison moaned softly, arching up into your touch, her hands gripping your ass.

But then it happened.

As you hovered over her, looking down at her flushed face and parted lips, Alexia’s face flashed in your mind. Alexia’s voice. The way she used to look at you before everything fell apart. The betrayal. The call. The anger.

You froze on top of Ellison, breath shaky.

Suddenly the heat in your body felt wrong. The anger you felt toward Alexia twisted painfully in your chest until your eyes started to burn.

Ellison noticed immediately. Her hands moved up to your waist, gentle and grounding.

“Hey… hey, look at me,” she said softly.

You tried to blink the tears back, but one slipped down anyway, landing on Ellison’s chest. Your throat tightened.

“I can’t…” you whispered, voice breaking. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

You climbed off Ellison quickly, legs unsteady. She sat up, confusion written across her face as you hurried out of the bedroom and back toward the kitchen, still completely naked.

“I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t,” you kept repeating under your breath, the words tumbling out as you gathered your scattered clothes from the floor. Your hands were shaking as you picked up your blouse, your pants, your underwear.

Ellison followed you out, pulling a loose robe around herself, looking shocked and concerned.

“Hey, wait, what’s going on?” she asked, voice gentle but clearly thrown off. “What happened?”

You didn’t look at her. You just kept dressing, fumbling with the buttons on your blouse.

“Who was it?” she asked. “On the phone?”

You shook your head, eyes glassy. “I can’t… I’m sorry, I can’t. I don’t know.”

You grabbed your phone and opened the Uber app with trembling fingers, requesting a ride. Ellison stood a few feet away, watching you, still trying to understand the sudden shift.

You zipped up your pants and slipped your heels back on, repeating softly, “I’m sorry… I really can’t right now.”

Ellison took a slow step closer but didn’t crowd you. “Okay… talk to me. What just happened?”

You finally looked at her, eyes wet. “Can we talk about it another day?” Your voice was small and exhausted. “Please?”

Ellison studied you for a long moment, then gave a slow nod, even though she was clearly unsettled.

“Yeah… okay,” she said quietly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The Uber notification pinged on your phone. You grabbed your purse, hesitating for half a second at the door.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For tonight. I’m really sorry.”

Tiny cream skirt, long legs glowing under the golden hour, a blouse buttoned just enough to make your mouth go dry. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, and the glasses she was wearing caught the light as she scanned the crowd. She looked effortlessly cool, a little untouchable, and so fucking hot it felt like a punch to the chest.

ten minutes

You’re in your room with Alexia.

Well.

Alexia is in the bathroom.

You’re on the bed, spread across it, actually.

Completely useless.

Earlier, it had been you, Alexia, Alba, your friends, a boat, and far too much time under the sun.

There had been too much alcohol, too.

By the end of it, you were tanned and drunk, a combination that should probably be illegal for you.

Which was how Alexia finally lost what little patience she had left.

And honestly?

Fair.

Very fair.

She’d warned you.

“You’re going to pass out. Don’t drink too much.”

“Okay, captain.”

Message received.

Message ignored.

Spectacularly ignored.

And now look at you.

Sun-drunk.

Alcohol-drunk.

Alexia-drunk.

Completely limp.

Not a single functioning muscle left.

You should probably get up, because you planned a dinner, a beautiful restaurant by the sea, food you normally love, food you’d probably be excited about under normal circumstances.

But these are not normal circumstances.

You are tired.

The AC is freezing and the room feels like heaven.

You want to stay here. You want Alexia to come back. You want her to get in bed and the two of you to watch something stupid on TV or sleep.

Preferably sleep.

Definitely sleep.

Actually, no.

Not sleep.

Coma.

A nice little vacation coma.

But that’s not happening. You know it’s not happening.

The bathroom door opens.

No.

Fuck. Fuck.

You don’t move.

Maybe if you don’t move she’ll think you’re dead.

Not dead, asleep.

Dead is dramatic.

Although you are suffering, so maybe not that dramatic.

You hear Alexia walking around the room, drawers opening, a bag zipper.

The unmistakable sound of somebody getting ready while you continue your long-term commitment to becoming part of the mattress.

Maybe she’ll leave you here. That would be nice.

Actually, no.

That would be worse.

You want to stay here, but you also want Alexia to stay here.

This is a complicated situation.

You hear her stop moving.

Silence.

Which means she’s looking at you.

You can feel the stare.

The one that says, look at yourself.

Unfortunately for her, you’re not looking at yourself.

You’re looking at a pillow.

A very nice pillow.

“You alive?”

Barely.

“Mm.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all I’ve got.”

Another silence.

You can practically hear her rolling her eyes.

Which is unfair.

You’ve had a difficult day.

You made questionable decisions, repeatedly, and now people expect you to attend dinner.

Honestly, nobody is thinking about your needs.

“You’re taking a bath.”

No.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, Ale. I’m going like this.”

There’s a pause.

A dangerous one.

“Naked?”

You lift your head just enough to look offended.

“What? No. I’ll throw on a dress and we’re done.”

Alexia raises an eyebrow, which is never a good sign.

A raised eyebrow from Alexia is basically a formal warning.

“A dress isn’t the problem.”

You narrow your eyes, or try to, but everything requires too much effort right now.

“Then what is?”

Alexia looks at you for a second.

Then at your hair.

Then back at you.

“You have sand in your hair.”

“Not true.”

“You smell like sunscreen.”

“I was at the beach!”

“And alcohol.”

You stay silent, because it’s expected.

“And poor decision-making.”

Rude.

“That one isn’t a smell.”

“It is on you.”

This relationship lacks respect.

“I’ll survive.”

“You’ll survive. Alba won’t let you.”

Oh.

That’s worse.

Much worse.

You stare at her.

She stares back.

Completely serious.

“Do you want Alba making comments all through dinner?”

A horrible image immediately appears in your head.

Alba noticing.

Alba grinning.

Alba making one comment.

Then another.

Then another.

For two straight hours.

You sit up immediately.

“Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

Alexia points toward the bathroom.

“Bath.”

You fall back onto the mattress.

Then you feel the bed dip and a hand run through your hair.

Immediately, all your complaints disappear.

Alexia pauses.

Her fingers catch on a knot.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Be nice to me.”

“I am being nice to you.”

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“I’m touching your hair, aren’t I?”

You smile into the duvet.

“You said one drink.”

You laugh.

“I believed that when I said it.”

“You never believe that when you say it.”

You hate when she’s right.

The room is quiet again.

The bed is comfortable.

Alexia is next to you.

See?

This is nice.

This is exactly what should happen.

Nobody should be going anywhere.

The restaurant will survive without you.

Your friends will survive without you.

Alexia stands.

The mattress shifts.

No.

Come back.

You don’t say it, mostly because that would sound pathetic and also she already knows.

“You have ten minutes.”

You groan, a long, miserable sound.

The sound of a woman being oppressed.

“Five.”

What?

How did it get worse?

“I didn’t even do anything.”

“You were thinking about not doing it.”

As you start to drag yourself out of bed, Alexia walks over to your suitcase.

Opens it.

Pulls out your favorite dress.

Then your earrings.

Then the shoes you were already planning on wearing.

You stare.

“How do you know?”

Alexia stares back.

“You’ve worn that exact outfit three times.”

“Oh.”

“You were always going to wear it.”

“Oh.”

You immediately get up.

Alexia barely has time to react before you’re wrapping your arms around her.

“Te amo. Te amo. Te amo.”

“Mm.”

“Te amo.”

“You said that one already.”

“Te amo.”

Alexia huffs a laugh, one hand settling automatically at your waist.

“Yo también te amo.”

You grin against her shoulder.

“Again.”

“No.”

“Again.”

“Yo también te amo.”

You squeeze her tighter.

“Again.”

Alexia pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Bath.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Baño.”

“Ale.”

“Ahora.”

You groan dramatically.

Alexia kisses your lips.

dtmf

madrid in july is basically a hate crime.

the heat hits different at night, it doesn’t cool down, it just changes texture.

becomes something thicker, more personal, like the city is breathing directly on you. up here on the private vip area of the estadio metropolitano it’s slightly better, the altitude pulling a faint suggestion of a breeze off the stage rigging, but only slightly.

the area has just a low iron railing between you and the drop to the levels below, the stage sprawling enormous and luminous ahead. benito small blazing figure at the center of it all, voice massive, production even more so.

gold and red and deep violet light sweeps in long arcs across the crowd.

tens of thousands of bodies.

the bass rolls up through the concrete and into your feet and doesn’t stop.

you are, in theory, having a great time.

you’re all together near the railing where the view is best.

you, alexia, clara, kika, misa, laia and victoria.

it’s been good.

it’s been genuinely, properly good.

the first few songs were joyful chaos, all of you screaming at each other over the music, laia nearly losing her drink, misa dancing with the kind of full-bodied commitment that makes everyone around her better. victoria filmed everything. clara kept grabbing kika’s arm every time she recognized a song, which was often, meaning kika’s arm had been grabbed approximately forty times.

alexia has been right beside you for all of it.

alexia, who is wearing white.

not soft white.

dangerous white.

the halter top wraps cleanly around her throat, all sharp lines and bare shoulders, elegant in the way expensive things are elegant without trying very hard. her hair is pinned up, though madrid’s humidity has already started winning the argument, loose strands falling against her cheeks.

she’s been happy all evening.

real, unguarded, vacation mode, happy.

the version of her that takes a while to surface, the one that belongs to people she actually trusts.

but.

she has also been…something else.

something she hasn’t said.

it started when you came downstairs earlier, before the car, before any of it.

you’d walked downstairs and found alexia waiting by the door.

she looked up.

and stopped.

just for a second.

her eyes dropped from your face to the skirt.

then to the heels.

then back up again.

a complete assessment.

silent.

thorough.

gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

your outfit had been a calculated decision.

the black top fits like it was made specifically to cause problems.

the skirt is worse.

all black sequins and unapologetically little fabric, catching light every time you move.

it was short, you knew it.

the heels push everything a few inches higher.

you’d stood in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary and decided, very deliberately, that the answer was yes.

absolutely yes.

“lista?” she’d asked.

the word sounded perfectly normal.

everything else about her did not.

you’d assumed it was a compliment.

you were only partly right.

by the time you reached the stadium, her hand had settled at your waist and never really left.

you filed it away.

your heels were high enough to bring you exactly to her eye level, enough that when she would lean to speak in your ear she didn’t have to bend at all.

her hand had been at your waist like it belonged there.

the night was good and neither of you wanted to be the first to ruin it.

that lasted until clara got her phone out.

it started the way it always starts, harmless.

she was filming the stage, the crowd, the lights, then the group.

kika started to make faces, misa was stealing the frame.

normal.

then the camera landed on alexia, who grinned and finally gave in to the music.

the stadium lights flashed across the clean white line of her top, caught briefly on the sunglasses still perched on her nose for reasons known only to her.

she laughed at something clara shouted through the camera, head tipping back.

her hips found the beat with that easy, natural rhythm she has.

nothing crazy.

nothing performed.

which somehow made it worse.

alexia never looked like she was trying.

she just looked good.

kika slid in behind alexia with a grin, hands finding alexia’s arm, and they fell into it together: performing shamelessly for clara’s camera.

the stage lights, kika’s hands, alexia tipping her head back laughing that laugh, and clara hollering something encouraging.

and that’s when you turned back to the stage.

the railing was cold under your palms. cold in the specific way metal gets in the middle of a hot night. you’re pressing into a little harder than necessary.

below, the crowd moves in long slow waves. the song has shifted into something heavier, more deliberate.

you stare at the crowd.

you are a rational adult. kika is one of your favorite people. this is a video. it means nothing.

“estás bien.”

not a question.

alexia’s voice, low and close, right at your ear.

you didn’t hear her come back. you never do.

“fine,” you say. english. clipped.

a small pause.

“mentira,” she says. quiet. exact.

you don’t answer.

she steps in behind you closing the distance and settles there, warm and immediate.

one hand comes to your hip.

her chin drops to your shoulder, her mouth near your temple.

the fabric of her pants brushes against your bare legs. she’s close enough that you can feel the heat of her through the layers between you.

you can feel the weight of her restraint.

the skirt.

the top.

the attention they draw.

all the things she’d spent the evening pretending didn’t bother her.

you feel the breath she takes.

slow.

measured.

the kind that means she is being very patient with herself and with you.

her thumb moves once against your hip.

traces the hem of your skirt where it sits.

doesn’t say anything about it.

still hasn’t said anything about it.

“mírame,” she says.

“I am watching the show.”

“no estás.” her thumb traces a slow arc against your hip. “llevas cinco minutos mirando la barandilla.”

“I like the railing.”

a low exhale against your hair. not quite a laugh.

“era kika,” she says. low. careful. “para la cámara. nada más.”

“I know that.”

“lo sé. y aun así.”

you say nothing.

because she’s right and she knows she’s right and you know she’s right and none of that is actually the point. the point is her hands are on you and the point is the tight thing in your chest, small, unformed, not quite a thought yet.

“oye.” her nose presses to the back of your neck. slow. “estoy aquí.”

something in your chest loosens against your will.

“your sunglasses,” you say, because you have to say something. “it’s already night.”

a warm sound against your ear.

“¿te molestan mis gafas?”

“they’re ridiculous.”

“dramática,” she says softly. like it’s a love language. because for her it is.

“she had her hands on you.” you say smaller than you meant it. less armored.

“lo sé,” she says.

“I know it’s nothing. I know—”

“lo sé,” she says again. same words. entirely different weight.

her arms wind all the way around you then, both of them, crossing at your stomach and pulling you properly back against her, just holding.

her lips press to your temple and the tight thing in your chest opens a little more.

“eres la única que me importa,” she murmurs into your hair. “¿me escuchas? la única.”

you close your eyes for one second.

when you open them the stage is gold and enormous.

laia materializes beside you, grabs your arm, shouts something about the next song, then vanishes. clara is laughing at something with kika, phone nowhere in sight, already moved on entirely.

alexia’s arms stay around you. then quiet, almost underneath the music, almost like she’s saying it to herself—

“y tú.”

a pause.

“tú también podrías haber dicho algo. antes de salir.”

you go still.

there it is.

“about what?” you ask. carefully.

her hands shift at your waist.

deliberate.

the movement is brief.

pointed anyway.

“ya sabes sobre qué,” she says. not angry. not quite. something more complicated than angry.

“you didn’t say anything,” you say.

“no,” she agrees. “no dije nada.”

“so—”

“porque no quería arruinarlo.” her voice is still low, still even, but there’s something underneath it now, something real and unguarded and a little raw. “querías ir así, y no quería que la noche empezara con eso. así que no dije nada.”

you turn in her arms.

she lets you.

she is a lot. the gold light hitting the planes of her face, jaw set, eyes very dark, looking at you with an expression that means she has been managing something privately for several hours.

“alexia,”

“la falda,” she says quietly. “el top. la forma en que todo el mundo miraba.”

she exhales through her nose.

that says enough.

the crowd roars below for something. gold light floods stadium. neither of you moves.

“you could have told me,” you say, softer now.

“carinõ,”

“i would have chan—”

“no habrías cambiado,” she says, and the corner of her mouth moves, not quite a smile but also quite not one. “y no te lo pido. no es eso.”

“then what is it?”

she looks at you for a long moment. the lights move across her face: red, gold, red again. something in her expression shifts, settles, becomes something quieter and more honest.

“que me vuelves loca,” she says simply. “eso es lo que es. desde el momento en que bajaste las escaleras.”

something warm unfurls in your chest.

“yeah?” you say.

“sí.”

the answer comes immediately.

“con esa falda y esos tacones.”

she shakes her head once.

“y yo intentando comportarme como una persona normal.”

the corner of her mouth twitches.

“sin éxito.”

you look at her.

really look at her.

she looks back.

the music shifts below, something slow, heavy rolling up through the concrete, the crowd swaying with it.

then her eyes drop, slow, deliberate, taking in the skirt, the top, all of it, before coming back up to your face. “la falda“ a pause that has weight in it. “eso lo hablamos después.”

the way she says después.

low. certain. a door closing on something that hasn’t happened yet.

“promise?” you say.

her jaw shifts. her hands tighten at your hips. just slightly. just enough to tell you everything.

“gira,” she says softly.

you turn back to the railing.

her arms come around you, her lips at your temple. the song that’s been building below finally crests, not louder, just deeper, the kind of track that doesn’t ask anything of you except to feel it.

slow. heavy. deliberate.

moving through the floor, through your heels, through everything.

alexia starts to move.

it’s barely anything at first. just a slow sway, her body against yours. her hands resting at your hips, not guiding, just present.

and then you start to move with her.

and something changes.

her hands spread wider at your hips. her fingers press in, not hard, just firm, just certain.

you can feel the exhale she releases against the side of your neck.

slow.

unsteady in a way she’d never let happen anywhere else.

you roll your hips back into hers, following the low pulse of the music, her grip tightens immediately.

“dios,” she breathes. barely sound. more just air.

you do it again. slower this time. more deliberate.

her fingers dig into the fabric over your hips, the hem of your skirt rising just slightly with the movement, her thighs press in against yours from behind, corning you, stilling the movement just enough to control it.

to make it hers.

“para,” she murmurs against your ear. not a real instruction. not even close.

“you started it,” you say.

“tú empezaste esto hace horas,” she says, low and rough. “with this ridiculous skirt.”

her hands slide, from your hips down over the front of your thighs, just to the hem.

just to the edge of it.

her palms are warm against your bare skin, she stops there, holding, the tips of her fingers resting at the point where fabric ends and nothing begins.

she doesn’t go further.

she just holds.

the restraint in it is somehow more devastating than anything else would be.

you tilt your head back against her shoulder and look up at her.

her eyes are very dark as she looks at you like you are something she has made a decision about and is now in the process of executing with great patience and zero mercy.

“alexia,” you say.

“sí” she says. she already knows. she always knows.

her nose brushes your temple. her lips follow barely there, just the heat of them, dragging slowly along the line of your jaw. not a kiss. a quiet, unhurried threat.

“there’s people,” you breathe.

“I can see,” she says.

her hands slide back up to your waist.

“por eso me estoy portando bien.”

the way she says portando bien.

like it is costing her something significant.

like the bill is going to come due later and you are both very aware of it.

you look to the side, laia has her arms around victorias’s shoulders and the rest of girls are watching the stage, present.

you lean back into alexia and feel her exhale against your hair and the whole world narrows down to the size of this.

the heat of her, the press of her thighs behind you, the press of her hands flat against your stomach holding you against her. the music rolling up through the floor. the city enormous and gold and alive below.

“después,” she murmurs into your hair.

a reminder.

a promise.

“después,” you agree.

her arms tighten once.

brief.

…that being said…what are you working on rn?:)