leti.

Your mother being a sweet but respected woman by the others always called it a community, except that on the way she used to say it. A little sarcastic on the edges, like it tasted sour in her mouth. It sounded more like a warning than a comfort. Community here meant a chain of watchful eyes, mouths that never stayed shut, and stories that moved faster than truth. It meant knowing everything about everyone, whether you wanted to or not.

Especially about the mysterious woman next door, who both your mom and father always referred to as the devil itself.

Melissa Schemmenti. She was fifty years old and the kind of woman who made everyone talk without even opening her mouth.

She’d been living on this neighborhood longer than almost anybody you knew aside from old Mrs. Hernandez, who hadn’t left her house in three years due to the pandemic but somehow knew who was pregnant before their boyfriend or restrictive parents did. Melissa wasn’t just a fixture on the street; she was a presence that made everything feel a little heavier when she stepped outside.

The redhead taught second grade at Abbott Elementary, know as the local and unfounded public school. It was the same school where some of your cousins and half the neighborhood kids had cycled through at one point.

She drove a beat-up red sedan that rattled but never failed, and when it stalled she’d fix it herself in the driveway with a wrench in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Just like her cousin Rocco taught her in early adulthood years. Frank Sinatra would be blaring from an old boombox. Never Billy Joel, she hated that man.

Melissa also cursed like it was a second language and laughed with her whole chest when she needed to, like the world had to hear her joy just as loudly as her rage.

Her clothing choices were also a talk around the whole neighborhood, leather was almost a second part of herself. Tight pants, worn smooth at the seams, paired with biker boots and zip-up jackets that clung to her arms like armor. Blazers too, sometimes on development days at work, or a random morning.

Even in the heat her beautiful hair, wild and copper-red, was always done up like she’d just rolled out of a dive bar and dared someone to say something about it. Her lipstick was blood-red, never smudged. Her eyeliner? Sharp enough to cut glass.

There was something about her. Too much, maybe. Too loud, too brash, too unapologetically her. And that made people nervous. Especially your mom, who treated her like a punching bag any chance she got.

“Red? She’s got a reputation,” she would hiss with others on the phone next to the living room, pulling the blinds just enough to peek through when the second grade teacher walked by. But she never explained what kind of reputation. She didn’t have to. The implication lingered in the silence, in the way her lips tightened, in the way her voice dropped to a whisper like the very air might tattle.

On the other hand, even the worst of the gossips had to admit something. The red shiny tomatoes came in perfect condition every year, despite the overgrown garden and mess of weeds that grew like they were invited, every fruit she touched seemed to thrive. Same with the neighborhood kids, come to think of it. Even the roughest and rebellious teenagers straightened up when Ms. Schemmenti talked.

Probably was the teacher in her. Or probably was the way she walked without bending her knees like she’d seen it all, lived through it, and dared the world to try again.

She wasn’t what your mom wanted near her daughter. Which, of course, only made her that much harder to ignore.

The biggest problem was that you felt attracted to her by nature, your hot older neighbor was the woman who didn’t need to try to be noticed, her presence alone demanded attention. She carried herself with the effortless magnetism of an old Hollywood actress.

Earthy sensuality wrapped in confidence. Her heart-shaped face, with its high cheekbones and stubborn chin, was framed by wild, untamed curls.

One of her most arresting features was her green eyes, intense and capable of delivering a scolding with one glance or an invitation to mischief with a single smirk. They always seemed to be laughing at some internal joke, like she knew secrets the world wasn’t ready for. Thick, natural lashes cast of someone who spent hours under the sun whether tending her unruly garden or grading papers on the porch.

And her lips, full and expressive, made for sly smiles and sassy comebacks. When she talked, you couldn’t look away from the way they moved, shaping every word with a theatrical flair honed from years in classrooms and late-night family fights. If she ever slicked on red lipstick (usually on rare nights out when she’d wink and say she was going to misbehave), the effect was downright lethal.

Her body wasn’t build for delicate and pretty fragility, the siclian was curvy and that made sundresses look like some statement. Jeans looked like a sin, her shoulders carried a posture that never slumped, and her hips swayed with a rhythm that betrayed her Italian roots, even when she was just grabbing the mail to see the bills.

There was a unapologetic sexiness to her, a presence that didn’t need heels or tight dresses (though when she wore them? Damn.)

But what made her truly irresistible was the way all of it came together with her personality.

A arched eyebrow could shut down nonsense, her hands, always with short, boldly painted nails gesturin when she told a story or how her laugh burst out loud and unfiltered, like she had no time for polite pretenses. She wasn’t pretty. She was hot.

On a Friday night, after a peaceful dinner with your father and mother, the sink gurgled as she with a wrist deep in soap water scrubbed at a dish that obviously didn’t needed any scrubbing. The tiny window over the sink looked straight out toward the fence line, toward Melissa’s yard. Of course, she didn't miss the opportunity to make a comment about the neighbor.

“That bitch thinks she’s cute,” your mom pointed out. “Smokes like a chimney on Christmas night and flirts with both genders like it’s a profession. There’s nothing wrong with liking men and women but look at her age! She needs to settle down.”

You’d leaned against the counter, nursing the last sip of iced tea in a sweating glass, lips twitching as the words settled.

“Mom, hush with the implications. I saw her at Anthony’s Italian Coffee & Chocolate House on Wednesday, she recognized me and offered to pay for my order. Melissa has been nothing but polite!” you retort suddenly. One soft, stupid response. Like you forgot, for a second, who you were talking to.

The dish towel in her hands went still, and twisted. Wrung out like a neck snapping.

“She’s got no business talking to girls your age!”she barked, enough to cut through the clink of dishes. She didn’t even have to look at you.

Your father was more calm when the subject was the redhead whose name could not be mentioned in your residence, but he agreed with his beloved wife’s attitudes and words. He sighed heavily without taking his eyes off the news article he was reading on the table.

“Y/N,” the older man begins in a reprehensive tone. “Listen to your mother. She isn’t wrong, that diabolical woman is not a good example for you.”

“Dad,” you started with a anxious tone but he cuted you off by zipping his mouth shut.

Not that the italian-american had ever said much to you. Not then, anyway. She wasn’t reckless. Not the way your parents and neighborhood assumed. But sometimes, in those long evenings when the sky went dark and the kids scattered like pigeons, she’d catch your eye from across the yard.

You didn’t know what to do with that back then. So you stopped looking. Kept your eyes down, your feet moving, your face neutral.

At twenty-seven years old, you’re still living at home (for now.) The converted sunroom is your makeshift office, your laptop perched on uneven towers of old textbooks, the spines cracked and pages yellowed with disuse. Your headphones are never fully on, one ear always tuned to the muffled sounds of the house, your mom’s footsteps in the kitchen, the distant snoring of your asleep dad and the occasional sigh of the floorboards settling. You tell relatives you’re just saving money, figuring things out, waiting for something better. You don’t tell them what that something is. You’re not even sure yourself.

When night falls, the residence follows its own monotonous routine. The telephone on the table after being used for gossiping and concerning, your refrigerator humming its steady drone, harmonizing with the oscillating quietness in your parents bedroom.

That’s when you move. To hookup with your prohibited neighbor.

Bare feet silent against the hardwood, you pad down the hallway, avoiding the floorboard you know will groan under your weight. The back door’s hinges sigh as you ease it open, just wide enough to slip through. The weather is always cold, carrying the scent of cut grass and the faint metallic tang of the neighbor’s sprinkler system.

Your shoes dangle from your fingers, soles brushing your thigh, until you’re at the white picket fence, its paint peeling, wood softened by years of rain and sun. You vault over it with practiced ease, landing in the ground on the other side.

Melissa is usually waiting for you in her house.

Sometimes she’s with a arm behind her back and a glass of expensive white wine cradled in her other hand, condensation beading and slipping down to pool between her fingers. On Saturdays and Sundays, she’s leaning against the side of her garage, arms crossed, one bare foot propped against the siding.

As mentioned before, her wardrobe is as unpredictable as she is. Some evenings, it’s an ancient Neumann University shirt its collar stretched wide from too many washes, the fabric thin enough that you can trace the slope of her shoulder beneath it. Other times, it’s a deep burgundy robe cinched haphazardly at the waist.

And then there are the nights she wears that jeans jacket, one that smells like rain and something faintly spiced thrown over a green tank top and pajama pants, as if she couldn’t be bothered to dress properly, as if she just grabbed whatever was closest when she heard you coming.

Her house is a sanctuary in the way of a life fully lived. Dog-eared paperbacks, half-finished crossword puzzles at the coffee table, a blue pen abandoned. A candle gutters in the corner, wax pooled around the wick, the last whispers of bergamot and cedar.

When she touches you it’s like she is committing you to memory. A palm on your wrist, her thumb tracing your jaw. You lean into the touch like a flower bending toward the sun.

No one knows about this prohibited relationship.

Not the old man three doors down, who waters his geraniums at precisely 6:15 pm every evening, eyes behind his bifocals. Not the kids who shout the redhead’s name from their scooters, who dissolve into giggles when she ruffles their hair and calls them gabortz.

Not even your mother, who still speaks of her in hushed, cautious tones, like the mere mention of that woman next door might summon something dangerous.

You’re aware of the precipice beneath your feet, the way the ground could crumble at any moment. If this gets out, the fallout won’t just be a scandal, it’ll be annihilation.

But then Melissa Schemmenti tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, her fingertips brushing the shell of it, rough from years of twisting wrenches and scraping knuckles against metal. She looks at you like you’re something precious, like she’s spent a lifetime searching for a moment this soft, this real.

And suddenly, you don’t care about the consequences.

You only care about this. The gentle way she sways with you when a song drifts from the record player, there’s just enough space between the couch and the coffee table to sway. She pulls you close, one hand firm at the small of your back, the other tangling with yours. There’s no rhythm to it, just the drag of her hips against yours, the heat of her breath against your temple.

Melissa laughs when you step on her toes. “S’alright, bambi, I’ve had worse in my ex-marriage,” she jokes before spinning you under her arm.

“Sorry for being terrible at this,” you apologize with a flush of your cheeks.

She nips at your earlobe. “None of that, why don’t we chill for a sec?”

You care about the way, when later, when the record spins to silence, she tugs you onto the plastic covered couch, the old springs groaning under you. The Nintendo that once belonged to her ex-roommate Jacob Hill, shines to life, the pixelated rainbow of Mario Kart 8 bright against the room. She’s ruthless, elbows digging into your ribs as she leans forward, tongue caught between her teeth.

“Watch this,” your girlfriend grins, and then she’s slingshotting past you on the last lap, her kart spitting blue fire.

“Cheater!” you gasp, but she’s already laughing, triumphant, her head thrown back.

“Winner picks the prize,” Melissa declares, and you know what’s coming before she even reaches for the rolling tray. “You know the rules, babe.”

She’s meticulous about it, grinding the bud between her fingers. The paper crinkles as she licks the glue line, her tongue pink and quick. When she sparks the lighter, the flame reflects in her eyes, and for a second, she looks like something out of a myth.

Obviously, the first hit is always hers. She inhales deep, holds it, lets the smoke curl from her nose like a dragon’s flame.

“Your turn. C’mon, just like I taught you, sweetheart.”

When the smoke burns sweet down your throat, you cough, just a little, not being used to marijuana and the second grade teacher whistles, taking it back. She mocks you, calling you lightweight, but her thumb brushes your lip like an apology.

What you have with her isn’t meant for daylight. It’s a secret, sacred in its silence. If the world found out, if the block buzzed with gossip, if Melissa ever had to name this thing between you in the harsh light of day. It might not survive. Some truths are too fragile for the open air.

So you keep quiet, you stay late. And you tell yourself something:

“I will stop this whole secret situationship. Eventually, so mom doesn’t find out that I am ‘sleeping with the enemy.’”

“Just… not tonight. I don’t wanna hurt her or myself.”

“What people would do and say if they found out? Melissa’s been though a lot since her last marriage, I love her and the idea of making her suffer again, makes me want to scream.”

The next time you and her see each other again, it starts with an unharmful lie.

At the kitchen, you stand digging through the fridge like you’re looking for something important, vital or at least something to justify the way you’re hiding behind the door.

Your mother bustles around behind you, wiping down counters that don’t need wiping.

“You’re going out again?” she prompts, not looking up from the imaginary spot she’s scrubbing at with a dish towel.

“Yeah,” you say, muffled by the fridge door. “At Claire’s.”

After your confirmation, there’s a pause. The faucet drips once, twice, into the sink.

“On a Saturday?”

“Mm,” you grab a water bottle just to have something in your hands. “We’re gonna watch that new series she’s been obsessed with.”

She finally stops pretending to clean. She leans back against the counter, arms crossed, dish towel still clutched in one hand.

“Me and your father noticed that you’ve been spending a lot of time with her lately.”

It’s a accusation. You take a slow sip of water, buying time. Outside, a lawnmower starts up somewhere down the street. “Yeah, well,” you shrug, pretending that you aren’t sweating. “She’s been having a rough time with the divorce. You know how it is.”

A gamble. Your mother’s lips press into a thin line. She’d always liked Claire’s ex-husband. Said that he was a good example of a man.

“I just think it’s strange,” she explains her point of view. “That every time you go over there, you pack an overnight bag?”

You squeeze your fingers around the water bottle. “We drink alcohol, you won’t want me driving home after that.”

“If that’s the reason, you could take an Uber.”

“And leave my car at her place?” you force a laugh. “Come on, Mom. Since when do you care if I sleep over at a old friend’s?”

“I just...” she hesitates, then shakes her head. “Never mind, Y/N.”

You watch as your mother turns back to the counter, rearranging the fruit bowl that doesn’t need rearranging. The bananas are too green. She moves them to the left.

“What time will you be home tomorrow?”

“Not sure,” you set the water bottle down too carefully. “Probably late afternoon or early in the morning.”

Late afternoon,” she chews her lip. “Y’know, Mr. Henderson saw you at the grocery store last week.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh?”

“Said you were with some redheaded woman. Looked... close.”

“Blanche!” you answered, too quickly. “She’s Claire’s older cousin. Was in town for a few days. She is from…California!” Another lie. Melissa has lived next to you for decades.

Her fingers pause on an apple. She doesn’t look at you. “Funny. He didn’t mention that.“

“Maybe because it’s none of his business?” you grab your bag from the chair. “Jesus, Mom. Since when do we report our grocery store companions to the neighborhood watch?”

A car honks outside. The mail truck, probably. “I’m just making conversation,” she tries to defend herself.

“Well,” you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”

“Eleven,” your mother says finally.

“What?”

“Curfew’s still eleven,” her knuckles are white around the dish towel. “Even on Saturdays.”

You stare at her. “I’m twenty-seven!”

“This is my house,” the eldest meets your eyes for the first time. “My rules, if you don’t agree, simply buy your own house and move out.”

“Whatever. I’ll text you.”

She doesn’t say goodbye as you walk out. The screen door slams behind you with finality.

Outside, the sun is too bright and your hands shake as you dig your keys from your pocket. You don’t look back, you never do. On the second your feet hit the pavement, the anger boils over.

“Curfew’s still eleven,” you groan under your breath as you stomp down the sidewalk. “Even on fuckin’ Saturdays.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. You kick a pebble harder than necessary, sending it skittering across the cracked concrete, the clack of stone against asphalt echoing in the quiet neighborhood.

You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket, shoulders hunched, and take the long way around the block. Not because you need the extra steps, but because you know they’re watching. Mrs. Parker with her lace curtains twitching. Old Man Reynolds pretending to fiddle with his mailbox as you pass. The whole damn street, a minefield of nosy neighbors and prying eyes.

So you walk.

You loop past the park with its rusted swing set, past the Thompsons’ house where their golden retriever barks half-heartedly at you from behind a white picket fence. You take your time, letting the simmering fury in your chest settle into something manageable before you dare double back.

“Oh, but of course! ‘Cause I’m still fucking twelve, right, Stephanie?” you throw your hands up, talking to no one or maybe to the universe in general. A cyclist gives you a weird look. You give them the middle finger until they pedal faster.

By the time you make your way toward your street again you don’t go straight there, of course. That would be too obvious. Instead, you pause at the corner, pretending to check your phone, scanning for witnesses before slipping into the narrow alley between the Millers’ garage and the overgrown hedges that separate their property from hers.

The weather is cooler here, damp with the scent of earth and moss. Your black boots crush brittle leaves underfoot as you move silently along the fence line, fingers brushing the wood until you find the loose board. The one your girlfriend pried loose two years ago, just enough to squeeze through if you turn sideways.

You do.

The backyard is quiet. her garden is wild and untamed, nothing like your mother’s manicured flower beds. The back porch light is off, just like always. Your signal.

You don’t knock. The door is unlocked, the handle cool under your palm as you push inside, stepping into the warmth of her space.

Melissa is at the stove, stirring something in a cast-iron skillet, her back to you. She doesn’t turn around, but you see the way her shoulders tense slightly, the way her fingers tighten around the wooden spoon.

“Goodnight, bimba,” she greets. “I thought I wouldn't see mia principessa tonight.”

You drop your bag on the floor with a thud, the sound louder than you intended in the cozy space. “She’s annoying!” you snap, pacing the length of the kitchen, your boots scuffing against the worn hardwood.

Melissa doesn’t ask who. She just watches you, her green eyes tracking your movements, her expression unreadable as you rant.

“Eleven o’clock curfew. Eleven. Like I’m some teenager sneaking out to meet a boy. And the audacity! ‘the neighbor saw you,’ as if I need to fucking justify who I’m seen with now?”

Melissa sighs a heavy sigh. “You done cursing like a sailor?”

“No!” you whirl on her. “I’m twenty-seven, Lis. Twenty. Fucking. Seven. And she still treats me like, like…”

“Like her kid,” the redhead finishes softly. “That she insists on protecting.”

The fight drains out of you all at once. “Yep, and this pisses me off!”

Your girlfriend turns the stove off. Walks over. Cups your face in her hands. “Wanna know what I think about this?”

“What!?” you ask with a frown.

“I think,” she continues, leaning in until her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm and familiar. “That your mom can go fuck herself.”

A laugh bursts out of you. “Rude.”

“I don’t hate your ma. She’s just a pain in our fuckin’ ass. Now,” the older woman mouths, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lip. “How about we make sure you’re very late for curfew?”

“Yeah?” you give her puppy eyes and she nods kissing you.

You don’t realize you’ve moved that much until the counter presses into her hips and her hourglass body arches into yours, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, clinging like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. The stove makes a noise beside you, the forgotten skillet whispering with the sound of garlic and onions caramelizing.

Her teeth catches your lower lip and you shiver drifting your palms down to her waist, tracing the delicate ridges of her ribs beneath her green top.

“You’re gonna burn dinner.”

She laughs, a sound honeyed, vibrating against your mouth. “I don’t care about dinner when I have a beautiful angel in front of me.”

The wooden spoon clatters to the floor, forgotten, as she turns fully into you, her body aligning with yours like two halves of a perfect fit. Her hands rise to your hair, fingers threading through the strands, tugging just enough to draw a quiet groan from your throat. You kiss her deeper, slower, savoring the way her breath hitches when your tongue traces the seam of her lips.

Behind you, the onions let out a faint hiss, the sharp tang of smoke curling into the air.

Melissa breaks away with a gasp, her cheeks flushed, lips swollen. She reaches blindly for the pan, nudging it off the burner with a breathless laugh. “Fuck, maybe slightly care.”

You don’t let her go. Instead, you press your lips to the delicate line of her throat, kissing the flutter of her pulse there, nipping gently just to feel the way her fingers tighten in your hair.

“We could just order from that Chinese place,” you suggest. “Mm?”

The redheaded hums, tilting her head to give you better access, her breath coming in soft, uneven waves. “Or,” she counters, her grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your stomach swoop. “You could shut up and keep doing that while I finish cooking, smartass.”

You smile against her skin, pressing one last kiss to the hollow beneath her ear before obliging. Your lips trace the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her jaw, as she stirs the pan one-handed, her other arm looped around your waist, holding you close.

At one point, Melissa turns her head, catching your mouth in a kiss again, her tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your heart drop.

“You’re distracting me,” she scolds. “ I’m just a poor woman trying to make Friggionge. And you are being a pain in my damn ass.”

You nip at her lower lip, grinning when she shivers. “Sorry.”

Green eyes roll at you, but the corners of her mouth moves like she’s fighting a smile. She pulls the pot off the stove with a satisfied hum, plates up generous portions of the dish, then nudges you to sit down at the large dining table.

The recipe belongs to her grandmother, of course, rich with garlic and butter and that earthy sweetness only Melissa knows how to coax out of humble greens. She sits close, knees brushing yours beneath it, her hand never leaving yours even as she twirls pasta with the other.

“Eat,” she orders when she catches you staring at her instead of the food. Her thumb rubs circles over your knuckles, claiming. Every time you take a bite, she watches your mouth like she’s memorizing the shape of your satisfaction.

Every so often Melissa lifts your joined hands to press a kiss to your fingers, soft and absentminded, like she can’t help herself. Between mouthfuls, she complains about you distracting her, but she doesn’t let go, not when the sauce drips on her top, not when you tease her about it, not even when you reach to steal a bite off her plate.

And under the table, her foot hooks around your ankle, keeping you there, close, tethered. Like she’s trying to make sure you never slip out of her grasp.

Melissa insists on putting on Real Housewives after dinner. It’s a ritual, really, something she calls her “one good guilty pleasure,” though you know it’s more than an obsession. It’s her way to unwind, to remind herself that other people’s chaos can be louder than hers, funnier too, in a way that makes her feel lighter.

The dramatic monologues of the characters make an interesting combination with a loud scratch of her pen as she grades mathematical tests. She’s tucked against your side, her legs draped over yours, the weight of her warm and familiar. Every so often, she lets out a soft snort of laughter at the show, or at whatever absurd answer one of her second graders scribbled down.

“Breanna wrote that she solved 8 + 5 by counting all the gummy bears in her lunchbox,” Melissa circles the answer and puts a smiling face next to it. “I mean, correct, but pretty sure she just wanted an excuse to tell me about food.”

You chuckle. “Innovative problem-solving. Future mathematician right there."

She swats your chest with the back of her hand, but she’s grinning. “Don’t encourage her. Next thing you know, they'll all be solving subtraction problems by counting the fake teeth in their grandmother’s dentures.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to her temple as the redhead flips to the next test.

“How was your day?” you ask, nuzzling into her hair.

Melissa sighs. “Exhausting. Isaiah tried to prove he could hold his breath for a hundred million hours during reading time. Passed out face-first into the cover of Peter Rabbit.”

“The boy’s got dedication.”

“Dedication? That’s literally no sense!” she corrects, but there’s fondness in her voice. “The nurse had to help me convince him humans do actually need oxygen.”

“So you didn’t actually consider letting evolution take its course?”

“Trust me I did,” the older woman admits, capping her pen and stretching her arms. “But then he looked up at me with those big puppy eyes and said he wanted to be like Spiderman. How do you stay mad at that?”

“You’re a good teacher, Schemmenti,” you compliment with a sweet expression.

She rolls her eyes at you, but her cheeks go pink. “I just hand out gold stars and bandaids.”

“Nah. You are magic,” your thumb brushes over the ink stain on her hand. “Even when you're explaining for the twentieth time why dog doesn’t start with wuh.

Melissa huffs, but she tucks her face against your shoulder. “That’s phonics! You know it.”

When the marathon ends almost an hour later and the credits of Real Housewives roll, the redhead shifts, about to make an ironic comment about the episode’s drama, when she feels the steady rise and fall of your chest against her side. She turns her head and there you are, completely out, lips slightly parted, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks.

“Y/N? Y/N! come on, you little shit!” she curses and pokes your shoulder. “You promised you wouldn’t fall asleep on me again.”

You don’t wake up and Melissa groans, running a hand through her auburn hair as she surveys the situation: your limbs sprawled in that boneless, deeply asleep way, one arm still loosely curled around her waist. The worksheets are abandoned on the coffee table, her red pen left uncapped. She should be annoyed. She is annoyed.

But she can’t feel annoyed when it comes to you.

So, your older neighbor shifts carefully, sliding out from under your arm. You make a quiet, protesting noise in your sleep, your mouth pouting, and she can’t help but smile. “Shhh, amore, I got you,” she coos, even though you can't hear her.

Melissa bends down, sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back. She braces herself and hoists.

“Gesù Cristo!” your girlfriend stumbles a step, knees buckling slightly. “Why are you…oh my god…why are you so damn heavy when you’re asleep?!”

It’s the dead weight of it. The way you’re completely limp, like a sack of very affectionate potatoes. She huffs, adjusting her grip, your head lolling against her shoulder. “This is ridiculous. I told you to just go to bed at ten. But nooo, you had to…mmph, just one more episode, and now I’m the one..oof! playing goddamn bridal carry at midnight!”

Every floorboard that groans beneath her weight sounds like a gunshot. She can practically hear her mother-in-law’s–correction–her ex-mother-in-law’s- shouting hissing from the guest room down the hall: “I always knew you were a nasty bitch, Melissa Schemmenti.” As if the divorce hadn’t been mutual. As if she hadn't been the one to find the texts on his phone.

The green eyed woman kicks open the bedroom door (gently, because she’s pissed, not rude,) and barely manages to deposit you onto the mattress without dropping you. You immediately curl into the blankets with a sleepy sigh, completely oblivious to her suffering and the pain on her back.

She stands over you, hands on her chest, breathing hard. “The only girlfriend that I ever carried on my arms, even though my fucking back kills me.” She could leave you like this. Should leave you like this. The thing is that she will always provide comfort for her girl.

So Melissa leans down, carefully peeling your jeans off (because sleeping in jeans is criminal and uncomfortable), tossing them over the chair. She wrestles your shirt over your head with minimal grumbling, replacing it with one of her old sleep camisoles, the red one you always steal. You mumble something unintelligible, nuzzling into the cold side of the pillow, and she can't help but brush your hair back from your forehead.

“Sleep tight, mi amore.”

Then she disappears into the bathroom and squints at her reflection on the mirror, the smudged mascara, the worry lines between her brows. Her nighttime routine is simple, the rush of water as she washes her face, the click of her skincare bottles, while whatever song is playing in her head. When she finally emerges, her face is scrubbed clean, her hair piled into a messy bun, her pajamas hanging loose and soft on her frame.

You’ve shifted in her absence, one arm outstretched across her side of the bed like you were searching for her.

Melissa slips under the covers, careful not to jostle you. For a long moment, she just watches the rise and fall of your breathing and thinks.

She should go to sleep in the guest room next door, giving you comfort and privacy. The plastic-covered sofa isn’t a reliable option after all, she might wake up with a terrible neck pain. Dealing with her grade partner Janine Teagues while irritated from a bad night’s sleep is a nightmare.

Staying here in her own bed isn’t a bad idea, right? Hell, you’re the daughter of the neighbor who harbors a deep hatred for her. What else could possibly be a terrible idea?

Her fingers hover just above your skin, not quite touching. The pad of her index finger traces the invisible line of your brow first. Following the arch like she’s memorizing every curve. Then, feather-light, she brushes over the bridge of your nose, smiling when you scrunch it slightly in your sleep.

“A brat even when you’re out cold,” she teases.

Next, it’s over your cheekbone, following the curve down to the corner of your mouth. There’s a tiny scar there, barely noticeable unless you look closely, from when you fell off your bike at eight years old. She knows the story. Knows how your mom freaked out, how your grandma pressed a linen napkin to your face and groaned about “too much energy.”

The redheaded second grade teacher knows too much. That’s the problem.

When her fingers go lower, sliding along your jaw you smile faintly, your breath warm against her wrist, and she freezes but you don’t wake. You just turn your face slightly into her touch.

“Sap,” your girlfriend quips.

A sound creaks, a sharp pop from the hallway. Her head snaps up, her body going rigid. For one breath-stealing second, she imagines the door swinging open. Imagines your mother showing up through the darkness. I knew it. I knew you were fucking my daughter, you pervert! Get away from her right now! Or you’ll regret it!

But nothing moves. It’s just the house. Just Melissa’s paranoia.

When she looks down again, you’ve curled toward her, one hand weakly clutching the fabric of her nightshirt. The scene completely unravels her sarcastic redhead with a heart of stone persona.

She lets out a slow breath through her nose and finally, finally lets herself sink into the mattress beside you. She fits herself against your side, her head resting in the hollow between your shoulder and chest. Your heartbeat is strong beneath her ear. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, a rhythm she could set her watch to.

One of your arms drapes around her waist, pulling her closer even in sleep. Melissa closes her olive eyes and allows herself to believe, just for tonight, that this isn’t borrowed time. That she doesn’t have to tiptoe around her own home. That your mother won’t invade her property, look at her with that thinly veiled disgust while questioning the love the second-grade teacher feels for you.

Your mother being a sweet but respected woman by the others always called it a community, except that on the way she used to say it. A little sarcastic on the edges, like it tasted sour in her mouth. It sounded more like a warning than a comfort. Community here meant a chain of watchful eyes, mouths that never stayed shut, and stories that moved faster than truth. It meant knowing everything about everyone, whether you wanted to or not.

Especially about the mysterious woman next door, who both your mom and father always referred to as the devil itself.

Melissa Schemmenti. She was fifty years old and the kind of woman who made everyone talk without even opening her mouth.

She’d been living on this neighborhood longer than almost anybody you knew aside from old Mrs. Hernandez, who hadn’t left her house in three years due to the pandemic but somehow knew who was pregnant before their boyfriend or restrictive parents did. Melissa wasn’t just a fixture on the street; she was a presence that made everything feel a little heavier when she stepped outside.

The redhead taught second grade at Abbott Elementary, know as the local and unfounded public school. It was the same school where some of your cousins and half the neighborhood kids had cycled through at one point.

She drove a beat-up red sedan that rattled but never failed, and when it stalled she’d fix it herself in the driveway with a wrench in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Just like her cousin Rocco taught her in early adulthood years. Frank Sinatra would be blaring from an old boombox. Never Billy Joel, she hated that man.

Melissa also cursed like it was a second language and laughed with her whole chest when she needed to, like the world had to hear her joy just as loudly as her rage.

Her clothing choices were also a talk around the whole neighborhood, leather was almost a second part of herself. Tight pants, worn smooth at the seams, paired with biker boots and zip-up jackets that clung to her arms like armor. Blazers too, sometimes on development days at work, or a random morning.

Even in the heat her beautiful hair, wild and copper-red, was always done up like she’d just rolled out of a dive bar and dared someone to say something about it. Her lipstick was blood-red, never smudged. Her eyeliner? Sharp enough to cut glass.

There was something about her. Too much, maybe. Too loud, too brash, too unapologetically her. And that made people nervous. Especially your mom, who treated her like a punching bag any chance she got.

“Red? She’s got a reputation,” she would hiss with others on the phone next to the living room, pulling the blinds just enough to peek through when the second grade teacher walked by. But she never explained what kind of reputation. She didn’t have to. The implication lingered in the silence, in the way her lips tightened, in the way her voice dropped to a whisper like the very air might tattle.

On the other hand, even the worst of the gossips had to admit something. The red shiny tomatoes came in perfect condition every year, despite the overgrown garden and mess of weeds that grew like they were invited, every fruit she touched seemed to thrive. Same with the neighborhood kids, come to think of it. Even the roughest and rebellious teenagers straightened up when Ms. Schemmenti talked.

Probably was the teacher in her. Or probably was the way she walked without bending her knees like she’d seen it all, lived through it, and dared the world to try again.

She wasn’t what your mom wanted near her daughter. Which, of course, only made her that much harder to ignore.

The biggest problem was that you felt attracted to her by nature, your hot older neighbor was the woman who didn’t need to try to be noticed, her presence alone demanded attention. She carried herself with the effortless magnetism of an old Hollywood actress.

Earthy sensuality wrapped in confidence. Her heart-shaped face, with its high cheekbones and stubborn chin, was framed by wild, untamed curls.

One of her most arresting features was her green eyes, intense and capable of delivering a scolding with one glance or an invitation to mischief with a single smirk. They always seemed to be laughing at some internal joke, like she knew secrets the world wasn’t ready for. Thick, natural lashes cast of someone who spent hours under the sun whether tending her unruly garden or grading papers on the porch.

And her lips, full and expressive, made for sly smiles and sassy comebacks. When she talked, you couldn’t look away from the way they moved, shaping every word with a theatrical flair honed from years in classrooms and late-night family fights. If she ever slicked on red lipstick (usually on rare nights out when she’d wink and say she was going to misbehave), the effect was downright lethal.

Her body wasn’t build for delicate and pretty fragility, the siclian was curvy and that made sundresses look like some statement. Jeans looked like a sin, her shoulders carried a posture that never slumped, and her hips swayed with a rhythm that betrayed her Italian roots, even when she was just grabbing the mail to see the bills.

There was a unapologetic sexiness to her, a presence that didn’t need heels or tight dresses (though when she wore them? Damn.)

But what made her truly irresistible was the way all of it came together with her personality.

A arched eyebrow could shut down nonsense, her hands, always with short, boldly painted nails gesturin when she told a story or how her laugh burst out loud and unfiltered, like she had no time for polite pretenses. She wasn’t pretty. She was hot.

On a Friday night, after a peaceful dinner with your father and mother, the sink gurgled as she with a wrist deep in soap water scrubbed at a dish that obviously didn’t needed any scrubbing. The tiny window over the sink looked straight out toward the fence line, toward Melissa’s yard. Of course, she didn't miss the opportunity to make a comment about the neighbor.

“That bitch thinks she’s cute,” your mom pointed out. “Smokes like a chimney on Christmas night and flirts with both genders like it’s a profession. There’s nothing wrong with liking men and women but look at her age! She needs to settle down.”

You’d leaned against the counter, nursing the last sip of iced tea in a sweating glass, lips twitching as the words settled.

“Mom, hush with the implications. I saw her at Anthony’s Italian Coffee & Chocolate House on Wednesday, she recognized me and offered to pay for my order. Melissa has been nothing but polite!” you retort suddenly. One soft, stupid response. Like you forgot, for a second, who you were talking to.

The dish towel in her hands went still, and twisted. Wrung out like a neck snapping.

“She’s got no business talking to girls your age!”she barked, enough to cut through the clink of dishes. She didn’t even have to look at you.

Your father was more calm when the subject was the redhead whose name could not be mentioned in your residence, but he agreed with his beloved wife’s attitudes and words. He sighed heavily without taking his eyes off the news article he was reading on the table.

“Y/N,” the older man begins in a reprehensive tone. “Listen to your mother. She isn’t wrong, that diabolical woman is not a good example for you.”

“Dad,” you started with a anxious tone but he cuted you off by zipping his mouth shut.

Not that the italian-american had ever said much to you. Not then, anyway. She wasn’t reckless. Not the way your parents and neighborhood assumed. But sometimes, in those long evenings when the sky went dark and the kids scattered like pigeons, she’d catch your eye from across the yard.

You didn’t know what to do with that back then. So you stopped looking. Kept your eyes down, your feet moving, your face neutral.

At twenty-seven years old, you’re still living at home (for now.) The converted sunroom is your makeshift office, your laptop perched on uneven towers of old textbooks, the spines cracked and pages yellowed with disuse. Your headphones are never fully on, one ear always tuned to the muffled sounds of the house, your mom’s footsteps in the kitchen, the distant snoring of your asleep dad and the occasional sigh of the floorboards settling. You tell relatives you’re just saving money, figuring things out, waiting for something better. You don’t tell them what that something is. You’re not even sure yourself.

When night falls, the residence follows its own monotonous routine. The telephone on the table after being used for gossiping and concerning, your refrigerator humming its steady drone, harmonizing with the oscillating quietness in your parents bedroom.

That’s when you move. To hookup with your prohibited neighbor.

Bare feet silent against the hardwood, you pad down the hallway, avoiding the floorboard you know will groan under your weight. The back door’s hinges sigh as you ease it open, just wide enough to slip through. The weather is always cold, carrying the scent of cut grass and the faint metallic tang of the neighbor’s sprinkler system.

Your shoes dangle from your fingers, soles brushing your thigh, until you’re at the white picket fence, its paint peeling, wood softened by years of rain and sun. You vault over it with practiced ease, landing in the ground on the other side.

Melissa is usually waiting for you in her house.

Sometimes she’s with a arm behind her back and a glass of expensive white wine cradled in her other hand, condensation beading and slipping down to pool between her fingers. On Saturdays and Sundays, she’s leaning against the side of her garage, arms crossed, one bare foot propped against the siding.

As mentioned before, her wardrobe is as unpredictable as she is. Some evenings, it’s an ancient Neumann University shirt its collar stretched wide from too many washes, the fabric thin enough that you can trace the slope of her shoulder beneath it. Other times, it’s a deep burgundy robe cinched haphazardly at the waist.

And then there are the nights she wears that jeans jacket, one that smells like rain and something faintly spiced thrown over a green tank top and pajama pants, as if she couldn’t be bothered to dress properly, as if she just grabbed whatever was closest when she heard you coming.

Her house is a sanctuary in the way of a life fully lived. Dog-eared paperbacks, half-finished crossword puzzles at the coffee table, a blue pen abandoned. A candle gutters in the corner, wax pooled around the wick, the last whispers of bergamot and cedar.

When she touches you it’s like she is committing you to memory. A palm on your wrist, her thumb tracing your jaw. You lean into the touch like a flower bending toward the sun.

No one knows about this prohibited relationship.

Not the old man three doors down, who waters his geraniums at precisely 6:15 pm every evening, eyes behind his bifocals. Not the kids who shout the redhead’s name from their scooters, who dissolve into giggles when she ruffles their hair and calls them gabortz.

Not even your mother, who still speaks of her in hushed, cautious tones, like the mere mention of that woman next door might summon something dangerous.

You’re aware of the precipice beneath your feet, the way the ground could crumble at any moment. If this gets out, the fallout won’t just be a scandal, it’ll be annihilation.

But then Melissa Schemmenti tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, her fingertips brushing the shell of it, rough from years of twisting wrenches and scraping knuckles against metal. She looks at you like you’re something precious, like she’s spent a lifetime searching for a moment this soft, this real.

And suddenly, you don’t care about the consequences.

You only care about this. The gentle way she sways with you when a song drifts from the record player, there’s just enough space between the couch and the coffee table to sway. She pulls you close, one hand firm at the small of your back, the other tangling with yours. There’s no rhythm to it, just the drag of her hips against yours, the heat of her breath against your temple.

Melissa laughs when you step on her toes. “S’alright, bambi, I’ve had worse in my ex-marriage,” she jokes before spinning you under her arm.

“Sorry for being terrible at this,” you apologize with a flush of your cheeks.

She nips at your earlobe. “None of that, why don’t we chill for a sec?”

You care about the way, when later, when the record spins to silence, she tugs you onto the plastic covered couch, the old springs groaning under you. The Nintendo that once belonged to her ex-roommate Jacob Hill, shines to life, the pixelated rainbow of Mario Kart 8 bright against the room. She’s ruthless, elbows digging into your ribs as she leans forward, tongue caught between her teeth.

“Watch this,” your girlfriend grins, and then she’s slingshotting past you on the last lap, her kart spitting blue fire.

“Cheater!” you gasp, but she’s already laughing, triumphant, her head thrown back.

“Winner picks the prize,” Melissa declares, and you know what’s coming before she even reaches for the rolling tray. “You know the rules, babe.”

She’s meticulous about it, grinding the bud between her fingers. The paper crinkles as she licks the glue line, her tongue pink and quick. When she sparks the lighter, the flame reflects in her eyes, and for a second, she looks like something out of a myth.

Obviously, the first hit is always hers. She inhales deep, holds it, lets the smoke curl from her nose like a dragon’s flame.

“Your turn. C’mon, just like I taught you, sweetheart.”

When the smoke burns sweet down your throat, you cough, just a little, not being used to marijuana and the second grade teacher whistles, taking it back. She mocks you, calling you lightweight, but her thumb brushes your lip like an apology.

What you have with her isn’t meant for daylight. It’s a secret, sacred in its silence. If the world found out, if the block buzzed with gossip, if Melissa ever had to name this thing between you in the harsh light of day. It might not survive. Some truths are too fragile for the open air.

So you keep quiet, you stay late. And you tell yourself something:

“I will stop this whole secret situationship. Eventually, so mom doesn’t find out that I am ‘sleeping with the enemy.’”

“Just… not tonight. I don’t wanna hurt her or myself.”

“What people would do and say if they found out? Melissa’s been though a lot since her last marriage, I love her and the idea of making her suffer again, makes me want to scream.”

The next time you and her see each other again, it starts with an unharmful lie.

At the kitchen, you stand digging through the fridge like you’re looking for something important, vital or at least something to justify the way you’re hiding behind the door.

Your mother bustles around behind you, wiping down counters that don’t need wiping.

“You’re going out again?” she prompts, not looking up from the imaginary spot she’s scrubbing at with a dish towel.

“Yeah,” you say, muffled by the fridge door. “At Claire’s.”

After your confirmation, there’s a pause. The faucet drips once, twice, into the sink.

“On a Saturday?”

“Mm,” you grab a water bottle just to have something in your hands. “We’re gonna watch that new series she’s been obsessed with.”

She finally stops pretending to clean. She leans back against the counter, arms crossed, dish towel still clutched in one hand.

“Me and your father noticed that you’ve been spending a lot of time with her lately.”

It’s a accusation. You take a slow sip of water, buying time. Outside, a lawnmower starts up somewhere down the street. “Yeah, well,” you shrug, pretending that you aren’t sweating. “She’s been having a rough time with the divorce. You know how it is.”

A gamble. Your mother’s lips press into a thin line. She’d always liked Claire’s ex-husband. Said that he was a good example of a man.

“I just think it’s strange,” she explains her point of view. “That every time you go over there, you pack an overnight bag?”

You squeeze your fingers around the water bottle. “We drink alcohol, you won’t want me driving home after that.”

“If that’s the reason, you could take an Uber.”

“And leave my car at her place?” you force a laugh. “Come on, Mom. Since when do you care if I sleep over at a old friend’s?”

“I just...” she hesitates, then shakes her head. “Never mind, Y/N.”

You watch as your mother turns back to the counter, rearranging the fruit bowl that doesn’t need rearranging. The bananas are too green. She moves them to the left.

“What time will you be home tomorrow?”

“Not sure,” you set the water bottle down too carefully. “Probably late afternoon or early in the morning.”

Late afternoon,” she chews her lip. “Y’know, Mr. Henderson saw you at the grocery store last week.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh?”

“Said you were with some redheaded woman. Looked... close.”

“Blanche!” you answered, too quickly. “She’s Claire’s older cousin. Was in town for a few days. She is from…California!” Another lie. Melissa has lived next to you for decades.

Her fingers pause on an apple. She doesn’t look at you. “Funny. He didn’t mention that.“

“Maybe because it’s none of his business?” you grab your bag from the chair. “Jesus, Mom. Since when do we report our grocery store companions to the neighborhood watch?”

A car honks outside. The mail truck, probably. “I’m just making conversation,” she tries to defend herself.

“Well,” you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Maybe don’t.”

“Eleven,” your mother says finally.

“What?”

“Curfew’s still eleven,” her knuckles are white around the dish towel. “Even on Saturdays.”

You stare at her. “I’m twenty-seven!”

“This is my house,” the eldest meets your eyes for the first time. “My rules, if you don’t agree, simply buy your own house and move out.”

“Whatever. I’ll text you.”

She doesn’t say goodbye as you walk out. The screen door slams behind you with finality.

Outside, the sun is too bright and your hands shake as you dig your keys from your pocket. You don’t look back, you never do. On the second your feet hit the pavement, the anger boils over.

“Curfew’s still eleven,” you groan under your breath as you stomp down the sidewalk. “Even on fuckin’ Saturdays.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. You kick a pebble harder than necessary, sending it skittering across the cracked concrete, the clack of stone against asphalt echoing in the quiet neighborhood.

You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket, shoulders hunched, and take the long way around the block. Not because you need the extra steps, but because you know they’re watching. Mrs. Parker with her lace curtains twitching. Old Man Reynolds pretending to fiddle with his mailbox as you pass. The whole damn street, a minefield of nosy neighbors and prying eyes.

So you walk.

You loop past the park with its rusted swing set, past the Thompsons’ house where their golden retriever barks half-heartedly at you from behind a white picket fence. You take your time, letting the simmering fury in your chest settle into something manageable before you dare double back.

“Oh, but of course! ‘Cause I’m still fucking twelve, right, Stephanie?” you throw your hands up, talking to no one or maybe to the universe in general. A cyclist gives you a weird look. You give them the middle finger until they pedal faster.

By the time you make your way toward your street again you don’t go straight there, of course. That would be too obvious. Instead, you pause at the corner, pretending to check your phone, scanning for witnesses before slipping into the narrow alley between the Millers’ garage and the overgrown hedges that separate their property from hers.

The weather is cooler here, damp with the scent of earth and moss. Your black boots crush brittle leaves underfoot as you move silently along the fence line, fingers brushing the wood until you find the loose board. The one your girlfriend pried loose two years ago, just enough to squeeze through if you turn sideways.

You do.

The backyard is quiet. her garden is wild and untamed, nothing like your mother’s manicured flower beds. The back porch light is off, just like always. Your signal.

You don’t knock. The door is unlocked, the handle cool under your palm as you push inside, stepping into the warmth of her space.

Melissa is at the stove, stirring something in a cast-iron skillet, her back to you. She doesn’t turn around, but you see the way her shoulders tense slightly, the way her fingers tighten around the wooden spoon.

“Goodnight, bimba,” she greets. “I thought I wouldn't see mia principessa tonight.”

You drop your bag on the floor with a thud, the sound louder than you intended in the cozy space. “She’s annoying!” you snap, pacing the length of the kitchen, your boots scuffing against the worn hardwood.

Melissa doesn’t ask who. She just watches you, her green eyes tracking your movements, her expression unreadable as you rant.

“Eleven o’clock curfew. Eleven. Like I’m some teenager sneaking out to meet a boy. And the audacity! ‘the neighbor saw you,’ as if I need to fucking justify who I’m seen with now?”

Melissa sighs a heavy sigh. “You done cursing like a sailor?”

“No!” you whirl on her. “I’m twenty-seven, Lis. Twenty. Fucking. Seven. And she still treats me like, like…”

“Like her kid,” the redhead finishes softly. “That she insists on protecting.”

The fight drains out of you all at once. “Yep, and this pisses me off!”

Your girlfriend turns the stove off. Walks over. Cups your face in her hands. “Wanna know what I think about this?”

“What!?” you ask with a frown.

“I think,” she continues, leaning in until her forehead rests against yours, her breath warm and familiar. “That your mom can go fuck herself.”

A laugh bursts out of you. “Rude.”

“I don’t hate your ma. She’s just a pain in our fuckin’ ass. Now,” the older woman mouths, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lip. “How about we make sure you’re very late for curfew?”

“Yeah?” you give her puppy eyes and she nods kissing you.

You don’t realize you’ve moved that much until the counter presses into her hips and her hourglass body arches into yours, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, clinging like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. The stove makes a noise beside you, the forgotten skillet whispering with the sound of garlic and onions caramelizing.

Her teeth catches your lower lip and you shiver drifting your palms down to her waist, tracing the delicate ridges of her ribs beneath her green top.

“You’re gonna burn dinner.”

She laughs, a sound honeyed, vibrating against your mouth. “I don’t care about dinner when I have a beautiful angel in front of me.”

The wooden spoon clatters to the floor, forgotten, as she turns fully into you, her body aligning with yours like two halves of a perfect fit. Her hands rise to your hair, fingers threading through the strands, tugging just enough to draw a quiet groan from your throat. You kiss her deeper, slower, savoring the way her breath hitches when your tongue traces the seam of her lips.

Behind you, the onions let out a faint hiss, the sharp tang of smoke curling into the air.

Melissa breaks away with a gasp, her cheeks flushed, lips swollen. She reaches blindly for the pan, nudging it off the burner with a breathless laugh. “Fuck, maybe slightly care.”

You don’t let her go. Instead, you press your lips to the delicate line of her throat, kissing the flutter of her pulse there, nipping gently just to feel the way her fingers tighten in your hair.

“We could just order from that Chinese place,” you suggest. “Mm?”

The redheaded hums, tilting her head to give you better access, her breath coming in soft, uneven waves. “Or,” she counters, her grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your stomach swoop. “You could shut up and keep doing that while I finish cooking, smartass.”

You smile against her skin, pressing one last kiss to the hollow beneath her ear before obliging. Your lips trace the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her jaw, as she stirs the pan one-handed, her other arm looped around your waist, holding you close.

At one point, Melissa turns her head, catching your mouth in a kiss again, her tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your heart drop.

“You’re distracting me,” she scolds. “ I’m just a poor woman trying to make Friggionge. And you are being a pain in my damn ass.”

You nip at her lower lip, grinning when she shivers. “Sorry.”

Green eyes roll at you, but the corners of her mouth moves like she’s fighting a smile. She pulls the pot off the stove with a satisfied hum, plates up generous portions of the dish, then nudges you to sit down at the large dining table.

The recipe belongs to her grandmother, of course, rich with garlic and butter and that earthy sweetness only Melissa knows how to coax out of humble greens. She sits close, knees brushing yours beneath it, her hand never leaving yours even as she twirls pasta with the other.

“Eat,” she orders when she catches you staring at her instead of the food. Her thumb rubs circles over your knuckles, claiming. Every time you take a bite, she watches your mouth like she’s memorizing the shape of your satisfaction.

Every so often Melissa lifts your joined hands to press a kiss to your fingers, soft and absentminded, like she can’t help herself. Between mouthfuls, she complains about you distracting her, but she doesn’t let go, not when the sauce drips on her top, not when you tease her about it, not even when you reach to steal a bite off her plate.

And under the table, her foot hooks around your ankle, keeping you there, close, tethered. Like she’s trying to make sure you never slip out of her grasp.

Melissa insists on putting on Real Housewives after dinner. It’s a ritual, really, something she calls her “one good guilty pleasure,” though you know it’s more than an obsession. It’s her way to unwind, to remind herself that other people’s chaos can be louder than hers, funnier too, in a way that makes her feel lighter.

The dramatic monologues of the characters make an interesting combination with a loud scratch of her pen as she grades mathematical tests. She’s tucked against your side, her legs draped over yours, the weight of her warm and familiar. Every so often, she lets out a soft snort of laughter at the show, or at whatever absurd answer one of her second graders scribbled down.

“Breanna wrote that she solved 8 + 5 by counting all the gummy bears in her lunchbox,” Melissa circles the answer and puts a smiling face next to it. “I mean, correct, but pretty sure she just wanted an excuse to tell me about food.”

You chuckle. “Innovative problem-solving. Future mathematician right there."

She swats your chest with the back of her hand, but she’s grinning. “Don’t encourage her. Next thing you know, they'll all be solving subtraction problems by counting the fake teeth in their grandmother’s dentures.”

You giggle, pressing a kiss to her temple as the redhead flips to the next test.

“How was your day?” you ask, nuzzling into her hair.

Melissa sighs. “Exhausting. Isaiah tried to prove he could hold his breath for a hundred million hours during reading time. Passed out face-first into the cover of Peter Rabbit.”

“The boy’s got dedication.”

“Dedication? That’s literally no sense!” she corrects, but there’s fondness in her voice. “The nurse had to help me convince him humans do actually need oxygen.”

“So you didn’t actually consider letting evolution take its course?”

“Trust me I did,” the older woman admits, capping her pen and stretching her arms. “But then he looked up at me with those big puppy eyes and said he wanted to be like Spiderman. How do you stay mad at that?”

“You’re a good teacher, Schemmenti,” you compliment with a sweet expression.

She rolls her eyes at you, but her cheeks go pink. “I just hand out gold stars and bandaids.”

“Nah. You are magic,” your thumb brushes over the ink stain on her hand. “Even when you're explaining for the twentieth time why dog doesn’t start with wuh.

Melissa huffs, but she tucks her face against your shoulder. “That’s phonics! You know it.”

When the marathon ends almost an hour later and the credits of Real Housewives roll, the redhead shifts, about to make an ironic comment about the episode’s drama, when she feels the steady rise and fall of your chest against her side. She turns her head and there you are, completely out, lips slightly parted, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks.

“Y/N? Y/N! come on, you little shit!” she curses and pokes your shoulder. “You promised you wouldn’t fall asleep on me again.”

You don’t wake up and Melissa groans, running a hand through her auburn hair as she surveys the situation: your limbs sprawled in that boneless, deeply asleep way, one arm still loosely curled around her waist. The worksheets are abandoned on the coffee table, her red pen left uncapped. She should be annoyed. She is annoyed.

But she can’t feel annoyed when it comes to you.

So, your older neighbor shifts carefully, sliding out from under your arm. You make a quiet, protesting noise in your sleep, your mouth pouting, and she can’t help but smile. “Shhh, amore, I got you,” she coos, even though you can't hear her.

Melissa bends down, sliding one arm under your knees and the other around your back. She braces herself and hoists.

“Gesù Cristo!” your girlfriend stumbles a step, knees buckling slightly. “Why are you…oh my god…why are you so damn heavy when you’re asleep?!”

It’s the dead weight of it. The way you’re completely limp, like a sack of very affectionate potatoes. She huffs, adjusting her grip, your head lolling against her shoulder. “This is ridiculous. I told you to just go to bed at ten. But nooo, you had to…mmph, just one more episode, and now I’m the one..oof! playing goddamn bridal carry at midnight!”

Every floorboard that groans beneath her weight sounds like a gunshot. She can practically hear her mother-in-law’s–correction–her ex-mother-in-law’s- shouting hissing from the guest room down the hall: “I always knew you were a nasty bitch, Melissa Schemmenti.” As if the divorce hadn’t been mutual. As if she hadn't been the one to find the texts on his phone.

The green eyed woman kicks open the bedroom door (gently, because she’s pissed, not rude,) and barely manages to deposit you onto the mattress without dropping you. You immediately curl into the blankets with a sleepy sigh, completely oblivious to her suffering and the pain on her back.

She stands over you, hands on her chest, breathing hard. “The only girlfriend that I ever carried on my arms, even though my fucking back kills me.” She could leave you like this. Should leave you like this. The thing is that she will always provide comfort for her girl.

So Melissa leans down, carefully peeling your jeans off (because sleeping in jeans is criminal and uncomfortable), tossing them over the chair. She wrestles your shirt over your head with minimal grumbling, replacing it with one of her old sleep camisoles, the red one you always steal. You mumble something unintelligible, nuzzling into the cold side of the pillow, and she can't help but brush your hair back from your forehead.

“Sleep tight, mi amore.”

Then she disappears into the bathroom and squints at her reflection on the mirror, the smudged mascara, the worry lines between her brows. Her nighttime routine is simple, the rush of water as she washes her face, the click of her skincare bottles, while whatever song is playing in her head. When she finally emerges, her face is scrubbed clean, her hair piled into a messy bun, her pajamas hanging loose and soft on her frame.

You’ve shifted in her absence, one arm outstretched across her side of the bed like you were searching for her.

Melissa slips under the covers, careful not to jostle you. For a long moment, she just watches the rise and fall of your breathing and thinks.

She should go to sleep in the guest room next door, giving you comfort and privacy. The plastic-covered sofa isn’t a reliable option after all, she might wake up with a terrible neck pain. Dealing with her grade partner Janine Teagues while irritated from a bad night’s sleep is a nightmare.

Staying here in her own bed isn’t a bad idea, right? Hell, you’re the daughter of the neighbor who harbors a deep hatred for her. What else could possibly be a terrible idea?

Her fingers hover just above your skin, not quite touching. The pad of her index finger traces the invisible line of your brow first. Following the arch like she’s memorizing every curve. Then, feather-light, she brushes over the bridge of your nose, smiling when you scrunch it slightly in your sleep.

“A brat even when you’re out cold,” she teases.

Next, it’s over your cheekbone, following the curve down to the corner of your mouth. There’s a tiny scar there, barely noticeable unless you look closely, from when you fell off your bike at eight years old. She knows the story. Knows how your mom freaked out, how your grandma pressed a linen napkin to your face and groaned about “too much energy.”

The redheaded second grade teacher knows too much. That’s the problem.

When her fingers go lower, sliding along your jaw you smile faintly, your breath warm against her wrist, and she freezes but you don’t wake. You just turn your face slightly into her touch.

“Sap,” your girlfriend quips.

A sound creaks, a sharp pop from the hallway. Her head snaps up, her body going rigid. For one breath-stealing second, she imagines the door swinging open. Imagines your mother showing up through the darkness. I knew it. I knew you were fucking my daughter, you pervert! Get away from her right now! Or you’ll regret it!

But nothing moves. It’s just the house. Just Melissa’s paranoia.

When she looks down again, you’ve curled toward her, one hand weakly clutching the fabric of her nightshirt. The scene completely unravels her sarcastic redhead with a heart of stone persona.

She lets out a slow breath through her nose and finally, finally lets herself sink into the mattress beside you. She fits herself against your side, her head resting in the hollow between your shoulder and chest. Your heartbeat is strong beneath her ear. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump, a rhythm she could set her watch to.

One of your arms drapes around her waist, pulling her closer even in sleep. Melissa closes her olive eyes and allows herself to believe, just for tonight, that this isn’t borrowed time. That she doesn’t have to tiptoe around her own home. That your mother won’t invade her property, look at her with that thinly veiled disgust while questioning the love the second-grade teacher feels for you.

That was what Sundays meant.

First came Mass, a non-negotiable Schemmenti ritual and then, right after, a different kind of religion. Philadelphia Eagles football. It was sacred. Immutable. If there was a wedding or a funeral, you planned around the game. Rain, snow, heartbreak, power outages — nothing interrupted the flow of church and then football. The noisy family showed up in their jerseys like they were suiting up for battle, and she had never questioned it.

Because it wasn’t just a game. Not to her.

The Eagles were the one constant in a world that spun on chaos. When her parents fought. When her siblings were assholes with her. When uncle Archie talked about her weight gain. When her Nonna got sick. When Melissa, at twenty-four, got her heart broken by some cocky bartender who moved to L.A. and stopped returning her calls, when at thirty-nine, Joe cheated on her for the first time and just years later she was ready to sign the divorce papers — the Eagles stayed. Through losses and wins, through the highs of their Super Bowl run and the lows of a season riddled with injuries and disappointment, that team was her anchor. When everything else went sideways, she had those crisp fall Sundays. She had the cold beer in her hand, her name stitched on the back of a well-worn jersey, the sound of the crowd roaring on the television, and the pounding in her chest that told her hope wasn’t dead yet.

She didn’t just watch the games — she felt them.

Every touchdown was a shot of adrenaline that had her on her feet, shouting like she was on the field herself. When the refs blew a call, she’d erupt with muttered strings of colorful language thick with Philly accent and Italian roots. And when they lost — and they had lost, plenty — it wasn’t just disappointment. It was grief. It was mourning. She’d carry it around for days like a bad hangover, stewing in the injustice of it all.

Her whole life was mapped by the team.

Her papa lifting her up after a huge playoff win, spinning her in circles while she screamed with joy. Her sister Kristen Marie once painting her entire face green for a parade down Broad Street after the Eagles clinched the division, the pictures still framed on her mantle. Even Jacob, her ex-roommate and platonic soulmate, who knew jack shit about football. She could still remember the night he flopped beside her on the couch with a bowl of chips and said. “Explain it to me like I’m five years old,” just to distract her after a nasty breakup with that last guy who was easy forgettable. She’d explained first downs and holding penalties between shots of whiskey, and by the end of the game, he was pretending to be outraged at a bad snap just to make her laugh.

Months later even when Jacob Hill was able to move out to an adorable and dreamy apartment complex with his new long term boyfriend Elijah, the olive-eyed woman kept inviting him around to explain all the game and team lore for him.

Beacuse it wasn’t just football. It was family. It was tradition. It was stitched into her DNA.

So when it was game day, a big game, you didn’t interrupt Melissa Ann Schemmenti. You didn’t call her. You didn’t text. You didn’t try to schedule dinner or start a fight or invite her out. You especially didn’t try to seduce her out of it.

Unfortunately for her and, frankly, for the fate of the Eagles that Sunday afternoon you, her sweet and provocative girlfriend, hadn’t gotten the memo that clearly stated: during the game, the priority is football. Period.

You were the kind of woman who turned distraction into an art form. A dazzling threat, made of curves, dangerous intentions, and an annoyingly irresistible charm. And there you were, sitting on her lap like it was your rightful throne — wearing nothing but one of those oversized shirts.

The Eagles jersey you wore was one of Schemmenti’s oldest and most cherished. The fabric, already a little worn with time, carried that unmistakable scent of fabric softener mixed with the woody perfume she always wore. The knit, frayed at the shoulders and collar, hung loosely on your body, swallowing your curves with a careless ease that only highlighted what it left exposed.

It was a classic dark green, with white and silver accents, the number on the back, partially hidden by your bare back, belonged to a player she always cursed out, yet stubbornly refused to stop loving.

“Mi amore. Whatever you’re thinkin’ right now? Don’t.” she warned, without taking her green eyes off the screen, moving just lazily enough for you to see her white boxers. It was the kind of piece she only wore at home, comfortable, vulnerable in a way almost no one else ever got to see. The soft cotton hugged her strong thighs naturally. The elastic waistband, with the brand name nearly faded, sat a few inches below her belly button, exposing a sliver of hip whenever she stretched out on the couch.

The fabric was slightly wrinkled, hinting that she’d probably slept in them the night before. It was a simple, practical pair of boxers but on Melissa Schemmenti, with that mature, effortlessly sexy body, it became a kind of quiet provocation. The white stood out against the warm tone of her hydrated soft skin, and the way she moved — or didn’t move — made you want to tear them off with your teeth.

She was, in public, the picture of classic femininity. Low heels, flawless hair, manicured nails in rich crimson shades, and a confidence that could silence an entire room the second she walked in. She had that unbothered sex appeal. Tight dresses, fitted blouses under leather jackets, gold hoops that chimed softly when she moved, everything about her screamed woman.

At home, your girlfriend dropped the polish and slipped into a version of herself that was quieter, more grounded and somehow even more alluring.

Her signature red hair was always thrown up in a messy bun, a few strands falling loose around her temples. Her face was bare, revealing freckles she usually covered up out of stubborn habit. And then there were the clothes.

She loved dressing masculine when she was off the clock not as a statement, but because it just felt right. Oversized t-shirts, worn soft from years of use, still holding the faint scent of laundry detergent and whatever beer she had spilled on them the last time she yelled at the television. Loose white or grey boxer briefs, stolen from some discount rack in a department store, hugging her hips with the easy intimacy of routine. No lace, no effort to be “sexy.” Just comfort.

That duality was part of what drove you wild. The same woman who wore heels and lipstick at work was the one who left the toilet seat up and swore at the screen like she was calling the plays herself.

Feminine by nature. Masculine by comfort.

“But you’ve been watching for hours,” came the sulky protest, breath warm against the redhead’s ear. Your fingers toyed at the neckline of her faded jersey. “C’mon, baby. Just halftime. Ten minutes. I promise I’ll make it worth it…”

Her pulse fluttered somewhere south of righteous.

“Listen, crybaby,” she quips. “I love you, but if you try to pull me away in the middle of a fourth-quarter red-zone drive, I will put you on the ‘do not disturb’ list next season.”

“Red...”

“No, be a good girl and wait. Mommy is busy and you wouldn’t dare interrupt her.”

You pouted.

Not a half-hearted, childish pout. No! this was a masterpiece of melodrama, crafted with intention. Your eyes narrowed, bottom lip pushed out just enough to make a statement, arms crossed tightly under the loose jersey hanging off your frame. It was way too big on you, practically a dress, brushing halfway down your thighs. But it did nothing to hide the way your entire posture screamed for attention.

Melissa didn’t budge.

She sat in the middle of the worn leather couch, leaning forward with the focus of a general mid-battle. The Eagles were in the red zone. Ten yards out. Third and goal. The game was on the line. Her breath came in shallow, sharp bursts, one hand wrapped around the neck of her beer bottle, the other clenched into a fist on her knee like she could will the quarterback into making the right damn play.

You couldn’t understand this kind of tension. It was a game. Just a stupid game. But for Melissa Schemmenti, it was religion.

And then it happened.

The ball was snapped. The defense flinched. A clean pass, fast and ruthless, cutting through the field like a bullet.

Touchdown.

She erupted like a volcano. She leapt off the couch as if jolted by electricity, arms shooting into a victorious V, her eyes bright with feral joy. Beer sloshed out of the bottle, splattering onto the old rug, the same one she refused to clean with anything but baking soda and vinegar but she didn’t even notice.

“GO, BIRDS! TAKE THAT, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKER!”

Her raspy voice boomed through the living room, loud enough to rattle the windowpanes.

You groaned. Not a subtle sound, but a deep, dramatic moan, as if your very soul had been personally betrayed. You let your body collapse against the back of the couch in despair.

“You’ve got to be kidding me, Mels,” you whined, glaring at her profile like it had offended you. “This is ridiculous. We should be making out or cuddling or doing anything other than watching a bunch of guys fight over balls. Balls.”

She didn’t look at you. Didn’t even flinch. One hand lifted lazily in your direction like a traffic cop waving someone along.

“We’re down by three. Fourth quarter. Two minutes left. Do I look like I’m joking?”

You groaned again. Louder. And muttered, just under your breath but loud enough that she’d catch it. “You sound like an old lady who needs to get laid.”

Her jaw ticked. Just once. But those forest eyes still glued to the screen flashed with danger. Still, her response came out calm. Too calm.

“I need the Birds to convert this third down. Then we can talk about me getting laid.”

You let out a long, aggrieved sigh. And shifted in her lap.

Once. Then again. A little roll of your hips, subtle but deliberate. The warmth of your body pressing into her thighs, the curve of you brushing against her jeans.

The redhead didn’t even blink.

“Sweetheart,” she spoke, “if you don’t stop wiggling around, you’re gonna make me spill my beer.”

That earned another pout. A new one. Smaller, sulkier. But when she didn’t so much as glance at your legs or the heat in your eyes, you gave up the game — for now — and stood up with exaggerated indignation.

“I am not sitting here, ignored and sober,” you huffed, backing toward the hallway, the jersey slipping up just enough to reveal your favorite pair of panties. The black lacy ones Melissa definitely had a thing for. You were all long legs and frustration. “You want another beer?”

Your girlfriend, still laser-focused on the screen, raised her bottle without looking. “Yeah, thanks, babe. Grab one for me while you’re back there.”

There was a pause. The tiniest glimmer of mischief sparked behind your eyes. Then, wordlessly, you pivoted and disappeared not into the precious kitchen of hers, but down the hallway to the bedroom.

Melissa’s brow furrowed a little. “Hon. The fridge is that way, y’know.”

No answer.

Another play on the screen. The crowd roared from the speakers. The Eagles pushed forward. She sat on the edge of the couch, vibrating with tension but something tugged at her. A whisper of doubt. She glanced toward the stairs, lips tightening.

“Babe?” the second grade teacher called out. “You okay?”

Then, faintly a soft thump. Like fabric hitting the floor. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. A quiet groan left her lips.

“…That better not be what I think it is.”

Melissa tried — she really did — to keep her attention on the screen. Another snap. Another pass. Another completed play. The Eagles were gaining ground.

click. The unmistakable sound of a drawer sliding open.

Her head turned toward the hallway.

“Y/N,” she warned, tone quieter now, like she was negotiating with a bomb. “If you’re doing what I think you’re doing in there…”

Another cheer from the television. She sat up straighter, clutching her beer with both hands now.

“…you’d better bring me that beer first,” she murmured to herself, torn between lust and loyalty. “Jesus Christ.”

Melissa Schemmenti didn’t move. But her grip on the bottle had tightened.

Behind the bedroom door, you paused, barefoot on the cool wood floor, the dim light casting long shadows across your legs. From the living room, the muffled roar of the crowd continued — a distant pulse of adrenaline and tribal fury — but it was that warning, that made you insane.

If you’re doing what I think you’re doing in there..

You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your lips. God, she was so damn stubborn.

Stubborn and beautiful and maddening in that irresistible, grown-woman way that made your skin tighten and your breath hitch in your throat.

You peeled your panties down with calculated slowness, letting the soft fabric brush over your skin as it slipped down your thighs. The air was cool, goosebumps rising along your legs, your core pulsing with the rush of what you were about to do. The cotton pooled at your feet, delicate and quiet. You stepped out of them, toeing them aside, your body now clothed in nothing but her jersey, hanging dangerously low over your hips.

You weren’t going to beg. Not tonight.

If she wanted to act like the game was her girlfriend, fine.

You’d just remind her of exactly what she was missing.

You pulled the hem of the jersey down a bit — not to cover yourself, but to tease — and stepped lightly back into the hallway. The cold ass air kissed your thighs, your pulse thudding just beneath the surface as you moved quietly, purposefully, toward her.

Melissa hadn’t noticed you.

She was locked in. Elbows on her knees, jaw tight, those sharp green eyes glued to the television. The light from the screen washed over her face, casting her in flashes of blue and silver. One arm was slung over the back of the couch, her legs spread comfortably apart in that effortless way that drove you insane. Her beer, half-finished, sat abandoned on the table beside her. She didn’t even reach for it. Every muscle in her body was humming with focus, tuned entirely to the fourth quarter.

And that — that — was your opening.

Without a word, you crossed the room and climbed into her lap like you’d done it a thousand times before. Straddling her thick, jean-clad thigh, you settled your weight down with slowness, your naked flesh meeting the rough texture.

The older woman tensed beneath you, her spine straightening like she’d been shot. Her head turned sharply toward you.

“Babe,” she rasped, the syllables rough from yelling at the screen. “Don’t be a naughty girl.”

But her tone faltered, just barely. Cracked at the edges. Because now she felt it. The unmistakable truth that you were completely naked beneath that shirt.

You leaned in, giving her your best wide-eyed look, teeth catching the corner of your lip. “I didn’t do anything,” you murmured, pretending innocence you didn’t possess.

Her hands, those strong, capable hands that had scolded and held and ruined you before, twitched at her sides. But she fought back.

And then you moved.

Your hips rolled forward, dragging yourself across the muscle of her thigh in one sinuous glide. The friction was good, pressure building right where you needed it. You pressed your forehead to hers, your breath feathering across her lips.

“Fuck, mommy,” you moaned. “This feels so good.”

Melissa groaned, guttural. The kind of sound pulled from the chest, like she was trying to hold onto her last thread of sanity.

She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “I swear to God, baby. Don’t make me choose between you and the Birds right now.”

You leaned in closer, mouth grazing her jaw. “Then don’t.”

Your girlfriend didn’t push you away. So you kept moving.

Slow. Shameless.

The worn fabric of Melissa’s jeans was rough against your soft skin, but it was exactly what you needed. Solid. Textured. Unforgiving. Each lazy grind of your hips dragged slick heat across the ridge of her thigh, and the soft, wet sounds that followed was obscene — too quiet for the game to mask, too intimate not to notice.

Your hands clutched her shoulders, nails grazing the worn fabric of her jersey. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. Melissa Schemmenti, the most infuriating woman on the planet, kept her green eyes locked dead ahead on the television like her soul had money riding on this fourth quarter.

You whimpered her name once more — breathy, high-pitched, wrecked — and still… nothing.

She didn’t look at you.

Didn’t push you off.

Didn’t help.

But she didn’t stop you either.

And that restraint, that maddening stillness beneath you — only made it worse.

The heat pooled low in your belly, coiling, pulsing, threatening to consume you from the inside out. You rolled your hips harder now, grinding yourself down on the hard muscle of her thigh with a soft gasp, chasing relief that stayed just out of reach.

Finally, she moved. Not much.

Just one hand.

It lifted lazily from the armset and slid up your thigh, warm and calloused and super slow. Her fingers stopped at your hip, settling there — not to guide you, not to take control — just to feel you. Just to remind you that she was there. That she knew what you were doing. That she liked it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

She still didn’t look at you. Her posture barely shifted. But her mouth… her mouth dipped to your neck, brushing against the sensitive skin like a spark just waiting to catch. A soft exhale. Then lips — plush and hot and patient — pressed a kiss against your throat, right where your pulse fluttered like a warning.

And then… teeth.

She didn’t bite down. She didn’t mark.

She just grazed you. A promise. A warning. A tease.

“Better not cum before they make this field goal,” your girlfriend murmured and it felt like gravel sliding along your spine.

You whimpered — not just from the pressure, or the build-up, or the aching tension that had your thighs trembling — but from the audacity. Melissa Schemmenti was letting you ride her thigh like some desperate, ruined dog in heat, but hadn’t spared you a single full glance.

She was holding you. Kissing you. Letting you use her body.

And still watching the damn game.

“Mels!” you gasped, your voice thin and cracking, your forehead falling to her shoulder as your rhythm faltered for a second. “Shit. just—fuck, just do something.”

“I am,” she said. “I’m watchin’ the Birds win this goddamn game.”

Moans tumbled out of you without warning. You weren’t playing coy anymore. You couldn’t. And that damn woman… she just sat there.

Unmoved.

Unbothered.

“Jesus,” the older redhead muttered finally, dragging her lips from your neck to your collarbone, pressing a kiss to the soft curve there. “You’re makin’ more noise than the damn commentators.”

Your response was half-moan, a half-whine.

And Melissa? Didn’t look at you.

Didn’t help.

Didn’t stop.

The rhythm had turned desperate, no longer about teasing or playing. It was need, pure and simple, pulsing hot between your legs and climbing toward something unbearable.

Now, your clit throbbed, painfully sensitive, each pass of your damp pussy dragging over in a delicious, tormenting friction. The edge was there, right there, only to dart away again like smoke between your fingers.

You couldn’t take it. You couldn’t.

Your hand slipped down without thought, fingers diving between your thighs — slick and shaking — finding that swollen, aching bud. And when you touched yourself, really touched yourself, your entire body jolted.

“FUCK,” you screamed. Loud. “Please. I will be good. I will be so fuckin’ good for you, Mommy.”

Your hips bucked against Melissa’s leg, chasing the pressure. Your digits moved in tight, fast circles over your clit, messily coordinated with each thrust of your hips. You were panting now with your mouth parted. Moaning into the warm, familiar curve of her neck.

“Mommy...”

The one hand that had been resting lazily on your thigh, tightened. Her palm wrapped around your hip bone with practiced ease, steady and anchoring, keeping you locked in place. But her eyes never left the television. She sat there, beer resting against her knee, her expression calm, unreadable.

Like you weren’t losing your mind right there in her lap.

Like you weren’t soaking through her jeans.

Like you weren’t whimpering her name with every breath.

“You alright there, doll?” she asked casually — so casual — like she was asking if you needed anything from the store. “Soundin’ a little outta breath.”

“You evil bitch...”

Ignoring the fact that you just cursed her, calling her a bitch. Melissa made a soft humming sound. Thoughtful. Unhurried. Then leaned in and kissed your neck, like nothing in the world was more important than the skin just below your jaw.

“Field goal’s up,” she grinned, lips brushing your pulse point. “Fifty-five yards. No timeouts.”

Your back arched. Your thighs clenched around her. Your hand was working faster now — tight little circles that had your whole body shaking.

“Lissa—please—I’m so close.”

She turned her head, just slightly and let her mouth ghost over the shell of your ear. Her breath was hot when she spoke.

“Hold it for Mama, sweetheart.”

Your eyes rolled in pleasure.

The fucking climax was right there, shaking through your core, begging to break loose. You pressed your face into the crook of her neck, eyes squeezed shut, teeth catching your lower lip to stop yourself from screaming.

“I can’t,” you cried desperaely.

“You will,” it wasn’t a suggestion. It was a sentence. “The kick’s up.”

“F-fine.”

Hours later, the Philadelphia Eagles game ended with a roar. the stadium on television erupting, the commentator losing his mind, something about a miracle kick and playoff chances. Melissa barely reacted. Just a small grunt, a satisfied smirk tugging at one corner of her mouth as she leaned back against the couch.

You, on the other hand, were wrecked.

Still straddling her lap, still trembling, still soaked through and aching — your forehead pressed to her neck, your hand frozen between your legs, your whole body suspended in agonizing anticipation. Your cunt squeezed around nothing, and your legs were so shaky you weren’t sure they’d hold if you tried to stand.

The older woman reached forward lazily and clicked the remote. The screen went black.

Silence fell over the room. She looked at you.

Her green eyes were hooded, darker now. Her jaw clenched. There was a heat simmering there, something dangerous. And it made your stomach drop in the most delicious way.

She dragged her gaze down your body, the oversized jersey hanging off one shoulder, the sweat on your skin, the flushed pink of your cheeks, your thighs splayed wide across her lap, trembling. Her eyes landed on her own jeans, full of your wetness and she smiled.

“Good girl. Still holding it?”

You whimpered. “Y-yeah…”

“Let your Mommy take care of it now, baby.”

Without another word her hand slipped down, fingers sliding between your legs, through the slick heat she’d spent the last fifteen minutes building up. You gasped, nearly choking on it, your hips jerking forward.

She was soaked. You were soaked.

Her middle finger found your clit, circling it once.

“Babe—” you begged. “Don’t—don’t tease—don’t—”

But Melissa was already slipping lower.

One thick finger pressed against your tight entrance, then slid in with a smooth, practiced motion that made your back arch and your mouth drop open in a silent scream.

Then two.

Her fingers curled just right, dragging against that spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyes.

She started fucking you slow at first, deep and measured, her palm grinding against your clit with every thrust. You were melting, unraveling in her lap, clawing at her shoulders, sobbing her name into her throat.

And Melissa, strong, steady Melissa Schemmenti stayed in position, her legs still planted, her back pressed into the couch like nothing had changed.

Except now her mouth was on your neck again. Now her fingers were deep inside you, relentless and sure, each movement making you shake harder in her lap.

“That’s it, princess. Take it. You needed this, huh?”

“I tried to be good,” you sobbed. “I tried—”

“I know you did, honey.” Her thumb brushed your clit, and you could swear that your soul left your body. “You did so good for me.”

Without warning, she speed up. Her fingers thrusting harder now, deeper, wet sounds echoing in the quiet room, obscene and perfect.

“Come for me,” she licked your ear. “Now.”

And you did.

Your body seized in her arms, a cry torn from your throat, your whole world narrowing to the explosion behind your eyes. You came hard — soaking her hand, clutching her shoulders, your hips jerking erratically as she worked you through it.

“Jesus H. Christ,” you whispered, tears in your eyes from the intensity.

You hadn’t even recovered from the last orgasm when you rocked your hips again, grinding down onto Melissa’s hand.

She was still deep inside you. Thick fingers slick and buried to the knuckle, stretching you open. Holding you there.

“Mels..”

She didn’t move a muscle. Just watched you. Her focus on the way your hips rolled, her jaw tense, her breath catching just slightly.

And when you did it again, moaning softly this time, thighs shaking her lips parted with a dark, dangerous sigh.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

She adjusted the angle of her fingers inside you, just enough to make your breath catch in your throat and then her voice dropped.

“You really don’t know how to quit, do you?”

Her free hand gripped your thigh, firm and possessive, holding you in place as you started bouncing in earnest, fucking yourself on her fingers like you needed it.

Melissa bit down on her lip. Her nostrils flared.

“I swear,” your girlfriend growled, “next time, I’m putting my cock on, and you’re gonna ride it until you forget your own fuckin’ name.”

Your breath caught. She kept talking.

“Gonna bend you over the arm of that couch… pull your panties to the side… and push in slow, inch by inch, while you beg me to go faster.”

Your hands were clutching her shirt.

“Gonna hold you down by the throat,” she chuckled darkly, “while I pound into that pretty little pussy from behind and make you scream into the cushions while you take it like the desperate whore you are.”

“Yes, Mommy. Do it, I beg you.”

She grabbed your hips with both hands now, her fingers still buried inside you, and thrust up — once, deep and sharp.

You cried out.

“You want that cock so bad, huh?” she said, smirking darkly. “Want to sit on it like this — bounce those hips until you’re dripping all over me?”

You were so close again it hurt.

“I’ll make you watch yourself in the mirror,” the older woman promised. “Make you see the way you take it. The way I wreck you.”

That was it.

You came again with a full-body shudder — clenching around her fingers, mouth open in a silent scream as wave after wave crashed through you. You collapsed against her chest, gasping, dizzy, clinging to her shirt like a lifeline.

Melissa didn’t pull out right away.

She held you, fingers deep and still, rubbing gentle circles into your back with her other hand while your body spasmed and twitched in her arms.

“There you go. That’s it, baby. I got you.”

You whimpered softly, tears pricking at your eyes. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. She kissed your temple, then your cheek, slow and sweet — the sharp edge of dominance giving way to something so gentle, it made your chest ache.

After a moment, she finally, carefully, slid her fingers out, easing the stretch. You winced, and she cupped your thighs, soothing.

“Shh, I know. You’re okay. You did so good for me.”

You didn’t answer — too fucked-out to form words — but you melted into her chest with a tiny, breathless sigh. The redheaded woman held you close, wrapping one arm around your waist and burying her face in your hair.

A minute passed. Then two.

Your body was limp and sticky, your breathing uneven. She could feel your heartbeat against her.

Then, wordless and strong, Melissa stood and carried you. One arm under your thighs, the other across your back. She walked you up the stairs like it was nothing, her jaw set in that quiet, focused way she always got when she was taking care of you.

In the bedroom, your girlfriend laid you down gently on the mattress and disappeared for a moment. Returning with a warm washcloth, a soft towel, and one of your favorite oversized shirts.

The redhead cleaned between your legs with steady hands — careful, tender, not rushing a thing — her eyes flicking up every few seconds to make sure you were okay.

“You still with me, honey?” she asked gently.

You nodded, barely able to speak, and she kissed your knee before slipping the clean shirt over your head.

Then she stripped down to just her boxers — no fanfare, no performance and crawled into bed behind you, pulling you close into her chest.

Her hands never stopped moving. One rubbed your back in slow, soothing circles. The other tangled in your hair, her fingers carding through it gently.

“Proud of you,” she whispered into your skin. “You were perfect.”

You sniffled, eyes fluttering shut and pressed your face into the crook of her neck.

“Love you,” you whispered, barely audible.

Melissa smiled.“I know,” she murmured, brushing her lips across your temple. “I love you too.”

“Alright, bubba,” she glances toward the camera, then down at the mug, then back again. “Not you—well, not just you. I mean the baby. Though I guess this can be for you too, if you ever watch this.”

There’s a beat. Her eyes soften as she shifts in her seat, settling in more fully. Something about this—the act of talking into a camera in an empty living room—tugs at her memory.

“Y’know, I did this once before. Back when they had us record those interviews at Abbott. Felt weird then, too. They still record us but not all the time like before.”

She chuckles under her breath.

“But I figured—if I’m gonna keep makin’ these little videos, might as well say the date, huh? October second.”

The second grade teacher takes a sip of her coffee, savoring it, then glances up toward the ceiling with a faint smile.

“She’s still sleepin’ upstairs. Didn’t get much rest last night—poor thing’s been tossin’ and turnin’ like crazy. I think the baby’s learnin’ how to kickbox in there. Or tryin’ to break out early.”

A pause. Her face softens again, fondness bleeding into every line.

“But around four in the morning, she just... curled up next to me. Turned into this warm little furnace and passed right out. Didn’t move after that.”

She chuckles again, quieter this time.

“I didn’t mind. Never do. I like takin’ care of my girl. Always have.”

There’s something about the way she says it—quiet, reverent, a little stunned still. Like she can’t believe how lucky she is. Like she’s still figuring out how to say these things out loud.

“Never thought I’d be the kind of person who’d... sit in a living room talkin’ to a camera about baby kicks and weird cravings. Or rubbin’ somebody’s back while they’re cryin’ over a dog food commercial. Or—God help me—Googlin’ ‘why does my pregnant wife want pickles and watermelon at the same time?’”

Melissa laughs, one hand brushing her hair back as she shakes her head.

“But here we are.”

Her voice goes quiet. She swallows, her throat working around the weight of emotion that’s suddenly snuck up on her.

“And I wouldn’t trade it. Not for anything.”

She sets the mug down on the table beside her with a soft clink. Then she leans forward, resting her chin in her hand, elbow on her knee. The camera catches the shine in her eyes as she looks right into it, like she’s looking through time, right at the two people she loves most.

“Y/N told me she was pregnant a few weeks ago. Right here. In this room.”

Her voice grows quieter still. Measured. Like she’s scared to say too much, scared it might slip through her fingers if she does.

“I thought maybe I’d forget how it felt, y’know? The moment. But... nah. It hit me like a damn freight train. In a good way. Like suddenly, my whole world just tilted into place. Like—‘oh. This is where I’m meant to be.’”

She blinks slowly. Her voice doesn’t shake, but her heart’s right there in it.

“And now we’re here. And she’s got this perfect little belly that I swear I could just watch for hours. And she smiles at me like I hung the moon. And sometimes I still can’t believe it. That I get to be part of this. That I get tolove her like this.”

Melissa sits back for a moment. Runs her fingers along the rim of the coffee mug, her thumb lingering over the word mama.

“I’m makin’ this for the baby. For when they’re here. So they’ll know—right from the start—how loved they are. How lucky they are to have her as a mother. How beautiful she is. Strong as hell, too. Even with swollen ankles and a back that hurts every ten minutes, and the worst mood swings I’ve ever seen in my life...”

She grins.

“Still the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

She takes a breath. A long one. Her voice is hushed when she speaks again.

“And if she ever forgets—if she ever gets tired or scared, or thinks for even a second she’s not doin’ enough... I want her to have this. I want her to see how I looked at her. How I see her.”

Her gaze softens again. She leans toward the camera, eyes never leaving the lens.

“I got you, babygirl.”

A whisper.

“I’m right here. Always.”

She reaches out and touches the camera, fingers brushing over it like she’s touching the future.

The screen flickers.

Then fades to black..

October 11th. 7:52 p.m.

The screen clicks on. This time, it’s not Melissa’s face that appears first—it’s the soft, amber glow of the living room lamp, the quiet warmth of a fall evening settling into the house. There’s a faint jazz record playing some Beatles song in the background, the gentle clink of cutlery against ceramic, and then, slowly, her voice comes in—low and fond, just behind the camera.

“Alright... look at her.”

The camera pans gently to the right, revealing you curled up on the couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket. You are wearing one of Melissa’s oversized t-shirts, your hair loose and a little messy from the day. A small plate of cheese and crackers rests on your belly, which has grown noticeably rounder since the last days. You are carefully balancing the plate like it’s a precious artifact, fingers daintily picking up a square of cheddar and popping it into your mouth.

Melissa laughs quietly off-screen, zooming in just a little.

“You’d think she was at a five-star restaurant, the way she’s savorin’ every bite.”

Another laugh, softer this time.

“She made me get outta bed for this. Said she needed the fancy crackers. Not the round ones, the square ones. ‘The ones with the little seeds,’ she said.”

You pause mid-bite and glances toward the camera, a suspicious little squint in your eyes.

“You’re filming me? Seriously?!”

Melissa grins, her voice teasing but sweet.“Mmhm. Just a moment in history, sweetheart. You and your late-night cheese emergency.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Instead, you pick up another cracker, this time topping it with a slice of gouda and a cornichon from the side dish your wife must’ve prepared just to keep you happy.

“She’s got very specific taste these days,” Melissa continues, the camera now focused on your contented expression as you chews thoughtfully, nodding to yourself like a sommelier.

The baby wanted cheese,” you mumble with your mouth full.

Melissa’s laugh is all love. “Yeah, yeah. The baby. You sure it’s not just you wantin’ cheese every ten minutes?”

You narrow your eyes but grin, licking a bit of brie off your thumb. “Don’t sass a hungry pregnant lady, Schemmenti.”

Melissa zooms in for a close-up of your face, feeling suddenly soft again. “God, look at her. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Every version of her. But this one—this sleepy, snacky, bossy little queen of the couch—she’s somethin’ else.”

You blink at her, flustered, cheeks flushed.

“Are you getting sentimental again?”

“Every damn day.”

She doesn’t stop recording right away. Instead, she lets the moment linger—you popping another cracker in your mouth, shifting slightly to make room for the baby bump, then settling again with a sigh of contentment.

“Alright, bubba,” she murmurs, the camera now back on the plate of snacks balanced carefully on your belly. “One day, you’re gonna see this and know—this is what love looks like. Cheese and crackers at eight o’clock on a Wednesday, and your mama takin’ up the whole couch like she owns it. Which she does. Always has.”

October 15th. 2:14 p.m.

The camera reveals Melissa sitting at the kitchen table, sunlight streaming in through the window behind her. Her red hair is pulled back into a loose braid, a few strands escaping around her face. She’s in a soft flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking cozy and domestic. In front of her sits a small box wrapped in floral paper, along with a much smaller package—barely big enough to hold a bar of soap—topped with an uneven bow.

On the table next to the gifts sits Sweet Cheeks, the guinea pig, nestled in a little fleece-lined basket his momma clearly rigged out of a shoebox and an old baby blanket. He is blinking lazily, occasionally sniffing at the edge of the box, fluffy cheeks twitching.

Melissa adjusts the camera, leans into the frame, and grins. “Alright, baby—this one’s for you. And for the baby, I guess. And also for Sweet Cheeks, apparently, ‘cause Nonna went a little gift-happy.”

She picks up the smaller package first, squints at the tag.

“This one says—” she flips it over with a fond eye-roll. “‘To my grandpig, from Nonna Teresa.’”

Melissa snorts but her smile is fond and unmistakably tender.

“She’s lost it. Completely.”

The older woman carefully tears open the paper, revealing a tiny pink fleece hat—clearly handmade, with two ear holes cut out. Sweet Cheeks, oblivious to his fate, is busy nibbling the corner of a carrot.

Your wife holds up the hat to the camera.

“She knitted for the guinea pig. You’re seein’ this, right?”

She glances down at Sweet Cheeks.

“Alright, come on, fuzzball. Let’s try it on.”

There’s a bit of gentle maneuvering, a few squeaks of protest, and then—Sweet Cheeks, now adorned with a slightly crooked pink hat, blinking up at the camera like royalty.

Melissa can’t stop laughing.

“Look at him! Little diva. He knows he’s cute.”

The camera zooms in slightly, capturing the moment.

“Ma’s gonna lose it when she sees this video. She’s gonna think this pig is gonna be ring bearer or somethin’.”

Melissa opens the second, larger package more carefully. Inside, she finds a stack of folded baby onesies—soft yellow and pale green, each one with a different little embroidered patch. A smiling tomato. A clove of garlic. A meatball.

She holds one up and reads the tiny stitching on the front: Little Sicilian.

Her breath catches for just a second—barely noticeable—but her smile never fades. She brushes her fingers over the fabric like it’s made of glass.

“Mamma made these. She still cares enough to make these.”

Sweet Cheeks squeaks, startling Melissa slightly, and she reaches over to scratch him gently between the ears.

“Even if she thought one of ‘em was for you,” she murmurs with a watery chuckle. “It still counts.”

The redheaded woman lifts one of the onesies toward the camera again, her tone softer now.

“You’re gonna be wrapped in love, kiddo. From me, from your mommy, from your Nonna... hell, even from the guinea pig. Look at him—he’s already protective.”

Sweet Cheeks shifts slightly in his basket, flopping onto his side, hat still on.

“Okay, maybe not that protective. But he’s tryin’.”

Melissa reaches out, turns the camera a little so it frames her and Sweet Cheeks side by side. She holds the tiniest onesie up between them, her eyes warm and wet.

“Thanks, Ma,” she says quietly. “You did good.”

She leans in, kisses the top of Sweet Cheeks’ head, and gently taps the camera.

October 20th. 5:11 p.m.

On the Teachers’ Lounge, the usual hum of end-of-day chaos has settled into quiet. The fluorescent lights are dimmed, the coffee pot is mostly empty, and the hallway chatter has faded. In the lounge, only two people remain: Melissa Schemmenti and Jacob Hill.

Jacob sits on the worn couch, a half-finished grading stack next to him, sweater sleeves rolled up, curls slightly askew. He looks up as his former roommate walks in holding a small white gift bag, her expression unreadable but softer than usual.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just sets the bag down next to him and crosses her arms, leaning on the doorframe.

“This for me?” he asks with a smile, looking pleasantly confused.

Melissa gives a small shrug, but there’s a glint of something in her eyes. “Yeah. Thought you oughta have it.”

He pulls the bag onto his lap and peeks inside. He reaches in and pulls out a mug first—handmade ceramic, a little lopsided, clearly painted by a kid. Across the front, in chunky black letters:

Best Godfather Ever. :)

His hands freeze. He blinks. Then looks up at her, confusion beginning to dissolve into realization.

“Wait... wait, what is this?” his voice already shakes. “Mel—what is this?”

She walks over, sits beside him. Quiet, patient. Hands folded, eyes full.

“It means what you think it means, hon. We want you to be the godfather of our baby.”

Jacob stares at the mug in his hands like it might vanish if he blinks too fast. His mouth opens, then closes. When he speaks again, his voice is breaking.

“Are you—are you serious?” his throat tightens.“Me?”

Melissa nods, firm and steady.

“You, Jacob. Of course it’s you.”

He puts the mug down carefully, then buries his face in his hands. Shoulders shaking. It’s not loud—he’s not sobbing—but it’s the kind of cry that’s been building for years. One that comes from being seen. From being chosen.

Melissa doesn’t move right away. She just watches, lets him feel it. Then, quietly, she reaches over and places a hand on his back. Warm. Anchoring.

“You’ve been family since day one. Even when you annoyed the hell outta me. Which, let’s be honest, was most days.”

Jacob lets out a watery laugh, lifting his head just enough for her to see his red, blotchy face. He wipes at his cheeks with the sleeve of his cardigan.

“I just—I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t gotta say anything,” her voice softens further. “I trust you. And she does too. That kid’s gonna grow up knowin’ what kindness looks like ‘cause of you.”

The social studies teacher swallows hard, still wiping his tears.

“I’m gonna be the best godfather, Mel. Like, I’ll research it. I’ll make spreadsheets. I’ll learn how to knit. I’ll—”

Melissa snorts, her eyes shining

“You don’t gotta learn how to knit, sweetheart. Just keep bein’ you. That’s more than enough. For me. For us.”

Jacob nods, lip trembling again as he picks the mug back up and cradles it like it’s sacred.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I love you.”

Melissa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke to deflect. She just looks him in the eye, all warmth and steel.

“I love you too, honey.”

October 22nd. 3:30 p.m.

The camera clicks on, clearly hidden somewhere discreet—probably set up by Jacob, who’s suspiciously lingering near the door, doing a terrible job pretending he’s not part of something. Melissa enters, calm as ever, holding a neatly wrapped rectangular box with a bow and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Barb sits behind her desk, grading a stack of vocabulary quizzes. She looks up the moment her work wife enters and raises an eyebrow.

“If this is another one of your Italian meatball baby craving deliveries for Y/N, Melissa, I’m afraid I cannot accept bribes.”

Melissa smirks, already halfway across the room.

“Relax, hun. I brought you a gift, not a bribe.”

“Same thing when it’s from you.”

Jacob snorts from the doorway. Melissa shoots him a glare before gently placing the box on the desk.

The kindergarten teacher side-eyes it, suspicious.

“What is this? It’s not another candle that smells like a sandwich, is it?”

Melissa groans. “Nope. Go ahead. Open it.”

Barbara sighs, carefully removes her reading glasses and lifts the lid. Inside is a crisp, embroidered handkerchief with delicate floral stitching in the corner… and beneath it, a white bib.

She picks it up. It reads:

If lost, please return me to my godmother, Barbara Howard.

“...Excuse me?”

Melissa leans her hip against the desk, arms folded, smug as ever.

“You heard me. You’re lookin’ at the official godmother of this kid.”

The brunette blinks. Once. Twice. Then sets the bib down like it might explode.

“Melissa Ann Catarina Schemmenti. Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Jacob bursts out laughing from the door. “She said your full government name, oh my god—”

Barb glares at him.

Melissa just grins and then, responds. “You’re the most level-headed, morally sound woman I know. If anything ever happened to us—and I don’t say that lightly—I’d want someone who’d raise our kid with Jesus, good books, and absolutely no nonsense. So yeah. You’re it.”

She looks genuinely touched for a full 0.3 seconds before her composure slams back into place. “I am honored. Deeply. But let me be perfectly clear—I will not be changing diapers. I did that in the ‘80s and recently with my glamchild. I am done.”

Your wife holds up her hands.

“No diapers. Just wisdom. Discipline. And maybe the occasional terrifying stare that makes them sit up straight from across the room.”

The kindergarten teacher sniffs. “Well… I do have a reputation to uphold.” A pause. Then, softer.“Thank you. Truly. It means more than I can say.”

Melissa reaches over, giving her hand a rare, gentle squeeze.

Jacob claps loudly. “Okay, say cheese for the camera!

“Jacob Anthony Hill, is there a camera in my classroom?” Barb whips.

“NOPE!” he yelps, diving out of the room.

Barbara narrows her eyes toward the suspicious potted plant in the corner. “If this ends up on TokTik, so help me, I will call the Lord and the district.”

October 23rd. 4:48 p.m.

The afternoon sun casts shadows across the cracked parking lot. Most of the teachers have gone home, but Melissa stands by her car, arms crossed and eyes squinting into the light. She’s clearly trying to act casual. It’s not working.

Janine walks out of the building with Gregory close behind, both mid-conversation.

“...and that’s why glue sticks and humidity are natural enemies,” the second grade teacher’s saying.

Her boyfriend just nods, clearly having stopped listening seven minutes ago.

Behind them, Ava struts out in sunglasses and heels she did not wear all day, Mr. Johnson trailing with a suspiciously large duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“You got five minutes, Schemmenti,” the principal says. “I got a facial at six and Mr. J needs to dispose of something that definitely isn’t haunted.”

“It was never proven haunted,” the janitor mutters.

Melissa raises a hand.

“Okay, alright, listen up. I called you over ‘cause I got somethin’ to tell you. Something important.”

Everyone tenses.

Janine’s eyes go wide. “Is it the mob?” she blurts.

Gregory sighs. “Baby, again—no one is in the mob.”

“Not no one,” Ava mutters, eyeing her coworker.

The green eyed woman pinches the bridge of her nose. “No, it’s not the damn mob. Will you shut up and let me talk?” she hesitates for half a second. Then her entire face softens. “She’s pregnant.”

The group goes still. Janine gasps, covering her mouth. “YOU’RE PREGNANT?!”

Melissa stares at her. “No, not me—Y/N. She’s pregnant.”

“Ohhhhh,” her grade partner exhales, and then immediately claps her hands over her mouth again. “Oh my god!” she rushes over and hugs the redhead, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I’m gonna cry. I am crying.”

Gregory blinks, then smiles. It’s subtle, but proud.“Congratulations. That’s... wow. That’s amazing.”

“You gonna be a good mom?” Mr. Johnson asks seriously.

Melissa raises an eyebrow. “I’m gonna be the best damn one this school’s ever seen.”

“Then I’ll make a tiny shovel.”

Ava slowly lowers her sunglasses, staring at your wife like she’s analyzing her soul. “So let me get this straight... you’ve been hiding a whole baby this whole time?”

“We weren’t hiding the baby. We were just... enjoying it being ours for a little while.”

“I knew something was going on,” the taller woman says dramatically, pacing. “You’ve been all glowy and less mean. And you didn’t slap me when I called you Soft Mommy Mafia the other day.”

“I should’ve,” Melissa mutters.

“You’re gonna name the baby Ava, right?”

“Not a chance.”

Janine’s already spiraling in a circle. “Wait, wait—can I help with the baby shower? I know this woman who makes custom diaper cakes shaped like dinosaurs and also Jesus. Or both?”

Gregory gently pulls her back by the backpack strap. “Maybe let them process for a second.”

Melissa leans back on her car, arms crossed but smiling, eyes shining. “Just wanted you guys to know. You’re part of this. Whether you like it or not.”

Mr. Johnson nods seriously. “I’ll start making the crib. Outta reclaimed wood from the fallout shelter.”

Janine sniffles. “It’s gonna be the most emotionally intelligent baby in the world.”

Ava snaps a selfie with your redheaded wife mid-sentence. “Tagging it: ‘When the mob wife turns MILF.’”

“Coleman—”

“Too late. It’s on the story.”

November 10th. 7:42 p.m.

Melissa is sitting on the couch in a navy hoodie and sweatpants, hair up in a messy clip. Her face is a little flushed, the kind of tired that says I’ve had a long day but I’m happy to be here.

You are next to her. Well—on her, really. Draped over her side, face half-buried in her neck, arms wrapped around her like a sleepy sloth. A blanket covers both of you, and you are making a soft, satisfied humming sound every time she shifts.

Melissa glances at the camera and smirks.

“It’s November tenth. I wasn’t gonna film anything today, but... this one won’t let me breathe without bein’ attached like a koala,” she nods toward you, then gently nudges your thigh. “Say hi, cling wrap.”

You let out a muffled, sleepy “hi” without lifting your head.

The green eyed woman chuckles, brushing some hair from your face.

“She’s been like this all week. I don’t mind—I like her like this, actually. Kinda nice havin’ a little heater who whines if I get up for water.”

You groan quietly. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, baby. Just talkin’ to the camera for the peanut.”

Your hand slides under Melissa’s hoodie, cold fingers on her side. She yelps and twists.

“Jesus Christ, would you stop tryin’ to ice me to death?”

“Your skin’s warm,” you smile, snuggling closer.

Melissa looks back at the camera with an exaggerated deadpan stare.“This is what I signed up for, apparently. Cold hands, belly kicks at 2 a.m., and emotional blackmail in the form of sleepy cuddles.”

A beat. Then she smiles—soft and deep and completely in love.

“Nah, but seriously... she’s like this now more than ever. Real clingy. I think it’s ‘cause she’s gettin’ close to the third trimester and her back hurts and everything’s heavy.”

She runs a gentle hand down your spine. “But she still smiles at me every time I walk into a room like I’m the damn sun.”

“You are,” you say, muffled again.

Melissa pauses, touched. She glances down at her, then gently kisses the top of her head.

“You’re ridiculous. But... yeah. I’ll take it.”

A silence settles for a moment—only the sound of the televison playing faintly and your breathing.

She leans forward just enough to whisper into the camera, trying not to wake you up. “She’s gonna see this later and deny bein’ this clingy. But I got it on tape now. Forever.”

A proud smirk. “Evidence.” she reaches forward and taps the camera gently. “Love you, bubba. Both of you.”

November 17th. 2:14 p.m. The camera is not on—it’s shaky footage clearly taken by you on your phone, aimed at Melissa sitting in a chair beside the exam table. She’s got her hand over her mouth, eyes wide, frozen in disbelief.

The sonographer calmly points at the monitor. “And that’s baby A… and right there, that’s baby B.”

Melissa doesn’t move for a full two seconds.

“I’m sorry—BABY WHAT?” She shoots to her feet, knocking her chair back. “BABY B?!”

You are snorting behind the camera, nearly dropping the phone. She turns in a slow circle like she’s trying to physically walk away from the news but keeps ending up back at it.

“Twins? TWINS?!”

She grabs the edge of the counter dramatically. “There’s two of them in there? Like—AT THE SAME TIME?”

The sonographer, very used to this reaction, just nods and keeps smiling.

Melissa throws both hands in the air. “Oh my GOD, I’m gonna need more lasagna.”

November 25th. 4:03 p.m.

The screen shows a softly nursery in progress—walls a pale sage green, with scattered paint swatches still taped up on the far side. A wooden crib stands assembled in the corner, and Melissa is on a small step stool, pinning star-shaped string lights along the wall with quiet concentration. She’s in paint-smudged leggings and an old Villanova t-shirt, hair tied up, humming off-key under her breath.

The bedroom is filled with calm music, faint sounds of laughter from the hallway, and the occasional creak of the old floorboards.

Behind her, you walk in holding two tiny onesies—one with cartoon peaches, the other with little bears. You lean in the doorway for a moment, just watching Melissa.

“You missed a spot,” you tease softly.

She glances over her shoulder. “Yeah? Come over here and say that to my face, smartass.”

Ypu smirk and walk in, wrapping arms around Melissa’s waist from behind, resting your cheek against her back.

“Y’know,” she says, voice quieter, “I never thought I’d get to do this. Paint walls, hang lights, fold baby socks...”

She steps down from the stool and turns to face you, arms loosely wrapping around your hips.

“But now we’re here. And I don’t want to miss a second of it.”

Your eyes shine, and you lean in, gently brushing your noses together before kissing her—slow and warm, the kind that says home.

The lights twinkle softly above you.

March 4th. 9:26 p.m.

The screen jolts on, shaky at first, clearly unintentional. The kitchen lights are on. You can hear the sound of something sizzling on the stove.

Off-camera, there’s a sudden sharp intake of breath.

“Um… babe?”

Melissa, wearing pajama pants and a worn grey hoodie, strolls into frame holding a wooden spoon. “Yeah?”

“I think my water just broke.”

“...You what?” the spoon hits the floor. “WHAT?!”

She spins around like she’s expecting to see water flooding the kitchen. You walk into frame, hands on your lower back, eyes wide but calm.

“I mean—I’m pretty sure. Either that or I peed myself and I’m really committed to the bit.”

“Okay. Okay. Okay. Don’t panic.” Melissa starts pacing, already panicking. “Is it too soon? Wait, no—we’re full term. We’re full term, right? Oh my god. Where’s the bag? Did we pack the bag? Did I pack the bag? WHERE IS THE BAG?”

You, somehow still composed, points toward the hallway. “Closet. Second shelf.”

“Right, closet, second shelf—why would we put it there, what kind of monsters are we—” She runs off screen, and a crash is heard followed by a loud “WE’RE HAVING BABIES, HOLY SH—”

Melissa stumbles back into frame holding the hospital bag and car keys, looking wild-eyed. “Okay, okay, I got it. I’m ready. Are you ready? Are the babies ready? Are we emotionally—actually no, don’t answer that, get in the car.”

“Should I change first or…?”

She takes one look, nods frantically. “Yes. No. I don’t know. Do whatever you need to do, just—do it fast. I’ll be in the car yelling at traffic that hasn’t even happened yet.”

"Okay."

The redhead rushes toward the door, then doubles back just as fast and cups your face, kissing you quickly but fiercely. “You got this. I love you. You’re amazing. Let’s go have some babies.”

She disappears again with a final, muffled “OH MY GOD IT’S HAPPENING—”

The camera is left at a crooked angle, pointed at the stove, where the spaghetti is now boiling over.

March 4th. 11:12 p.m.

The Medical equipment hums quietly. You’re propped up in the hospital bed, pale but strong, one hand on your belly, the other tightly gripping Melissa’s.

She sits at your side, no longer wild-eyed but focused—serious in a way that means she’s feeling everything but holding it together for both of you. Her hair’s a little messy from running her hands through it, and her hoodie’s halfway zipped over the t-shirt she threw on under pressure. Her thumb rubs slow circles over your knuckles.

“Okay,” Melissa says softly, looking up at you. “I’ve calmed down. Mostly. I think. You’re doin’ amazing, bubba. You hear me? I’ve never seen anybody this strong.”

You breathe through a contraction, jaw tight. When it passes, you manages a tired smile.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know. Me too,” she swallows hard.“But we’re gonna do this together, alright? You and me. And then we’re gonna have two tiny little people who’ve already stolen my heart and ruined my sleep schedule.”

The monitor beeps gently in the background.

Melissa glances at the camera, then back at you.

“I wish I could bottle this moment. So the babies know how hard you worked to bring them here. How brave you are. How much you love ‘em already.”

You smile, eyes fluttering close for a second.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice cracking. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

A nurse steps in quietly, letting you both know the doctor will be there in a few minutes. Melissa nods, then leans down and kisses your hand.

“Let’s go meet our babies.”

March 5th. 12:47 a.m.

Melissa’s hand is gripped tight in yours as the doctor gives the final encouragement. Sweat clings to your brow, body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline. Your sweet wife is right beside you, eyes locked on her face, whispering fiercely:

“You’ve got this, baby. One more push. You’re almost there. I’m right here.”

A cry.

Sharp. New.

The world stills around it.

The redheaded woman’s head whips toward the sound, her breath catching in her throat as the nurse holds up the first baby.

“It’s a girl!”

The tiniest, angriest human is placed gently in the nurse’s arms to be cleaned off, and Melissa Schemmenti can’t stop staring.

“That’s her,” she whispers. “That’s... that’s our baby.”

And then a second cry. Softer, warbled.

“And here’s her sister!”

Tears are already running down her cheeks as both babies are swaddled and handed over one by one. Your eyes flutter open as Melissa returns, one baby in each arm, shaking and smiling so wide it almost doesn’t fit on her face.

She gently settles onto the edge of the bed, carefully handing you the baby with the stronger lungs, who’s still fussing.

“That one’s Francesca,” Melissa says, quiet and reverent. “This little fighter.”

You stare down at her, blinking through tears, and stroke the baby’s soft cheek.

The older woman turns her gaze to the smaller, sleepier one curled up on her chest. “And this is Amelia. Our quiet girl. Look at her, bubba. She’s so little... but she’s perfect.”

The room is warm now, filled with a silence that hums with love and awe. The kind of silence that only happens after something sacred.

Melissa rocks gently, pressing her lips to Amelia’s forehead. “Francesca,” she murmurs, glancing at the other baby and grinning.

“You know what I’m callin’ her already, right?”

“No.”

She looks back at you. “She’s gonna be my little Chessy.”

“Wait—wait a second. I know that name.”

“Alright, bubba,” she glances toward the camera, then down at the mug, then back again. “Not you—well, not just you. I mean the baby. Though I guess this can be for you too, if you ever watch this.”

There’s a beat. Her eyes soften as she shifts in her seat, settling in more fully. Something about this—the act of talking into a camera in an empty living room—tugs at her memory.

“Y’know, I did this once before. Back when they had us record those interviews at Abbott. Felt weird then, too. They still record us but not all the time like before.”

She chuckles under her breath.

“But I figured—if I’m gonna keep makin’ these little videos, might as well say the date, huh? October second.”

The second grade teacher takes a sip of her coffee, savoring it, then glances up toward the ceiling with a faint smile.

“She’s still sleepin’ upstairs. Didn’t get much rest last night—poor thing’s been tossin’ and turnin’ like crazy. I think the baby’s learnin’ how to kickbox in there. Or tryin’ to break out early.”

A pause. Her face softens again, fondness bleeding into every line.

“But around four in the morning, she just... curled up next to me. Turned into this warm little furnace and passed right out. Didn’t move after that.”

She chuckles again, quieter this time.

“I didn’t mind. Never do. I like takin’ care of my girl. Always have.”

There’s something about the way she says it—quiet, reverent, a little stunned still. Like she can’t believe how lucky she is. Like she’s still figuring out how to say these things out loud.

“Never thought I’d be the kind of person who’d... sit in a living room talkin’ to a camera about baby kicks and weird cravings. Or rubbin’ somebody’s back while they’re cryin’ over a dog food commercial. Or—God help me—Googlin’ ‘why does my pregnant wife want pickles and watermelon at the same time?’”

Melissa laughs, one hand brushing her hair back as she shakes her head.

“But here we are.”

Her voice goes quiet. She swallows, her throat working around the weight of emotion that’s suddenly snuck up on her.

“And I wouldn’t trade it. Not for anything.”

She sets the mug down on the table beside her with a soft clink. Then she leans forward, resting her chin in her hand, elbow on her knee. The camera catches the shine in her eyes as she looks right into it, like she’s looking through time, right at the two people she loves most.

“Y/N told me she was pregnant a few weeks ago. Right here. In this room.”

Her voice grows quieter still. Measured. Like she’s scared to say too much, scared it might slip through her fingers if she does.

“I thought maybe I’d forget how it felt, y’know? The moment. But... nah. It hit me like a damn freight train. In a good way. Like suddenly, my whole world just tilted into place. Like—‘oh. This is where I’m meant to be.’”

She blinks slowly. Her voice doesn’t shake, but her heart’s right there in it.

“And now we’re here. And she’s got this perfect little belly that I swear I could just watch for hours. And she smiles at me like I hung the moon. And sometimes I still can’t believe it. That I get to be part of this. That I get tolove her like this.”

Melissa sits back for a moment. Runs her fingers along the rim of the coffee mug, her thumb lingering over the word mama.

“I’m makin’ this for the baby. For when they’re here. So they’ll know—right from the start—how loved they are. How lucky they are to have her as a mother. How beautiful she is. Strong as hell, too. Even with swollen ankles and a back that hurts every ten minutes, and the worst mood swings I’ve ever seen in my life...”

She grins.

“Still the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

She takes a breath. A long one. Her voice is hushed when she speaks again.

“And if she ever forgets—if she ever gets tired or scared, or thinks for even a second she’s not doin’ enough... I want her to have this. I want her to see how I looked at her. How I see her.”

Her gaze softens again. She leans toward the camera, eyes never leaving the lens.

“I got you, babygirl.”

A whisper.

“I’m right here. Always.”

She reaches out and touches the camera, fingers brushing over it like she’s touching the future.

The screen flickers.

Then fades to black..

October 11th. 7:52 p.m.

The screen clicks on. This time, it’s not Melissa’s face that appears first—it’s the soft, amber glow of the living room lamp, the quiet warmth of a fall evening settling into the house. There’s a faint jazz record playing some Beatles song in the background, the gentle clink of cutlery against ceramic, and then, slowly, her voice comes in—low and fond, just behind the camera.

“Alright... look at her.”

The camera pans gently to the right, revealing you curled up on the couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket. You are wearing one of Melissa’s oversized t-shirts, your hair loose and a little messy from the day. A small plate of cheese and crackers rests on your belly, which has grown noticeably rounder since the last days. You are carefully balancing the plate like it’s a precious artifact, fingers daintily picking up a square of cheddar and popping it into your mouth.

Melissa laughs quietly off-screen, zooming in just a little.

“You’d think she was at a five-star restaurant, the way she’s savorin’ every bite.”

Another laugh, softer this time.

“She made me get outta bed for this. Said she needed the fancy crackers. Not the round ones, the square ones. ‘The ones with the little seeds,’ she said.”

You pause mid-bite and glances toward the camera, a suspicious little squint in your eyes.

“You’re filming me? Seriously?!”

Melissa grins, her voice teasing but sweet.“Mmhm. Just a moment in history, sweetheart. You and your late-night cheese emergency.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Instead, you pick up another cracker, this time topping it with a slice of gouda and a cornichon from the side dish your wife must’ve prepared just to keep you happy.

“She’s got very specific taste these days,” Melissa continues, the camera now focused on your contented expression as you chews thoughtfully, nodding to yourself like a sommelier.

The baby wanted cheese,” you mumble with your mouth full.

Melissa’s laugh is all love. “Yeah, yeah. The baby. You sure it’s not just you wantin’ cheese every ten minutes?”

You narrow your eyes but grin, licking a bit of brie off your thumb. “Don’t sass a hungry pregnant lady, Schemmenti.”

Melissa zooms in for a close-up of your face, feeling suddenly soft again. “God, look at her. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Every version of her. But this one—this sleepy, snacky, bossy little queen of the couch—she’s somethin’ else.”

You blink at her, flustered, cheeks flushed.

“Are you getting sentimental again?”

“Every damn day.”

She doesn’t stop recording right away. Instead, she lets the moment linger—you popping another cracker in your mouth, shifting slightly to make room for the baby bump, then settling again with a sigh of contentment.

“Alright, bubba,” she murmurs, the camera now back on the plate of snacks balanced carefully on your belly. “One day, you’re gonna see this and know—this is what love looks like. Cheese and crackers at eight o’clock on a Wednesday, and your mama takin’ up the whole couch like she owns it. Which she does. Always has.”

October 15th. 2:14 p.m.

The camera reveals Melissa sitting at the kitchen table, sunlight streaming in through the window behind her. Her red hair is pulled back into a loose braid, a few strands escaping around her face. She’s in a soft flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking cozy and domestic. In front of her sits a small box wrapped in floral paper, along with a much smaller package—barely big enough to hold a bar of soap—topped with an uneven bow.

On the table next to the gifts sits Sweet Cheeks, the guinea pig, nestled in a little fleece-lined basket his momma clearly rigged out of a shoebox and an old baby blanket. He is blinking lazily, occasionally sniffing at the edge of the box, fluffy cheeks twitching.

Melissa adjusts the camera, leans into the frame, and grins. “Alright, baby—this one’s for you. And for the baby, I guess. And also for Sweet Cheeks, apparently, ‘cause Nonna went a little gift-happy.”

She picks up the smaller package first, squints at the tag.

“This one says—” she flips it over with a fond eye-roll. “‘To my grandpig, from Nonna Teresa.’”

Melissa snorts but her smile is fond and unmistakably tender.

“She’s lost it. Completely.”

The older woman carefully tears open the paper, revealing a tiny pink fleece hat—clearly handmade, with two ear holes cut out. Sweet Cheeks, oblivious to his fate, is busy nibbling the corner of a carrot.

Your wife holds up the hat to the camera.

“She knitted for the guinea pig. You’re seein’ this, right?”

She glances down at Sweet Cheeks.

“Alright, come on, fuzzball. Let’s try it on.”

There’s a bit of gentle maneuvering, a few squeaks of protest, and then—Sweet Cheeks, now adorned with a slightly crooked pink hat, blinking up at the camera like royalty.

Melissa can’t stop laughing.

“Look at him! Little diva. He knows he’s cute.”

The camera zooms in slightly, capturing the moment.

“Ma’s gonna lose it when she sees this video. She’s gonna think this pig is gonna be ring bearer or somethin’.”

Melissa opens the second, larger package more carefully. Inside, she finds a stack of folded baby onesies—soft yellow and pale green, each one with a different little embroidered patch. A smiling tomato. A clove of garlic. A meatball.

She holds one up and reads the tiny stitching on the front: Little Sicilian.

Her breath catches for just a second—barely noticeable—but her smile never fades. She brushes her fingers over the fabric like it’s made of glass.

“Mamma made these. She still cares enough to make these.”

Sweet Cheeks squeaks, startling Melissa slightly, and she reaches over to scratch him gently between the ears.

“Even if she thought one of ‘em was for you,” she murmurs with a watery chuckle. “It still counts.”

The redheaded woman lifts one of the onesies toward the camera again, her tone softer now.

“You’re gonna be wrapped in love, kiddo. From me, from your mommy, from your Nonna... hell, even from the guinea pig. Look at him—he’s already protective.”

Sweet Cheeks shifts slightly in his basket, flopping onto his side, hat still on.

“Okay, maybe not that protective. But he’s tryin’.”

Melissa reaches out, turns the camera a little so it frames her and Sweet Cheeks side by side. She holds the tiniest onesie up between them, her eyes warm and wet.

“Thanks, Ma,” she says quietly. “You did good.”

She leans in, kisses the top of Sweet Cheeks’ head, and gently taps the camera.

October 20th. 5:11 p.m.

On the Teachers’ Lounge, the usual hum of end-of-day chaos has settled into quiet. The fluorescent lights are dimmed, the coffee pot is mostly empty, and the hallway chatter has faded. In the lounge, only two people remain: Melissa Schemmenti and Jacob Hill.

Jacob sits on the worn couch, a half-finished grading stack next to him, sweater sleeves rolled up, curls slightly askew. He looks up as his former roommate walks in holding a small white gift bag, her expression unreadable but softer than usual.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just sets the bag down next to him and crosses her arms, leaning on the doorframe.

“This for me?” he asks with a smile, looking pleasantly confused.

Melissa gives a small shrug, but there’s a glint of something in her eyes. “Yeah. Thought you oughta have it.”

He pulls the bag onto his lap and peeks inside. He reaches in and pulls out a mug first—handmade ceramic, a little lopsided, clearly painted by a kid. Across the front, in chunky black letters:

Best Godfather Ever. :)

His hands freeze. He blinks. Then looks up at her, confusion beginning to dissolve into realization.

“Wait... wait, what is this?” his voice already shakes. “Mel—what is this?”

She walks over, sits beside him. Quiet, patient. Hands folded, eyes full.

“It means what you think it means, hon. We want you to be the godfather of our baby.”

Jacob stares at the mug in his hands like it might vanish if he blinks too fast. His mouth opens, then closes. When he speaks again, his voice is breaking.

“Are you—are you serious?” his throat tightens.“Me?”

Melissa nods, firm and steady.

“You, Jacob. Of course it’s you.”

He puts the mug down carefully, then buries his face in his hands. Shoulders shaking. It’s not loud—he’s not sobbing—but it’s the kind of cry that’s been building for years. One that comes from being seen. From being chosen.

Melissa doesn’t move right away. She just watches, lets him feel it. Then, quietly, she reaches over and places a hand on his back. Warm. Anchoring.

“You’ve been family since day one. Even when you annoyed the hell outta me. Which, let’s be honest, was most days.”

Jacob lets out a watery laugh, lifting his head just enough for her to see his red, blotchy face. He wipes at his cheeks with the sleeve of his cardigan.

“I just—I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t gotta say anything,” her voice softens further. “I trust you. And she does too. That kid’s gonna grow up knowin’ what kindness looks like ‘cause of you.”

The social studies teacher swallows hard, still wiping his tears.

“I’m gonna be the best godfather, Mel. Like, I’ll research it. I’ll make spreadsheets. I’ll learn how to knit. I’ll—”

Melissa snorts, her eyes shining

“You don’t gotta learn how to knit, sweetheart. Just keep bein’ you. That’s more than enough. For me. For us.”

Jacob nods, lip trembling again as he picks the mug back up and cradles it like it’s sacred.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “I love you.”

Melissa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke to deflect. She just looks him in the eye, all warmth and steel.

“I love you too, honey.”

October 22nd. 3:30 p.m.

The camera clicks on, clearly hidden somewhere discreet—probably set up by Jacob, who’s suspiciously lingering near the door, doing a terrible job pretending he’s not part of something. Melissa enters, calm as ever, holding a neatly wrapped rectangular box with a bow and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Barb sits behind her desk, grading a stack of vocabulary quizzes. She looks up the moment her work wife enters and raises an eyebrow.

“If this is another one of your Italian meatball baby craving deliveries for Y/N, Melissa, I’m afraid I cannot accept bribes.”

Melissa smirks, already halfway across the room.

“Relax, hun. I brought you a gift, not a bribe.”

“Same thing when it’s from you.”

Jacob snorts from the doorway. Melissa shoots him a glare before gently placing the box on the desk.

The kindergarten teacher side-eyes it, suspicious.

“What is this? It’s not another candle that smells like a sandwich, is it?”

Melissa groans. “Nope. Go ahead. Open it.”

Barbara sighs, carefully removes her reading glasses and lifts the lid. Inside is a crisp, embroidered handkerchief with delicate floral stitching in the corner… and beneath it, a white bib.

She picks it up. It reads:

If lost, please return me to my godmother, Barbara Howard.

“...Excuse me?”

Melissa leans her hip against the desk, arms folded, smug as ever.

“You heard me. You’re lookin’ at the official godmother of this kid.”

The brunette blinks. Once. Twice. Then sets the bib down like it might explode.

“Melissa Ann Catarina Schemmenti. Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Jacob bursts out laughing from the door. “She said your full government name, oh my god—”

Barb glares at him.

Melissa just grins and then, responds. “You’re the most level-headed, morally sound woman I know. If anything ever happened to us—and I don’t say that lightly—I’d want someone who’d raise our kid with Jesus, good books, and absolutely no nonsense. So yeah. You’re it.”

She looks genuinely touched for a full 0.3 seconds before her composure slams back into place. “I am honored. Deeply. But let me be perfectly clear—I will not be changing diapers. I did that in the ‘80s and recently with my glamchild. I am done.”

Your wife holds up her hands.

“No diapers. Just wisdom. Discipline. And maybe the occasional terrifying stare that makes them sit up straight from across the room.”

The kindergarten teacher sniffs. “Well… I do have a reputation to uphold.” A pause. Then, softer.“Thank you. Truly. It means more than I can say.”

Melissa reaches over, giving her hand a rare, gentle squeeze.

Jacob claps loudly. “Okay, say cheese for the camera!

“Jacob Anthony Hill, is there a camera in my classroom?” Barb whips.

“NOPE!” he yelps, diving out of the room.

Barbara narrows her eyes toward the suspicious potted plant in the corner. “If this ends up on TokTik, so help me, I will call the Lord and the district.”

October 23rd. 4:48 p.m.

The afternoon sun casts shadows across the cracked parking lot. Most of the teachers have gone home, but Melissa stands by her car, arms crossed and eyes squinting into the light. She’s clearly trying to act casual. It’s not working.

Janine walks out of the building with Gregory close behind, both mid-conversation.

“...and that’s why glue sticks and humidity are natural enemies,” the second grade teacher’s saying.

Her boyfriend just nods, clearly having stopped listening seven minutes ago.

Behind them, Ava struts out in sunglasses and heels she did not wear all day, Mr. Johnson trailing with a suspiciously large duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“You got five minutes, Schemmenti,” the principal says. “I got a facial at six and Mr. J needs to dispose of something that definitely isn’t haunted.”

“It was never proven haunted,” the janitor mutters.

Melissa raises a hand.

“Okay, alright, listen up. I called you over ‘cause I got somethin’ to tell you. Something important.”

Everyone tenses.

Janine’s eyes go wide. “Is it the mob?” she blurts.

Gregory sighs. “Baby, again—no one is in the mob.”

“Not no one,” Ava mutters, eyeing her coworker.

The green eyed woman pinches the bridge of her nose. “No, it’s not the damn mob. Will you shut up and let me talk?” she hesitates for half a second. Then her entire face softens. “She’s pregnant.”

The group goes still. Janine gasps, covering her mouth. “YOU’RE PREGNANT?!”

Melissa stares at her. “No, not me—Y/N. She’s pregnant.”

“Ohhhhh,” her grade partner exhales, and then immediately claps her hands over her mouth again. “Oh my god!” she rushes over and hugs the redhead, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I’m gonna cry. I am crying.”

Gregory blinks, then smiles. It’s subtle, but proud.“Congratulations. That’s... wow. That’s amazing.”

“You gonna be a good mom?” Mr. Johnson asks seriously.

Melissa raises an eyebrow. “I’m gonna be the best damn one this school’s ever seen.”

“Then I’ll make a tiny shovel.”

Ava slowly lowers her sunglasses, staring at your wife like she’s analyzing her soul. “So let me get this straight... you’ve been hiding a whole baby this whole time?”

“We weren’t hiding the baby. We were just... enjoying it being ours for a little while.”

“I knew something was going on,” the taller woman says dramatically, pacing. “You’ve been all glowy and less mean. And you didn’t slap me when I called you Soft Mommy Mafia the other day.”

“I should’ve,” Melissa mutters.

“You’re gonna name the baby Ava, right?”

“Not a chance.”

Janine’s already spiraling in a circle. “Wait, wait—can I help with the baby shower? I know this woman who makes custom diaper cakes shaped like dinosaurs and also Jesus. Or both?”

Gregory gently pulls her back by the backpack strap. “Maybe let them process for a second.”

Melissa leans back on her car, arms crossed but smiling, eyes shining. “Just wanted you guys to know. You’re part of this. Whether you like it or not.”

Mr. Johnson nods seriously. “I’ll start making the crib. Outta reclaimed wood from the fallout shelter.”

Janine sniffles. “It’s gonna be the most emotionally intelligent baby in the world.”

Ava snaps a selfie with your redheaded wife mid-sentence. “Tagging it: ‘When the mob wife turns MILF.’”

“Coleman—”

“Too late. It’s on the story.”

November 10th. 7:42 p.m.

Melissa is sitting on the couch in a navy hoodie and sweatpants, hair up in a messy clip. Her face is a little flushed, the kind of tired that says I’ve had a long day but I’m happy to be here.

You are next to her. Well—on her, really. Draped over her side, face half-buried in her neck, arms wrapped around her like a sleepy sloth. A blanket covers both of you, and you are making a soft, satisfied humming sound every time she shifts.

Melissa glances at the camera and smirks.

“It’s November tenth. I wasn’t gonna film anything today, but... this one won’t let me breathe without bein’ attached like a koala,” she nods toward you, then gently nudges your thigh. “Say hi, cling wrap.”

You let out a muffled, sleepy “hi” without lifting your head.

The green eyed woman chuckles, brushing some hair from your face.

“She’s been like this all week. I don’t mind—I like her like this, actually. Kinda nice havin’ a little heater who whines if I get up for water.”

You groan quietly. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, baby. Just talkin’ to the camera for the peanut.”

Your hand slides under Melissa’s hoodie, cold fingers on her side. She yelps and twists.

“Jesus Christ, would you stop tryin’ to ice me to death?”

“Your skin’s warm,” you smile, snuggling closer.

Melissa looks back at the camera with an exaggerated deadpan stare.“This is what I signed up for, apparently. Cold hands, belly kicks at 2 a.m., and emotional blackmail in the form of sleepy cuddles.”

A beat. Then she smiles—soft and deep and completely in love.

“Nah, but seriously... she’s like this now more than ever. Real clingy. I think it’s ‘cause she’s gettin’ close to the third trimester and her back hurts and everything’s heavy.”

She runs a gentle hand down your spine. “But she still smiles at me every time I walk into a room like I’m the damn sun.”

“You are,” you say, muffled again.

Melissa pauses, touched. She glances down at her, then gently kisses the top of her head.

“You’re ridiculous. But... yeah. I’ll take it.”

A silence settles for a moment—only the sound of the televison playing faintly and your breathing.

She leans forward just enough to whisper into the camera, trying not to wake you up. “She’s gonna see this later and deny bein’ this clingy. But I got it on tape now. Forever.”

A proud smirk. “Evidence.” she reaches forward and taps the camera gently. “Love you, bubba. Both of you.”

November 17th. 2:14 p.m. The camera is not on—it’s shaky footage clearly taken by you on your phone, aimed at Melissa sitting in a chair beside the exam table. She’s got her hand over her mouth, eyes wide, frozen in disbelief.

The sonographer calmly points at the monitor. “And that’s baby A… and right there, that’s baby B.”

Melissa doesn’t move for a full two seconds.

“I’m sorry—BABY WHAT?” She shoots to her feet, knocking her chair back. “BABY B?!”

You are snorting behind the camera, nearly dropping the phone. She turns in a slow circle like she’s trying to physically walk away from the news but keeps ending up back at it.

“Twins? TWINS?!”

She grabs the edge of the counter dramatically. “There’s two of them in there? Like—AT THE SAME TIME?”

The sonographer, very used to this reaction, just nods and keeps smiling.

Melissa throws both hands in the air. “Oh my GOD, I’m gonna need more lasagna.”

November 25th. 4:03 p.m.

The screen shows a softly nursery in progress—walls a pale sage green, with scattered paint swatches still taped up on the far side. A wooden crib stands assembled in the corner, and Melissa is on a small step stool, pinning star-shaped string lights along the wall with quiet concentration. She’s in paint-smudged leggings and an old Villanova t-shirt, hair tied up, humming off-key under her breath.

The bedroom is filled with calm music, faint sounds of laughter from the hallway, and the occasional creak of the old floorboards.

Behind her, you walk in holding two tiny onesies—one with cartoon peaches, the other with little bears. You lean in the doorway for a moment, just watching Melissa.

“You missed a spot,” you tease softly.

She glances over her shoulder. “Yeah? Come over here and say that to my face, smartass.”

Ypu smirk and walk in, wrapping arms around Melissa’s waist from behind, resting your cheek against her back.

“Y’know,” she says, voice quieter, “I never thought I’d get to do this. Paint walls, hang lights, fold baby socks...”

She steps down from the stool and turns to face you, arms loosely wrapping around your hips.

“But now we’re here. And I don’t want to miss a second of it.”

Your eyes shine, and you lean in, gently brushing your noses together before kissing her—slow and warm, the kind that says home.

The lights twinkle softly above you.

March 4th. 9:26 p.m.

The screen jolts on, shaky at first, clearly unintentional. The kitchen lights are on. You can hear the sound of something sizzling on the stove.

Off-camera, there’s a sudden sharp intake of breath.

“Um… babe?”

Melissa, wearing pajama pants and a worn grey hoodie, strolls into frame holding a wooden spoon. “Yeah?”

“I think my water just broke.”

“...You what?” the spoon hits the floor. “WHAT?!”

She spins around like she’s expecting to see water flooding the kitchen. You walk into frame, hands on your lower back, eyes wide but calm.

“I mean—I’m pretty sure. Either that or I peed myself and I’m really committed to the bit.”

“Okay. Okay. Okay. Don’t panic.” Melissa starts pacing, already panicking. “Is it too soon? Wait, no—we’re full term. We’re full term, right? Oh my god. Where’s the bag? Did we pack the bag? Did I pack the bag? WHERE IS THE BAG?”

You, somehow still composed, points toward the hallway. “Closet. Second shelf.”

“Right, closet, second shelf—why would we put it there, what kind of monsters are we—” She runs off screen, and a crash is heard followed by a loud “WE’RE HAVING BABIES, HOLY SH—”

Melissa stumbles back into frame holding the hospital bag and car keys, looking wild-eyed. “Okay, okay, I got it. I’m ready. Are you ready? Are the babies ready? Are we emotionally—actually no, don’t answer that, get in the car.”

“Should I change first or…?”

She takes one look, nods frantically. “Yes. No. I don’t know. Do whatever you need to do, just—do it fast. I’ll be in the car yelling at traffic that hasn’t even happened yet.”

"Okay."

The redhead rushes toward the door, then doubles back just as fast and cups your face, kissing you quickly but fiercely. “You got this. I love you. You’re amazing. Let’s go have some babies.”

She disappears again with a final, muffled “OH MY GOD IT’S HAPPENING—”

The camera is left at a crooked angle, pointed at the stove, where the spaghetti is now boiling over.

March 4th. 11:12 p.m.

The Medical equipment hums quietly. You’re propped up in the hospital bed, pale but strong, one hand on your belly, the other tightly gripping Melissa’s.

She sits at your side, no longer wild-eyed but focused—serious in a way that means she’s feeling everything but holding it together for both of you. Her hair’s a little messy from running her hands through it, and her hoodie’s halfway zipped over the t-shirt she threw on under pressure. Her thumb rubs slow circles over your knuckles.

“Okay,” Melissa says softly, looking up at you. “I’ve calmed down. Mostly. I think. You’re doin’ amazing, bubba. You hear me? I’ve never seen anybody this strong.”

You breathe through a contraction, jaw tight. When it passes, you manages a tired smile.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know. Me too,” she swallows hard.“But we’re gonna do this together, alright? You and me. And then we’re gonna have two tiny little people who’ve already stolen my heart and ruined my sleep schedule.”

The monitor beeps gently in the background.

Melissa glances at the camera, then back at you.

“I wish I could bottle this moment. So the babies know how hard you worked to bring them here. How brave you are. How much you love ‘em already.”

You smile, eyes fluttering close for a second.

“Hey,” she whispers, voice cracking. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

A nurse steps in quietly, letting you both know the doctor will be there in a few minutes. Melissa nods, then leans down and kisses your hand.

“Let’s go meet our babies.”

March 5th. 12:47 a.m.

Melissa’s hand is gripped tight in yours as the doctor gives the final encouragement. Sweat clings to your brow, body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline. Your sweet wife is right beside you, eyes locked on her face, whispering fiercely:

“You’ve got this, baby. One more push. You’re almost there. I’m right here.”

A cry.

Sharp. New.

The world stills around it.

The redheaded woman’s head whips toward the sound, her breath catching in her throat as the nurse holds up the first baby.

“It’s a girl!”

The tiniest, angriest human is placed gently in the nurse’s arms to be cleaned off, and Melissa Schemmenti can’t stop staring.

“That’s her,” she whispers. “That’s... that’s our baby.”

And then a second cry. Softer, warbled.

“And here’s her sister!”

Tears are already running down her cheeks as both babies are swaddled and handed over one by one. Your eyes flutter open as Melissa returns, one baby in each arm, shaking and smiling so wide it almost doesn’t fit on her face.

She gently settles onto the edge of the bed, carefully handing you the baby with the stronger lungs, who’s still fussing.

“That one’s Francesca,” Melissa says, quiet and reverent. “This little fighter.”

You stare down at her, blinking through tears, and stroke the baby’s soft cheek.

The older woman turns her gaze to the smaller, sleepier one curled up on her chest. “And this is Amelia. Our quiet girl. Look at her, bubba. She’s so little... but she’s perfect.”

The room is warm now, filled with a silence that hums with love and awe. The kind of silence that only happens after something sacred.

Melissa rocks gently, pressing her lips to Amelia’s forehead. “Francesca,” she murmurs, glancing at the other baby and grinning.

“You know what I’m callin’ her already, right?”

“No.”

She looks back at you. “She’s gonna be my little Chessy.”

“Wait—wait a second. I know that name.”

And, of course, there were those who, even feeling jealous, wore it like a mask of indifference. They smiled, made jokes, pretended not to care – but their eyes said otherwise. A slight tremor at the corner of the mouth, a somewhat forced laugh, a quick subject change to hide the flicker of discomfort.

But when it came to the mean redhead with a bangin’ body, it was different. Her jealousy didn’t explode nor hide. It existed in every detail, subtle and precise, a constant reminder that, in her world, you were something precious. Something worth protecting. Something that, if anyone dared to touch, would find, even unknowingly, the silent beast behind the smile.

You realized this early on in your relationship, now eight years strong, and if you were truly honest with yourself, you’d have to admit: you loved her anyway. It wasn’t childish jealousy, the kind that overflows with insecurity or neediness. No. Hers was something more refined, sharp like the edge of a razor blade, burning beneath the surface like a lit cigarette in the fingers of someone who had tried to quit the habit but still relished the scent of the smoke. It was a fire that sparked in the most mundane moments – a dense shadow in her green eyes when a stranger leaned in too close to talk to you at the bar, an almost imperceptible tightening of muscles when the supermarket cashier called you “sweetie” with a smile that lingered a second too long, a dangerous stillness when Ava Coleman blinked exaggeratedly at you in the Abbott Elementary hallways, calling you “boo” just to watch your girlfriend boil over.

And you remembered that day perfectly.

Monday mornings were already hellish enough. The fluorescent lights in the hallways buzzed faintly overhead, blending with the usual start of the week chaos—teachers swapping exhausted stories about their weekends, students shouting and running like they had never learned what walking was, lockers slamming shut with enough force to shake the walls. You were still nursing your rapidly cooling coffee, trying to shake off the sluggishness of the morning, when it happened.

So fast, your brain lagged behind, struggling to process.

One moment, Ms. Schemmenti was standing next to you, her usual morning scowl in place, one hand lazily wrapped around her untouched coffee. Ava was in front of you, chatting—no, flirting—because that was just the irresponsible principal’s favorite way to start the week.

“You’re looking particularly fine today,” she had mused, dragging out the words like she was testing them. Then, glancing at your girlfriend with a devilish smirk, she added. “If you ever need a break from Vito Corleone over here, you know where to find me, babyboo.”

Big mistake.

The second grade teacher’s coffee hit the floor with a wet splat. And then, before anyone could react, she lunged. Like, fully launched herself at her own boss. It was almost cartoonish how fast it happened. One second, Melissa was beside you. The next, she had both arms locked around Ava’s neck, her entire body weight slamming into the taller woman like some kind of feral redheaded linebacker.

The sassy principal screamed. “Hell no! Schemmenti, what the heck?!”

“Say it. Say it again if you want me to break your neck!”

The entire crew froze almost immediately. Janine let out a horrified gasp. Gregory’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. Jacob turned a shade of white you weren’t sure was healthy. Mr. Johnson, completely unbothered, took a slow sip of his coffee. Barb, standing just a few feet away, had barely turned the corner when her hand flew to her chest. “Sweet Baby Jesus and the grown-up too!”

Meanwhile, Ava flailed like a cartoon character, grabbing desperately at Melissa’s firm wrists. “ARE YOU ACTUALLY TRYING TO STRANGLE ME?” she screeched.

The redheaded woman’s face was flushed with rage, her green eyes dark with murderous intent. She tightened her grip slightly, voice coming out low and deadly. “Call her ‘boo’ again, Coleman. I dare you.”

You should step in. You should do something. But for a solid five seconds, all you could do was stare feeling a mix of shock, panic, and, God help you, just a tiny bit of admiration.

“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEBODY GET THIS DEMON OFF ME!” Ava howled, kicking her tall legs in a completely ineffective attempt to break free.

Jacob finally snapped out of his horror-stricken daze, stumbling forward and grabbing his mother figure around the waist. “You can’t just STRANGLE the principal of the school! She’s our boss!” he wheezed, struggling to pull her back.

Melissa resisted for a moment, like she was genuinely considering finishing the job. But then, with a deep exhale, she let go. Ava stumbled backward, coughing violently, hands flying to her throat as she stared at her coworker like she had just been attacked by a rabid raccoon.

“You need THERAPY, bitch!” the tall woman gasped.

Your girlfriend rolled her shoulders back, straightening her jacket as she took a slow, steady breath. Then, in a voice dangerously calm, she tilted her head and said:

“No. But you will if you keep looking at my girl like that.”

Silence.

The only sound was the distant buzzing of the lights and the faint creak of a classroom door opening somewhere down the hall.

Barbara, still clutching her chest, exhaled heavily. “Lord…”

You, finally remembering how to breathe, swallowed hard and glanced at Jacob, who looked seconds away from a full-body shutdown.

“Oh my God…” you muttered, still half-convinced you had hallucinated the whole thing.

Ava held up her hands in surrender. “I will NEVER call her ‘boo’ again. I swear.”

Melissa, now composed, smirked. “Good.” With that, she grabbed your hand and walked off like absolutely nothing had happened.

And you? You savored every moment. It was a silent game between the two of you, a dance choreographed by the veiled possessiveness that the green-eyed woman refused to verbalize, but that burned in the way her fingers marked your hip, in the way her Philadelphian accent grew rougher when someone got too close.

She would never admit it, never. After all, Melissa Schemmenti was a woman made of steel and concrete, forged in a traditional Catholic Italian family where weakness wasn’t allowed. But you knew that when it came to you, that steel would burn. It would turn into something fierce, something wild. It was a beast protecting its territory from a predator, growling softly, ready for a fight.

It was visible in the stiffening of her shoulders, in the way her pupils dilated, in the way her fingers wrapped around your waist with a possessive strength, pulling you close, as if saying without words: my woman. And when her full lips brushed your ear, her voice low and warm like aged whiskey, she murmured, loaded with a delicious threat.

“You’re trying to make me lose my mind, babydoll? You know what happens when you disrespect Mommy.”

And later, that same night, your girlfriend would kiss you with an uncontrollable hunger, her hands holding your face, her body pressed against yours until there was no space left between you except for your labored breaths and the muffled sound of your sighs and moans. Until your legs gave out. Until you begged for mercy.

So when the karaoke night along with the Q&A arrived at Ruby’s and the group was already drunk enough to dance without caring about the rhythm, you decided to have a little fun.

It wasn’t like Melissa wasn’t already completely focused on you. She always was. Even there, in the bar immersed in amber lights, saturated with the smell of alcohol and grease, she stayed glued to you— her arm resting lazily on your back, her fingers tracing slow, hypnotic circles on your shoulder. But you wanted more. Something hotter. Something rougher.

So, you leaned in, your lips brushing the soft skin of her earlobe. “You better not let us lose, Schemmenti. I want to go home with a winner.”

Your girlfriend smiled, that confident smile that always made your stomach flip.

“Oh, please, babe. I have a lifetime of useless facts up here,” she tapped her temple and winked at you. “We’re going to win.”

The night went on with jokes, teases, and generous sips of drinks. The questions ranged from absurdly difficult topics to answers so easy that Jacob nearly had a nervous breakdown trying to explain how people got them wrong. Ava, surprisingly, was excellent at the game and carried the team round after round, delivering insults with the precision of a surgeon. O’shon was impressed by his girlfriend’s performance but kept shy. Sea Barbara was having the time of her life while Janine and Gregory desperately chased her though the whole bar.

In the third round, Melissa was at the bar with Jacob, both engaged in a heated discussion about Roman emperors. Her former roommate insisted that Nero was the worst, but the second-grade teacher, with her passionate tone and expressive hands, delivered a fiery monologue about how Caligula was, without a doubt, the worst creature to ever walk the Earth.

“Nero was the worst, hands down,” the social studies teacher argued, his hands flailing for emphasis. “He burned down Rome, Mel! He literally played the lyre while watching the city go up in flames.”

Your girlfriend scoffed, leaning forward, her eyes ablaze with passion. “Oh, come on, dude! Nero was bad, but Caligula? That man was an unhinged lunatic. He made his horse a senator.”

Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but—”

“Don’t interrupt me! I’m just getting started,” she warned, pointing a finger at him. “This man executed people on a whim. Held orgies so disturbing that even the Romans thought it was too much. And let’s not forget the time he declared war on the damn ocean.”

Her work son blinked. “War on the ocean?”

“Yes! The man ordered his soldiers to attack the sea and then collect seashells as spoils of war!” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “What kind of lunatic does that?”

Jacob snorted, shaking his head. “I still think Nero was worse.”

Melissa huffed, grabbed a peanut from the bowl on the table, and chucked it at him. “You’re an idiot, Hill.”

“You’re just stubborn.”

Narrowing her olive eyes, the redhead lifted her hand and flipped him off. “Fuck you.”

He gasped in mock offense before bursting into laughter. Without warning, the older woman grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight, crushing hug.

“Love you, even though you are a fuckin’ dumbass,” she muttered against his shoulder.

Jacob chuckled, hugging her back. “Love you too, ‘Elissa. But Nero was still worse.”

Melissa pulled back just enough to glare at him before smacking the back of his head after hearing the nickname.

“OUCH! What was that for? I feel like a teenager who was grounded by his mother.”

“You’re lucky I’m drunk, or this argument would last until tomorrow.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Mr. Johnson, with his relaxed posture and sly smile, was trying to bribe the host.

“Listen here, kid. If I give you twenty, do you think you can bump up our score?” he gestured to his team.

The poor college student, clearly tired of the night, rolled his eyes. “Sir, this is trivia, not blackjack. Please respect the rules.”

After the final trivia question, Jacob was practically glowing, his enthusiasm spilling over like a tipped glass, nearly knocking over his drink every time he got an answer right. Beside him, Gregory and Janine were lost in their usual slow-burn headass dynamic, whispering heatedly, orbiting each other like stars destined to collide.

The last round ended, and music poured through the speakers—loud, rhythmic, impossible to ignore. Ava clapped her hands with a flourish, tugging her smiling boyfriend by the jacket. “Alright, losers, time to shake ass.”

Your girlfriend let out a snort full of irony. “Oh, no. Not happening. I won’t dance tonight, A.”

Barbara raised an amused brow, her smile full of quiet mischief. She wasn’t surprised with her best friend’s familiar stubbornness. “Come on, girlfriend, don’t be a party popper. Even Gregory's going.”

The first grade teacher, already halfway to the dance floor thanks to Janine’s persistent tugging, spun around like a man trying to escape fate. “I never said I was going.” But his girlfriend pulled him in anyway, laughing as he stumbled after her.

Jacob squealed with glee, singing out loud.“You say you wanna win it. I wanna see you sweat, put your whole kitty in it.”

And suddenly, the table was empty. Just you and Melissa remained, you turned to her, lips pouted in exaggerated pleading.“C’mon, baby. Dance with me.”

She shook her head slowly, firmly. “You know I don’t do that.”

“Fine,” you sighed. Then, with a sly smile curling at the corners of your mouth. “I’ll just find someone else to dance with.”

Her redbrow lifted, sharp as a challenge. “Yeah?”

That’s how you ended up leaning on the bar, body tilted with practiced ease, casting flirtatious glances at the very attractive bartender. She looked about your age, maybe younger. Short hair, styled with flair, and one arm inked from shoulder to wrist in a tapestry of tattoos.

You twirled a strand of hair around your finger and gave her a knowing smile.

“So, what’s your best drink?”

The bartender smiled back, slowly looking you up and down. “For you? Something really sweet, I think.”

You laughed—really laughed—and rested your hand on the bar, giving her a wink.

But something changed. The air thickened, charged with tension. You felt her before you saw her. That presence. Familiar. Possessive. Magnetic.

Melissa Schemmenti’s hand landed on your hip, firm, warm, grounding.

“We’re leaving,” her tone was low, a growl made of gravel and storm. “Screw this stupid night.”

Your stomach flipped in anticipation. Yes. That was the reaction you’d wanted. She would get pissed off and fuck you later. You turned, fully expecting the heat in her green eyes—the fire that told you you’d pay for this later.

But what you saw wasn’t fire. It was ruin.

Melissa looked shattered. You didn’t get the words out. She yanked you away from the bar, out into the night, where cold air bit at your skin.

And then, she erupted.

“What the fuck was that?!” your girlfriend shouted under the weight of emotion. Her face flushed, streaked with silent tears.

“Baby, I just...”

Smack. The slap was light. Reflexive. Born of frustration more than anger. But your eyes widened anyway.

Melissa never hit you. Not even during sex.

She recoiled immediately, hand flying to her mouth, as if to muffle the sound that still echoed between you. “I’m not some fuckin’ animal for you to play with.”

“Lis?”

She looked away, trembling.

“You don’t want me anymore, do you?"

And then you understood. She wasn’t angry. She was scared. You reached for the older woman, but she pulled back like your touch would shatter her.

“Jesus… I’m fifty. What am I even doing with you? I should’ve known… I should’ve known.”

Your eyes stung with unshed tears.

“Mel, what are you talking about?”

She swallowed hard, a sob catching in her throat.“Joe used to do that to me, you know?”

You gulped.

Melissa never talked about her ex-husband.

“He’d flirt with other women right in front of me. Just to remind me he could. And when I got upset, he’d make me feel crazy. Like I was pathetic for thinking I could ever keep him.”

Nausea rose in your throat, bitter and sharp.

Her lips trembled with memories too heavy to hold. “I thought you loved me.”

Those words broke you. “I do. I love you so much.”

She didn’t answer back, instead she closed her eyes and asked. “Can we just go home?”

The ride home was silent. Melissa sat curled against the door, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring out the window like she wanted to be anywhere but here. By the time you pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, she was already out of the car, heading straight inside without a word.

You followed, feeling your stomach twist as you stepped into the house.

She was in the kitchen, standing by the counter, her back to you. Her arms were still wrapped around herself, fingers gripping at her sleeves, like she was trying to hold herself together.

You took a slow, cautious step forward and sighed heavily. “Honey.”

Your girlfriend didn’t look at you. Just let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?”

Finally, she turned, and the look on her face shattered you. “This. Us.”

A sharp, horrible fear lodged in your throat.

“Lissa, please.”

“I love you.” The words were rushed, raw. “I love you so much it scares the shit outta me. And I—” She swallowed hard. “I can’t go through that bullshit again. I won’t.”

The second grade teacher was trembling now, holding herself so tightly it looked like she might break apart.

And you couldn’t let her think like this—not for another second.

You surged forward, wrapping your arms around her, pressing her tight against your chest. She resisted for half a second before melting into you, her whole body sagging.

“You won’t,” you whispered into her hair. “I swear to god, you won’t.”

Melissa let out a ragged breath, her arms still locked around herself even as she pressed her face against your shoulder.

“I was stupid,” you murmured, stroking her back, voice thick with guilt. “I thought I was just messing around, but I hurt you, and I hate myself for it.” You cupped the back of her head, tilting her face up just enough to meet her eyes. “You’re my everything, Mel. No one else. Just you.”

Her plump lips trembled.

“I love you,” you sobbed. “I love you so much.”

Something in her cracked then, her breath shuddering as she let go of herself and finally grabbed onto you.

And then she was kissing you.

Desperate, messy, all shaky hands and tear-stained cheeks. She kissed you like she needed proof that you were still here, that you weren’t going anywhere. You kissed her back just as fiercely, one hand on her cheek, the other gripping her waist, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world—because Melissa Schemmenti was.

The redhead let out a shaky tiny noise against your lips, and you pulled back just enough to whisper, “Let me make it up to you.”

She swallowed, her forehead resting against yours, her breath still uneven. “H-How?”

You ran your hands slowly down her sides, soft and reverent, looking her straight in the eyes. “By showing you exactly how much I want you.”

A flicker of something passed through her eyes—uncertainty, vulnerability—but then her grip on your shirt tightened, and she nodded.

“Okay.”

And you kissed her again, slow and deep, determined to make her feel everything she had doubted tonight.

After a few more promises and kisses, Melissa led you upstairs, her grip on your hand tight, like she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go.

As you guided her toward your shared bedroom, your fingers tracing gentle patterns on her milky skin. Every step she took was hesitant, but you could see the hunger and need flickering behind her green eyes, along with the insecurity she’d shown you earlier.

When you reached the bed, your girlfriend hesitated, her fingers twitching at the hem of her shirt. Her cheeks were already flushed, a obvious combination of arousal and nervousness. You knew this side of her. The part that fought against vulnerability, the part that still struggled to believe she could be adored so thoroughly after decades of being humiliated by her ex-husband.

“C’mere,” you coaxed.

She breathed through her nose, then finally pulled the fabric over her head, dropping it to the floor as she laid down on the bed. Your breath caught as you took her in—her full, round breasts rising and falling with every uneven breath, her pink nipples already hardened in anticipation. She was beautiful. She was yours

But as soon as the cool air hit her hourglass figure, her arms reflexively crossed over her chest, shielding herself. “Y-you don’t have to do this,” she stuttered.

You stepped closer, gently brushing her arms aside. “None of that. Let me love you,” you reply, meeting her eyes, making sure she saw nothing but adoration in your gaze. You started slow, pressing kisses to her shoulders, trailing down the slope of her collarbone. The tension in her muscles eased little by little as you continued, your lips moving lower until they reached the soft swell of her breast.

Melissa let out a shaky breath, her fingers gripping the white sheets behind her.

The moment your mouth closed around one of her sensitive nipples, she gasped, her back arching instinctively. You sucked lightly at first, teasing, circling your tongue around the stiff peak. The way her breath hitched sent a rush of heat through you, and you did it again, this time flicking your tongue against the sensitive bud before wrapping your lips around it completely.

“Jesus H. Christ,” she groaned. Her fingers found their way into your hair, tangling there as if grounding herself.

You hummed against her skin, feeling the way she shivered in response. Your other hand moved to her neglected breast, cupping its warmth, your thumb brushing over her nipple in slow, deliberate strokes. Melissa’s hips shifted restlessly, and you could feel the heat radiating from her, the growing need that she was barely keeping at bay.

Her swollen lip was caught between her teeth as she tried to suppress the noises spilling from her throat, but it was useless. When you sucked harder, she let out a choked moan, her grip on you tightening.

“Fuck,” the older woman whispered, the curse slipping from her lips like a prayer. “Just like that…”

“Yeah? Does my pretty girl like this?” you asked before switching to her other breast, making sure to give it the same attention, sucking and licking until your girlfriend was writhing beneath you. She cursed again, raspier now, more desperate.

“God, honey,” Melissa groaned, her green eyes fluttering open just enough to look at you. The sight of you—your mouth on her, your hands worshiping every inch of her—made her chest rise and fall even quicker. “You are so good.”

She placed her hand over yours where it cupped her breast, silently urging you to squeeze harder, to give her more. You obeyed, kneading the soft flesh in your palm, rolling her nipple between your fingers while your tongue worked the other. Melissa threw her head back, her breath catching in her throat as pleasure coursed through her.

“Shit,” she panted, her thighs clenching together. “You’re gonna—” her words broke off into another moan as you sucked particularly hard.

You could feel her body trembling, could hear the way her voice wavered between curses and needy gasps. She was unraveling under you, and you weren’t about to stop now.

As you continued, your free hand trailed down her stomach, inching closer to where you knew she needed you most. Melissa’s breath hitched again, her entire body tensing in anticipation. She was already wet—you could tell just by the way she squirmed, by the way her hips kept shifting toward you.

You released her nipple with a soft, teasing kiss, then glanced up at her, meeting her darkened gaze. Her lips were swollen from how hard she’d been biting them, her pupils blown wide with desire.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmured, your fingers slipping lower.

The green eyed woman shuddered at your words, her hands gripping your shoulders now. “You’re fuckin’ unreal,” she breathed, as your mouth traveled lower, brushing over her soft belly. “I need you.”

You didn’t make her wait.

Melissa reclines further on a now rumpled white duvet, her skin aglow under the gentle caress of a bedside lamp. Her gaze meet yours as if silently inviting you to explore every inch of her. Though her sultry allure is undeniable, there’s an obvious shyness in the way she quivers, a subtle reminder that beneath the polished exterior, she is as human and tender as anyone could be.

You step forward, drawn inexorably to her magnetic presence. As you kneel between her spread legs, you become acutely aware of every detail—the way her heart flutters in the quiet moments before passion takes over, the delicate rise and fall of her chest, the soft hum of her breath that mingles with the ambient sound of a distant rain. It is in this space, at the precipice between fantasy and reality, that you begin to trace your own exploration of her body.

Your eyes travel slowly over her form, and you can’t help but admire the intricate interplay of contrasts. Her red pubic hair, neatly trimmed and soft to the touch, frames her most intimate parts with an unexpected elegance. With a sense of reverence and delight, you gently guide your nose along the tender patch, inhaling the uniquely intoxicating scent of her skin mixed with the subtle hints of shampoo and the lingering aroma of passion. The sensation is both curious and deeply erotic, a melding of senses that intensifies your connection.

Melissa moans, a tentative sound that gradually builds into a crescendo of pleasure. Though her voice trembles with shyness, every note carries a resonance of desire, hinting at an inner fire that is waiting to be fully ignited. Encouraged by her reaction, you lean in further, your warm breath mingling with her soft, arched exhale. Your hand caresses her thigh, slowly working its way upward, tracing patterns along her smooth meat flesh as if mapping out a treasure. The contact sends ripples of delight through her.

“That’s it, baby,” she pants. “Give it to me. Just fucking eat me out.”

Obeying, you lower your head, your tongue seeking out the very heart of her pussy. The moment your tongue makes contact, the bedroom seems to fill with the heady scent of her arousal. You begin with gentle flicks, tasting her essence, savoring the salt and the sweet tang that is uniquely hers.

Melissa parts her lips. “Yes… yes, please.”

As you work, your nose remains in contact with that enticing patch of trimmed red hair—a tactile reminder of the natural beauty that frames her most intimate self. The juxtaposition of the soft fuzz against your skin, the lingering warmth of your breath on her flesh, creates a symphony of sensations that both of you share. Her hands grip the sheets in silent encouragement, her body arching ever so slightly as if to offer you more, to signal that she is ready to surrender to this shared passion.

Your girlfriend’s whimpering grows louder, a combination of pleasure and the bittersweet vulnerability of someone who has long guarded her deepest desires. In the gentle rhythm of your attentions, you hear the subtle cadence of her voice, a melody that rises and falls with every wave of sensation. Even in her shyness, there is an undeniable strength; every gasp and every sigh is a testament to the courage it takes to expose oneself so completely.

You notice how her eyes close tighter, her lashes brushing her flushed cheeks as if trying to capture every sensation. The contrast between her shyness and the bold passion of her moans creates an alluring paradox, one that only deepens your resolve to explore every hidden corner of her.

The warmth of your body pressed against hers, the intertwining of your breaths, all contribute to a growing intimacy that transcends the physical act. It’s as if every touch, every caress, is a silent conversation—a dialogue that speaks of trust, longing, and the exquisite pleasure of being seen and understood in your most vulnerable state. And in that quiet exchange, you find a beauty that is both raw and transformative.

Your flat tongue dances along her contours, tight walls, varying its pace and pressure in an attempt to coax every moan and every shudder from her. The taste of her juice is intoxicating—a heady blend that speaks of secrets, dreams, and the deeply personal nature of desire. Every now and then, you pause, allowing the anticipation to build, savoring the silence that hangs heavy with unspoken apologies. In those pauses, you can almost hear the language of her hourglass shape, the subtle signals that tell you exactly how far to push, where to slow down, and when to simply be.

Her moans soon evolve into words, breathless confessions of pleasure that escape her mouth between shudders.

“Oh…” she gasps, a single syllable laden with meaning, a delicate sound that sends fresh waves of warmth surging through you. It is in these moment that you realize the power of your actions—not just in the physical pleasure you are bestowing, but in the way you are helping her to embrace every facet of her own self.

As the older woman gets closer and closer, you become increasingly attuned to the subtle shifts in her rhythm. Her breathing deepens, her body trembles with each passing second, and you know that the boundary between anticipation and fulfillment is drawing ever closer.

“Mmm,” you groan. “My good girl tastes so sweet.”

Her breath stutters, heat blooming low in her stomach all over again.

The feeling is that you are both artists and muses, engaged in a performance that is as much about emotion as it is about physical sensation. The interplay of your hands, your tongues, and your hearts creates a tableau of raw, unfiltered desire—one that is both fleeting and timeless.

Minutes stretch into what feels like an eternity of ecstasy. Melissa’s whines become a constant, a beautiful chorus that underscores the symphony unfolding between you. The sound of her raspy breathing, sometimes tentative, sometimes urgent, is a living reminder of the beauty found in vulnerability—a vulnerability that, in this sacred space, has been met with nothing but tenderness and reverence.

Your own senses are alight with the acting of giving, each detail etched into your memory. The texture of her beneath you, the taste of her mingling with the aroma of her natural essence, and the sound of her enjoying everything form a tapestry of sensations that you will carry with you long after the night has ended.

She cums with a final, shuddering gasp, a sweet symphony of release that echoes softly through the neighborhood. In that exquisite instant, the tension that had been building for so long gives way to a profound sense of relief and connection. It is as if every whispered sigh and every gentle moan had been leading to this singular, transcendent moment.

Her fingers, still trembling from the aftershocks, reach for you with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. The redheaded pulls you up gently, guiding you until you’re resting against her, your bare and clothed chests warm beneath the quiet hush of the bedroom. Her orbs meet yours—stormy green softened with something that looks like awe, or maybe love—and then her lips are on yours.

It isn’t hurried. It isn’t wild. It’s a kiss full of gratitude, affection, apology. Her thumb brushes your cheek as she pulls back just enough to whisper. “I’m sorry, baby. For reacting like that.”

You can only nod, your heart too full for words. Whatever had weighed on you both before this—whatever doubts or distance—feels far away now, melted in the heat of her touch and the certainty in her voice.

And, of course, there were those who, even feeling jealous, wore it like a mask of indifference. They smiled, made jokes, pretended not to care – but their eyes said otherwise. A slight tremor at the corner of the mouth, a somewhat forced laugh, a quick subject change to hide the flicker of discomfort.

But when it came to the mean redhead with a bangin’ body, it was different. Her jealousy didn’t explode nor hide. It existed in every detail, subtle and precise, a constant reminder that, in her world, you were something precious. Something worth protecting. Something that, if anyone dared to touch, would find, even unknowingly, the silent beast behind the smile.

You realized this early on in your relationship, now eight years strong, and if you were truly honest with yourself, you’d have to admit: you loved her anyway. It wasn’t childish jealousy, the kind that overflows with insecurity or neediness. No. Hers was something more refined, sharp like the edge of a razor blade, burning beneath the surface like a lit cigarette in the fingers of someone who had tried to quit the habit but still relished the scent of the smoke. It was a fire that sparked in the most mundane moments – a dense shadow in her green eyes when a stranger leaned in too close to talk to you at the bar, an almost imperceptible tightening of muscles when the supermarket cashier called you “sweetie” with a smile that lingered a second too long, a dangerous stillness when Ava Coleman blinked exaggeratedly at you in the Abbott Elementary hallways, calling you “boo” just to watch your girlfriend boil over.

And you remembered that day perfectly.

Monday mornings were already hellish enough. The fluorescent lights in the hallways buzzed faintly overhead, blending with the usual start of the week chaos—teachers swapping exhausted stories about their weekends, students shouting and running like they had never learned what walking was, lockers slamming shut with enough force to shake the walls. You were still nursing your rapidly cooling coffee, trying to shake off the sluggishness of the morning, when it happened.

So fast, your brain lagged behind, struggling to process.

One moment, Ms. Schemmenti was standing next to you, her usual morning scowl in place, one hand lazily wrapped around her untouched coffee. Ava was in front of you, chatting—no, flirting—because that was just the irresponsible principal’s favorite way to start the week.

“You’re looking particularly fine today,” she had mused, dragging out the words like she was testing them. Then, glancing at your girlfriend with a devilish smirk, she added. “If you ever need a break from Vito Corleone over here, you know where to find me, babyboo.”

Big mistake.

The second grade teacher’s coffee hit the floor with a wet splat. And then, before anyone could react, she lunged. Like, fully launched herself at her own boss. It was almost cartoonish how fast it happened. One second, Melissa was beside you. The next, she had both arms locked around Ava’s neck, her entire body weight slamming into the taller woman like some kind of feral redheaded linebacker.

The sassy principal screamed. “Hell no! Schemmenti, what the heck?!”

“Say it. Say it again if you want me to break your neck!”

The entire crew froze almost immediately. Janine let out a horrified gasp. Gregory’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. Jacob turned a shade of white you weren’t sure was healthy. Mr. Johnson, completely unbothered, took a slow sip of his coffee. Barb, standing just a few feet away, had barely turned the corner when her hand flew to her chest. “Sweet Baby Jesus and the grown-up too!”

Meanwhile, Ava flailed like a cartoon character, grabbing desperately at Melissa’s firm wrists. “ARE YOU ACTUALLY TRYING TO STRANGLE ME?” she screeched.

The redheaded woman’s face was flushed with rage, her green eyes dark with murderous intent. She tightened her grip slightly, voice coming out low and deadly. “Call her ‘boo’ again, Coleman. I dare you.”

You should step in. You should do something. But for a solid five seconds, all you could do was stare feeling a mix of shock, panic, and, God help you, just a tiny bit of admiration.

“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEBODY GET THIS DEMON OFF ME!” Ava howled, kicking her tall legs in a completely ineffective attempt to break free.

Jacob finally snapped out of his horror-stricken daze, stumbling forward and grabbing his mother figure around the waist. “You can’t just STRANGLE the principal of the school! She’s our boss!” he wheezed, struggling to pull her back.

Melissa resisted for a moment, like she was genuinely considering finishing the job. But then, with a deep exhale, she let go. Ava stumbled backward, coughing violently, hands flying to her throat as she stared at her coworker like she had just been attacked by a rabid raccoon.

“You need THERAPY, bitch!” the tall woman gasped.

Your girlfriend rolled her shoulders back, straightening her jacket as she took a slow, steady breath. Then, in a voice dangerously calm, she tilted her head and said:

“No. But you will if you keep looking at my girl like that.”

Silence.

The only sound was the distant buzzing of the lights and the faint creak of a classroom door opening somewhere down the hall.

Barbara, still clutching her chest, exhaled heavily. “Lord…”

You, finally remembering how to breathe, swallowed hard and glanced at Jacob, who looked seconds away from a full-body shutdown.

“Oh my God…” you muttered, still half-convinced you had hallucinated the whole thing.

Ava held up her hands in surrender. “I will NEVER call her ‘boo’ again. I swear.”

Melissa, now composed, smirked. “Good.” With that, she grabbed your hand and walked off like absolutely nothing had happened.

And you? You savored every moment. It was a silent game between the two of you, a dance choreographed by the veiled possessiveness that the green-eyed woman refused to verbalize, but that burned in the way her fingers marked your hip, in the way her Philadelphian accent grew rougher when someone got too close.

She would never admit it, never. After all, Melissa Schemmenti was a woman made of steel and concrete, forged in a traditional Catholic Italian family where weakness wasn’t allowed. But you knew that when it came to you, that steel would burn. It would turn into something fierce, something wild. It was a beast protecting its territory from a predator, growling softly, ready for a fight.

It was visible in the stiffening of her shoulders, in the way her pupils dilated, in the way her fingers wrapped around your waist with a possessive strength, pulling you close, as if saying without words: my woman. And when her full lips brushed your ear, her voice low and warm like aged whiskey, she murmured, loaded with a delicious threat.

“You’re trying to make me lose my mind, babydoll? You know what happens when you disrespect Mommy.”

And later, that same night, your girlfriend would kiss you with an uncontrollable hunger, her hands holding your face, her body pressed against yours until there was no space left between you except for your labored breaths and the muffled sound of your sighs and moans. Until your legs gave out. Until you begged for mercy.

So when the karaoke night along with the Q&A arrived at Ruby’s and the group was already drunk enough to dance without caring about the rhythm, you decided to have a little fun.

It wasn’t like Melissa wasn’t already completely focused on you. She always was. Even there, in the bar immersed in amber lights, saturated with the smell of alcohol and grease, she stayed glued to you— her arm resting lazily on your back, her fingers tracing slow, hypnotic circles on your shoulder. But you wanted more. Something hotter. Something rougher.

So, you leaned in, your lips brushing the soft skin of her earlobe. “You better not let us lose, Schemmenti. I want to go home with a winner.”

Your girlfriend smiled, that confident smile that always made your stomach flip.

“Oh, please, babe. I have a lifetime of useless facts up here,” she tapped her temple and winked at you. “We’re going to win.”

The night went on with jokes, teases, and generous sips of drinks. The questions ranged from absurdly difficult topics to answers so easy that Jacob nearly had a nervous breakdown trying to explain how people got them wrong. Ava, surprisingly, was excellent at the game and carried the team round after round, delivering insults with the precision of a surgeon. O’shon was impressed by his girlfriend’s performance but kept shy. Sea Barbara was having the time of her life while Janine and Gregory desperately chased her though the whole bar.

In the third round, Melissa was at the bar with Jacob, both engaged in a heated discussion about Roman emperors. Her former roommate insisted that Nero was the worst, but the second-grade teacher, with her passionate tone and expressive hands, delivered a fiery monologue about how Caligula was, without a doubt, the worst creature to ever walk the Earth.

“Nero was the worst, hands down,” the social studies teacher argued, his hands flailing for emphasis. “He burned down Rome, Mel! He literally played the lyre while watching the city go up in flames.”

Your girlfriend scoffed, leaning forward, her eyes ablaze with passion. “Oh, come on, dude! Nero was bad, but Caligula? That man was an unhinged lunatic. He made his horse a senator.”

Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but—”

“Don’t interrupt me! I’m just getting started,” she warned, pointing a finger at him. “This man executed people on a whim. Held orgies so disturbing that even the Romans thought it was too much. And let’s not forget the time he declared war on the damn ocean.”

Her work son blinked. “War on the ocean?”

“Yes! The man ordered his soldiers to attack the sea and then collect seashells as spoils of war!” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “What kind of lunatic does that?”

Jacob snorted, shaking his head. “I still think Nero was worse.”

Melissa huffed, grabbed a peanut from the bowl on the table, and chucked it at him. “You’re an idiot, Hill.”

“You’re just stubborn.”

Narrowing her olive eyes, the redhead lifted her hand and flipped him off. “Fuck you.”

He gasped in mock offense before bursting into laughter. Without warning, the older woman grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight, crushing hug.

“Love you, even though you are a fuckin’ dumbass,” she muttered against his shoulder.

Jacob chuckled, hugging her back. “Love you too, ‘Elissa. But Nero was still worse.”

Melissa pulled back just enough to glare at him before smacking the back of his head after hearing the nickname.

“OUCH! What was that for? I feel like a teenager who was grounded by his mother.”

“You’re lucky I’m drunk, or this argument would last until tomorrow.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Mr. Johnson, with his relaxed posture and sly smile, was trying to bribe the host.

“Listen here, kid. If I give you twenty, do you think you can bump up our score?” he gestured to his team.

The poor college student, clearly tired of the night, rolled his eyes. “Sir, this is trivia, not blackjack. Please respect the rules.”

After the final trivia question, Jacob was practically glowing, his enthusiasm spilling over like a tipped glass, nearly knocking over his drink every time he got an answer right. Beside him, Gregory and Janine were lost in their usual slow-burn headass dynamic, whispering heatedly, orbiting each other like stars destined to collide.

The last round ended, and music poured through the speakers—loud, rhythmic, impossible to ignore. Ava clapped her hands with a flourish, tugging her smiling boyfriend by the jacket. “Alright, losers, time to shake ass.”

Your girlfriend let out a snort full of irony. “Oh, no. Not happening. I won’t dance tonight, A.”

Barbara raised an amused brow, her smile full of quiet mischief. She wasn’t surprised with her best friend’s familiar stubbornness. “Come on, girlfriend, don’t be a party popper. Even Gregory's going.”

The first grade teacher, already halfway to the dance floor thanks to Janine’s persistent tugging, spun around like a man trying to escape fate. “I never said I was going.” But his girlfriend pulled him in anyway, laughing as he stumbled after her.

Jacob squealed with glee, singing out loud.“You say you wanna win it. I wanna see you sweat, put your whole kitty in it.”

And suddenly, the table was empty. Just you and Melissa remained, you turned to her, lips pouted in exaggerated pleading.“C’mon, baby. Dance with me.”

She shook her head slowly, firmly. “You know I don’t do that.”

“Fine,” you sighed. Then, with a sly smile curling at the corners of your mouth. “I’ll just find someone else to dance with.”

Her redbrow lifted, sharp as a challenge. “Yeah?”

That’s how you ended up leaning on the bar, body tilted with practiced ease, casting flirtatious glances at the very attractive bartender. She looked about your age, maybe younger. Short hair, styled with flair, and one arm inked from shoulder to wrist in a tapestry of tattoos.

You twirled a strand of hair around your finger and gave her a knowing smile.

“So, what’s your best drink?”

The bartender smiled back, slowly looking you up and down. “For you? Something really sweet, I think.”

You laughed—really laughed—and rested your hand on the bar, giving her a wink.

But something changed. The air thickened, charged with tension. You felt her before you saw her. That presence. Familiar. Possessive. Magnetic.

Melissa Schemmenti’s hand landed on your hip, firm, warm, grounding.

“We’re leaving,” her tone was low, a growl made of gravel and storm. “Screw this stupid night.”

Your stomach flipped in anticipation. Yes. That was the reaction you’d wanted. She would get pissed off and fuck you later. You turned, fully expecting the heat in her green eyes—the fire that told you you’d pay for this later.

But what you saw wasn’t fire. It was ruin.

Melissa looked shattered. You didn’t get the words out. She yanked you away from the bar, out into the night, where cold air bit at your skin.

And then, she erupted.

“What the fuck was that?!” your girlfriend shouted under the weight of emotion. Her face flushed, streaked with silent tears.

“Baby, I just...”

Smack. The slap was light. Reflexive. Born of frustration more than anger. But your eyes widened anyway.

Melissa never hit you. Not even during sex.

She recoiled immediately, hand flying to her mouth, as if to muffle the sound that still echoed between you. “I’m not some fuckin’ animal for you to play with.”

“Lis?”

She looked away, trembling.

“You don’t want me anymore, do you?"

And then you understood. She wasn’t angry. She was scared. You reached for the older woman, but she pulled back like your touch would shatter her.

“Jesus… I’m fifty. What am I even doing with you? I should’ve known… I should’ve known.”

Your eyes stung with unshed tears.

“Mel, what are you talking about?”

She swallowed hard, a sob catching in her throat.“Joe used to do that to me, you know?”

You gulped.

Melissa never talked about her ex-husband.

“He’d flirt with other women right in front of me. Just to remind me he could. And when I got upset, he’d make me feel crazy. Like I was pathetic for thinking I could ever keep him.”

Nausea rose in your throat, bitter and sharp.

Her lips trembled with memories too heavy to hold. “I thought you loved me.”

Those words broke you. “I do. I love you so much.”

She didn’t answer back, instead she closed her eyes and asked. “Can we just go home?”

The ride home was silent. Melissa sat curled against the door, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring out the window like she wanted to be anywhere but here. By the time you pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, she was already out of the car, heading straight inside without a word.

You followed, feeling your stomach twist as you stepped into the house.

She was in the kitchen, standing by the counter, her back to you. Her arms were still wrapped around herself, fingers gripping at her sleeves, like she was trying to hold herself together.

You took a slow, cautious step forward and sighed heavily. “Honey.”

Your girlfriend didn’t look at you. Just let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?”

Finally, she turned, and the look on her face shattered you. “This. Us.”

A sharp, horrible fear lodged in your throat.

“Lissa, please.”

“I love you.” The words were rushed, raw. “I love you so much it scares the shit outta me. And I—” She swallowed hard. “I can’t go through that bullshit again. I won’t.”

The second grade teacher was trembling now, holding herself so tightly it looked like she might break apart.

And you couldn’t let her think like this—not for another second.

You surged forward, wrapping your arms around her, pressing her tight against your chest. She resisted for half a second before melting into you, her whole body sagging.

“You won’t,” you whispered into her hair. “I swear to god, you won’t.”

Melissa let out a ragged breath, her arms still locked around herself even as she pressed her face against your shoulder.

“I was stupid,” you murmured, stroking her back, voice thick with guilt. “I thought I was just messing around, but I hurt you, and I hate myself for it.” You cupped the back of her head, tilting her face up just enough to meet her eyes. “You’re my everything, Mel. No one else. Just you.”

Her plump lips trembled.

“I love you,” you sobbed. “I love you so much.”

Something in her cracked then, her breath shuddering as she let go of herself and finally grabbed onto you.

And then she was kissing you.

Desperate, messy, all shaky hands and tear-stained cheeks. She kissed you like she needed proof that you were still here, that you weren’t going anywhere. You kissed her back just as fiercely, one hand on her cheek, the other gripping her waist, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world—because Melissa Schemmenti was.

The redhead let out a shaky tiny noise against your lips, and you pulled back just enough to whisper, “Let me make it up to you.”

She swallowed, her forehead resting against yours, her breath still uneven. “H-How?”

You ran your hands slowly down her sides, soft and reverent, looking her straight in the eyes. “By showing you exactly how much I want you.”

A flicker of something passed through her eyes—uncertainty, vulnerability—but then her grip on your shirt tightened, and she nodded.

“Okay.”

And you kissed her again, slow and deep, determined to make her feel everything she had doubted tonight.

After a few more promises and kisses, Melissa led you upstairs, her grip on your hand tight, like she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go.

As you guided her toward your shared bedroom, your fingers tracing gentle patterns on her milky skin. Every step she took was hesitant, but you could see the hunger and need flickering behind her green eyes, along with the insecurity she’d shown you earlier.

When you reached the bed, your girlfriend hesitated, her fingers twitching at the hem of her shirt. Her cheeks were already flushed, a obvious combination of arousal and nervousness. You knew this side of her. The part that fought against vulnerability, the part that still struggled to believe she could be adored so thoroughly after decades of being humiliated by her ex-husband.

“C’mere,” you coaxed.

She breathed through her nose, then finally pulled the fabric over her head, dropping it to the floor as she laid down on the bed. Your breath caught as you took her in—her full, round breasts rising and falling with every uneven breath, her pink nipples already hardened in anticipation. She was beautiful. She was yours

But as soon as the cool air hit her hourglass figure, her arms reflexively crossed over her chest, shielding herself. “Y-you don’t have to do this,” she stuttered.

You stepped closer, gently brushing her arms aside. “None of that. Let me love you,” you reply, meeting her eyes, making sure she saw nothing but adoration in your gaze. You started slow, pressing kisses to her shoulders, trailing down the slope of her collarbone. The tension in her muscles eased little by little as you continued, your lips moving lower until they reached the soft swell of her breast.

Melissa let out a shaky breath, her fingers gripping the white sheets behind her.

The moment your mouth closed around one of her sensitive nipples, she gasped, her back arching instinctively. You sucked lightly at first, teasing, circling your tongue around the stiff peak. The way her breath hitched sent a rush of heat through you, and you did it again, this time flicking your tongue against the sensitive bud before wrapping your lips around it completely.

“Jesus H. Christ,” she groaned. Her fingers found their way into your hair, tangling there as if grounding herself.

You hummed against her skin, feeling the way she shivered in response. Your other hand moved to her neglected breast, cupping its warmth, your thumb brushing over her nipple in slow, deliberate strokes. Melissa’s hips shifted restlessly, and you could feel the heat radiating from her, the growing need that she was barely keeping at bay.

Her swollen lip was caught between her teeth as she tried to suppress the noises spilling from her throat, but it was useless. When you sucked harder, she let out a choked moan, her grip on you tightening.

“Fuck,” the older woman whispered, the curse slipping from her lips like a prayer. “Just like that…”

“Yeah? Does my pretty girl like this?” you asked before switching to her other breast, making sure to give it the same attention, sucking and licking until your girlfriend was writhing beneath you. She cursed again, raspier now, more desperate.

“God, honey,” Melissa groaned, her green eyes fluttering open just enough to look at you. The sight of you—your mouth on her, your hands worshiping every inch of her—made her chest rise and fall even quicker. “You are so good.”

She placed her hand over yours where it cupped her breast, silently urging you to squeeze harder, to give her more. You obeyed, kneading the soft flesh in your palm, rolling her nipple between your fingers while your tongue worked the other. Melissa threw her head back, her breath catching in her throat as pleasure coursed through her.

“Shit,” she panted, her thighs clenching together. “You’re gonna—” her words broke off into another moan as you sucked particularly hard.

You could feel her body trembling, could hear the way her voice wavered between curses and needy gasps. She was unraveling under you, and you weren’t about to stop now.

As you continued, your free hand trailed down her stomach, inching closer to where you knew she needed you most. Melissa’s breath hitched again, her entire body tensing in anticipation. She was already wet—you could tell just by the way she squirmed, by the way her hips kept shifting toward you.

You released her nipple with a soft, teasing kiss, then glanced up at her, meeting her darkened gaze. Her lips were swollen from how hard she’d been biting them, her pupils blown wide with desire.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmured, your fingers slipping lower.

The green eyed woman shuddered at your words, her hands gripping your shoulders now. “You’re fuckin’ unreal,” she breathed, as your mouth traveled lower, brushing over her soft belly. “I need you.”

You didn’t make her wait.

Melissa reclines further on a now rumpled white duvet, her skin aglow under the gentle caress of a bedside lamp. Her gaze meet yours as if silently inviting you to explore every inch of her. Though her sultry allure is undeniable, there’s an obvious shyness in the way she quivers, a subtle reminder that beneath the polished exterior, she is as human and tender as anyone could be.

You step forward, drawn inexorably to her magnetic presence. As you kneel between her spread legs, you become acutely aware of every detail—the way her heart flutters in the quiet moments before passion takes over, the delicate rise and fall of her chest, the soft hum of her breath that mingles with the ambient sound of a distant rain. It is in this space, at the precipice between fantasy and reality, that you begin to trace your own exploration of her body.

Your eyes travel slowly over her form, and you can’t help but admire the intricate interplay of contrasts. Her red pubic hair, neatly trimmed and soft to the touch, frames her most intimate parts with an unexpected elegance. With a sense of reverence and delight, you gently guide your nose along the tender patch, inhaling the uniquely intoxicating scent of her skin mixed with the subtle hints of shampoo and the lingering aroma of passion. The sensation is both curious and deeply erotic, a melding of senses that intensifies your connection.

Melissa moans, a tentative sound that gradually builds into a crescendo of pleasure. Though her voice trembles with shyness, every note carries a resonance of desire, hinting at an inner fire that is waiting to be fully ignited. Encouraged by her reaction, you lean in further, your warm breath mingling with her soft, arched exhale. Your hand caresses her thigh, slowly working its way upward, tracing patterns along her smooth meat flesh as if mapping out a treasure. The contact sends ripples of delight through her.

“That’s it, baby,” she pants. “Give it to me. Just fucking eat me out.”

Obeying, you lower your head, your tongue seeking out the very heart of her pussy. The moment your tongue makes contact, the bedroom seems to fill with the heady scent of her arousal. You begin with gentle flicks, tasting her essence, savoring the salt and the sweet tang that is uniquely hers.

Melissa parts her lips. “Yes… yes, please.”

As you work, your nose remains in contact with that enticing patch of trimmed red hair—a tactile reminder of the natural beauty that frames her most intimate self. The juxtaposition of the soft fuzz against your skin, the lingering warmth of your breath on her flesh, creates a symphony of sensations that both of you share. Her hands grip the sheets in silent encouragement, her body arching ever so slightly as if to offer you more, to signal that she is ready to surrender to this shared passion.

Your girlfriend’s whimpering grows louder, a combination of pleasure and the bittersweet vulnerability of someone who has long guarded her deepest desires. In the gentle rhythm of your attentions, you hear the subtle cadence of her voice, a melody that rises and falls with every wave of sensation. Even in her shyness, there is an undeniable strength; every gasp and every sigh is a testament to the courage it takes to expose oneself so completely.

You notice how her eyes close tighter, her lashes brushing her flushed cheeks as if trying to capture every sensation. The contrast between her shyness and the bold passion of her moans creates an alluring paradox, one that only deepens your resolve to explore every hidden corner of her.

The warmth of your body pressed against hers, the intertwining of your breaths, all contribute to a growing intimacy that transcends the physical act. It’s as if every touch, every caress, is a silent conversation—a dialogue that speaks of trust, longing, and the exquisite pleasure of being seen and understood in your most vulnerable state. And in that quiet exchange, you find a beauty that is both raw and transformative.

Your flat tongue dances along her contours, tight walls, varying its pace and pressure in an attempt to coax every moan and every shudder from her. The taste of her juice is intoxicating—a heady blend that speaks of secrets, dreams, and the deeply personal nature of desire. Every now and then, you pause, allowing the anticipation to build, savoring the silence that hangs heavy with unspoken apologies. In those pauses, you can almost hear the language of her hourglass shape, the subtle signals that tell you exactly how far to push, where to slow down, and when to simply be.

Her moans soon evolve into words, breathless confessions of pleasure that escape her mouth between shudders.

“Oh…” she gasps, a single syllable laden with meaning, a delicate sound that sends fresh waves of warmth surging through you. It is in these moment that you realize the power of your actions—not just in the physical pleasure you are bestowing, but in the way you are helping her to embrace every facet of her own self.

As the older woman gets closer and closer, you become increasingly attuned to the subtle shifts in her rhythm. Her breathing deepens, her body trembles with each passing second, and you know that the boundary between anticipation and fulfillment is drawing ever closer.

“Mmm,” you groan. “My good girl tastes so sweet.”

Her breath stutters, heat blooming low in her stomach all over again.

The feeling is that you are both artists and muses, engaged in a performance that is as much about emotion as it is about physical sensation. The interplay of your hands, your tongues, and your hearts creates a tableau of raw, unfiltered desire—one that is both fleeting and timeless.

Minutes stretch into what feels like an eternity of ecstasy. Melissa’s whines become a constant, a beautiful chorus that underscores the symphony unfolding between you. The sound of her raspy breathing, sometimes tentative, sometimes urgent, is a living reminder of the beauty found in vulnerability—a vulnerability that, in this sacred space, has been met with nothing but tenderness and reverence.

Your own senses are alight with the acting of giving, each detail etched into your memory. The texture of her beneath you, the taste of her mingling with the aroma of her natural essence, and the sound of her enjoying everything form a tapestry of sensations that you will carry with you long after the night has ended.

She cums with a final, shuddering gasp, a sweet symphony of release that echoes softly through the neighborhood. In that exquisite instant, the tension that had been building for so long gives way to a profound sense of relief and connection. It is as if every whispered sigh and every gentle moan had been leading to this singular, transcendent moment.

Her fingers, still trembling from the aftershocks, reach for you with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. The redheaded pulls you up gently, guiding you until you’re resting against her, your bare and clothed chests warm beneath the quiet hush of the bedroom. Her orbs meet yours—stormy green softened with something that looks like awe, or maybe love—and then her lips are on yours.

It isn’t hurried. It isn’t wild. It’s a kiss full of gratitude, affection, apology. Her thumb brushes your cheek as she pulls back just enough to whisper. “I’m sorry, baby. For reacting like that.”

You can only nod, your heart too full for words. Whatever had weighed on you both before this—whatever doubts or distance—feels far away now, melted in the heat of her touch and the certainty in her voice.

And, of course, there were those who, even feeling jealous, wore it like a mask of indifference. They smiled, made jokes, pretended not to care – but their eyes said otherwise. A slight tremor at the corner of the mouth, a somewhat forced laugh, a quick subject change to hide the flicker of discomfort.

But when it came to the mean redhead with a bangin’ body, it was different. Her jealousy didn’t explode nor hide. It existed in every detail, subtle and precise, a constant reminder that, in her world, you were something precious. Something worth protecting. Something that, if anyone dared to touch, would find, even unknowingly, the silent beast behind the smile.

You realized this early on in your relationship, now eight years strong, and if you were truly honest with yourself, you’d have to admit: you loved her anyway. It wasn’t childish jealousy, the kind that overflows with insecurity or neediness. No. Hers was something more refined, sharp like the edge of a razor blade, burning beneath the surface like a lit cigarette in the fingers of someone who had tried to quit the habit but still relished the scent of the smoke. It was a fire that sparked in the most mundane moments – a dense shadow in her green eyes when a stranger leaned in too close to talk to you at the bar, an almost imperceptible tightening of muscles when the supermarket cashier called you “sweetie” with a smile that lingered a second too long, a dangerous stillness when Ava Coleman blinked exaggeratedly at you in the Abbott Elementary hallways, calling you “boo” just to watch your girlfriend boil over.

And you remembered that day perfectly.

Monday mornings were already hellish enough. The fluorescent lights in the hallways buzzed faintly overhead, blending with the usual start of the week chaos—teachers swapping exhausted stories about their weekends, students shouting and running like they had never learned what walking was, lockers slamming shut with enough force to shake the walls. You were still nursing your rapidly cooling coffee, trying to shake off the sluggishness of the morning, when it happened.

So fast, your brain lagged behind, struggling to process.

One moment, Ms. Schemmenti was standing next to you, her usual morning scowl in place, one hand lazily wrapped around her untouched coffee. Ava was in front of you, chatting—no, flirting—because that was just the irresponsible principal’s favorite way to start the week.

“You’re looking particularly fine today,” she had mused, dragging out the words like she was testing them. Then, glancing at your girlfriend with a devilish smirk, she added. “If you ever need a break from Vito Corleone over here, you know where to find me, babyboo.”

Big mistake.

The second grade teacher’s coffee hit the floor with a wet splat. And then, before anyone could react, she lunged. Like, fully launched herself at her own boss. It was almost cartoonish how fast it happened. One second, Melissa was beside you. The next, she had both arms locked around Ava’s neck, her entire body weight slamming into the taller woman like some kind of feral redheaded linebacker.

The sassy principal screamed. “Hell no! Schemmenti, what the heck?!”

“Say it. Say it again if you want me to break your neck!”

The entire crew froze almost immediately. Janine let out a horrified gasp. Gregory’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline. Jacob turned a shade of white you weren’t sure was healthy. Mr. Johnson, completely unbothered, took a slow sip of his coffee. Barb, standing just a few feet away, had barely turned the corner when her hand flew to her chest. “Sweet Baby Jesus and the grown-up too!”

Meanwhile, Ava flailed like a cartoon character, grabbing desperately at Melissa’s firm wrists. “ARE YOU ACTUALLY TRYING TO STRANGLE ME?” she screeched.

The redheaded woman’s face was flushed with rage, her green eyes dark with murderous intent. She tightened her grip slightly, voice coming out low and deadly. “Call her ‘boo’ again, Coleman. I dare you.”

You should step in. You should do something. But for a solid five seconds, all you could do was stare feeling a mix of shock, panic, and, God help you, just a tiny bit of admiration.

“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SOMEBODY GET THIS DEMON OFF ME!” Ava howled, kicking her tall legs in a completely ineffective attempt to break free.

Jacob finally snapped out of his horror-stricken daze, stumbling forward and grabbing his mother figure around the waist. “You can’t just STRANGLE the principal of the school! She’s our boss!” he wheezed, struggling to pull her back.

Melissa resisted for a moment, like she was genuinely considering finishing the job. But then, with a deep exhale, she let go. Ava stumbled backward, coughing violently, hands flying to her throat as she stared at her coworker like she had just been attacked by a rabid raccoon.

“You need THERAPY, bitch!” the tall woman gasped.

Your girlfriend rolled her shoulders back, straightening her jacket as she took a slow, steady breath. Then, in a voice dangerously calm, she tilted her head and said:

“No. But you will if you keep looking at my girl like that.”

Silence.

The only sound was the distant buzzing of the lights and the faint creak of a classroom door opening somewhere down the hall.

Barbara, still clutching her chest, exhaled heavily. “Lord…”

You, finally remembering how to breathe, swallowed hard and glanced at Jacob, who looked seconds away from a full-body shutdown.

“Oh my God…” you muttered, still half-convinced you had hallucinated the whole thing.

Ava held up her hands in surrender. “I will NEVER call her ‘boo’ again. I swear.”

Melissa, now composed, smirked. “Good.” With that, she grabbed your hand and walked off like absolutely nothing had happened.

And you? You savored every moment. It was a silent game between the two of you, a dance choreographed by the veiled possessiveness that the green-eyed woman refused to verbalize, but that burned in the way her fingers marked your hip, in the way her Philadelphian accent grew rougher when someone got too close.

She would never admit it, never. After all, Melissa Schemmenti was a woman made of steel and concrete, forged in a traditional Catholic Italian family where weakness wasn’t allowed. But you knew that when it came to you, that steel would burn. It would turn into something fierce, something wild. It was a beast protecting its territory from a predator, growling softly, ready for a fight.

It was visible in the stiffening of her shoulders, in the way her pupils dilated, in the way her fingers wrapped around your waist with a possessive strength, pulling you close, as if saying without words: my woman. And when her full lips brushed your ear, her voice low and warm like aged whiskey, she murmured, loaded with a delicious threat.

“You’re trying to make me lose my mind, babydoll? You know what happens when you disrespect Mommy.”

And later, that same night, your girlfriend would kiss you with an uncontrollable hunger, her hands holding your face, her body pressed against yours until there was no space left between you except for your labored breaths and the muffled sound of your sighs and moans. Until your legs gave out. Until you begged for mercy.

So when the karaoke night along with the Q&A arrived at Ruby’s and the group was already drunk enough to dance without caring about the rhythm, you decided to have a little fun.

It wasn’t like Melissa wasn’t already completely focused on you. She always was. Even there, in the bar immersed in amber lights, saturated with the smell of alcohol and grease, she stayed glued to you— her arm resting lazily on your back, her fingers tracing slow, hypnotic circles on your shoulder. But you wanted more. Something hotter. Something rougher.

So, you leaned in, your lips brushing the soft skin of her earlobe. “You better not let us lose, Schemmenti. I want to go home with a winner.”

Your girlfriend smiled, that confident smile that always made your stomach flip.

“Oh, please, babe. I have a lifetime of useless facts up here,” she tapped her temple and winked at you. “We’re going to win.”

The night went on with jokes, teases, and generous sips of drinks. The questions ranged from absurdly difficult topics to answers so easy that Jacob nearly had a nervous breakdown trying to explain how people got them wrong. Ava, surprisingly, was excellent at the game and carried the team round after round, delivering insults with the precision of a surgeon. O’shon was impressed by his girlfriend’s performance but kept shy. Sea Barbara was having the time of her life while Janine and Gregory desperately chased her though the whole bar.

In the third round, Melissa was at the bar with Jacob, both engaged in a heated discussion about Roman emperors. Her former roommate insisted that Nero was the worst, but the second-grade teacher, with her passionate tone and expressive hands, delivered a fiery monologue about how Caligula was, without a doubt, the worst creature to ever walk the Earth.

“Nero was the worst, hands down,” the social studies teacher argued, his hands flailing for emphasis. “He burned down Rome, Mel! He literally played the lyre while watching the city go up in flames.”

Your girlfriend scoffed, leaning forward, her eyes ablaze with passion. “Oh, come on, dude! Nero was bad, but Caligula? That man was an unhinged lunatic. He made his horse a senator.”

Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Okay, but—”

“Don’t interrupt me! I’m just getting started,” she warned, pointing a finger at him. “This man executed people on a whim. Held orgies so disturbing that even the Romans thought it was too much. And let’s not forget the time he declared war on the damn ocean.”

Her work son blinked. “War on the ocean?”

“Yes! The man ordered his soldiers to attack the sea and then collect seashells as spoils of war!” She threw her hands up in exasperation. “What kind of lunatic does that?”

Jacob snorted, shaking his head. “I still think Nero was worse.”

Melissa huffed, grabbed a peanut from the bowl on the table, and chucked it at him. “You’re an idiot, Hill.”

“You’re just stubborn.”

Narrowing her olive eyes, the redhead lifted her hand and flipped him off. “Fuck you.”

He gasped in mock offense before bursting into laughter. Without warning, the older woman grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight, crushing hug.

“Love you, even though you are a fuckin’ dumbass,” she muttered against his shoulder.

Jacob chuckled, hugging her back. “Love you too, ‘Elissa. But Nero was still worse.”

Melissa pulled back just enough to glare at him before smacking the back of his head after hearing the nickname.

“OUCH! What was that for? I feel like a teenager who was grounded by his mother.”

“You’re lucky I’m drunk, or this argument would last until tomorrow.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Mr. Johnson, with his relaxed posture and sly smile, was trying to bribe the host.

“Listen here, kid. If I give you twenty, do you think you can bump up our score?” he gestured to his team.

The poor college student, clearly tired of the night, rolled his eyes. “Sir, this is trivia, not blackjack. Please respect the rules.”

After the final trivia question, Jacob was practically glowing, his enthusiasm spilling over like a tipped glass, nearly knocking over his drink every time he got an answer right. Beside him, Gregory and Janine were lost in their usual slow-burn headass dynamic, whispering heatedly, orbiting each other like stars destined to collide.

The last round ended, and music poured through the speakers—loud, rhythmic, impossible to ignore. Ava clapped her hands with a flourish, tugging her smiling boyfriend by the jacket. “Alright, losers, time to shake ass.”

Your girlfriend let out a snort full of irony. “Oh, no. Not happening. I won’t dance tonight, A.”

Barbara raised an amused brow, her smile full of quiet mischief. She wasn’t surprised with her best friend’s familiar stubbornness. “Come on, girlfriend, don’t be a party popper. Even Gregory's going.”

The first grade teacher, already halfway to the dance floor thanks to Janine’s persistent tugging, spun around like a man trying to escape fate. “I never said I was going.” But his girlfriend pulled him in anyway, laughing as he stumbled after her.

Jacob squealed with glee, singing out loud.“You say you wanna win it. I wanna see you sweat, put your whole kitty in it.”

And suddenly, the table was empty. Just you and Melissa remained, you turned to her, lips pouted in exaggerated pleading.“C’mon, baby. Dance with me.”

She shook her head slowly, firmly. “You know I don’t do that.”

“Fine,” you sighed. Then, with a sly smile curling at the corners of your mouth. “I’ll just find someone else to dance with.”

Her redbrow lifted, sharp as a challenge. “Yeah?”

That’s how you ended up leaning on the bar, body tilted with practiced ease, casting flirtatious glances at the very attractive bartender. She looked about your age, maybe younger. Short hair, styled with flair, and one arm inked from shoulder to wrist in a tapestry of tattoos.

You twirled a strand of hair around your finger and gave her a knowing smile.

“So, what’s your best drink?”

The bartender smiled back, slowly looking you up and down. “For you? Something really sweet, I think.”

You laughed—really laughed—and rested your hand on the bar, giving her a wink.

But something changed. The air thickened, charged with tension. You felt her before you saw her. That presence. Familiar. Possessive. Magnetic.

Melissa Schemmenti’s hand landed on your hip, firm, warm, grounding.

“We’re leaving,” her tone was low, a growl made of gravel and storm. “Screw this stupid night.”

Your stomach flipped in anticipation. Yes. That was the reaction you’d wanted. She would get pissed off and fuck you later. You turned, fully expecting the heat in her green eyes—the fire that told you you’d pay for this later.

But what you saw wasn’t fire. It was ruin.

Melissa looked shattered. You didn’t get the words out. She yanked you away from the bar, out into the night, where cold air bit at your skin.

And then, she erupted.

“What the fuck was that?!” your girlfriend shouted under the weight of emotion. Her face flushed, streaked with silent tears.

“Baby, I just...”

Smack. The slap was light. Reflexive. Born of frustration more than anger. But your eyes widened anyway.

Melissa never hit you. Not even during sex.

She recoiled immediately, hand flying to her mouth, as if to muffle the sound that still echoed between you. “I’m not some fuckin’ animal for you to play with.”

“Lis?”

She looked away, trembling.

“You don’t want me anymore, do you?"

And then you understood. She wasn’t angry. She was scared. You reached for the older woman, but she pulled back like your touch would shatter her.

“Jesus… I’m fifty. What am I even doing with you? I should’ve known… I should’ve known.”

Your eyes stung with unshed tears.

“Mel, what are you talking about?”

She swallowed hard, a sob catching in her throat.“Joe used to do that to me, you know?”

You gulped.

Melissa never talked about her ex-husband.

“He’d flirt with other women right in front of me. Just to remind me he could. And when I got upset, he’d make me feel crazy. Like I was pathetic for thinking I could ever keep him.”

Nausea rose in your throat, bitter and sharp.

Her lips trembled with memories too heavy to hold. “I thought you loved me.”

Those words broke you. “I do. I love you so much.”

She didn’t answer back, instead she closed her eyes and asked. “Can we just go home?”

The ride home was silent. Melissa sat curled against the door, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring out the window like she wanted to be anywhere but here. By the time you pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, she was already out of the car, heading straight inside without a word.

You followed, feeling your stomach twist as you stepped into the house.

She was in the kitchen, standing by the counter, her back to you. Her arms were still wrapped around herself, fingers gripping at her sleeves, like she was trying to hold herself together.

You took a slow, cautious step forward and sighed heavily. “Honey.”

Your girlfriend didn’t look at you. Just let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?”

Finally, she turned, and the look on her face shattered you. “This. Us.”

A sharp, horrible fear lodged in your throat.

“Lissa, please.”

“I love you.” The words were rushed, raw. “I love you so much it scares the shit outta me. And I—” She swallowed hard. “I can’t go through that bullshit again. I won’t.”

The second grade teacher was trembling now, holding herself so tightly it looked like she might break apart.

And you couldn’t let her think like this—not for another second.

You surged forward, wrapping your arms around her, pressing her tight against your chest. She resisted for half a second before melting into you, her whole body sagging.

“You won’t,” you whispered into her hair. “I swear to god, you won’t.”

Melissa let out a ragged breath, her arms still locked around herself even as she pressed her face against your shoulder.

“I was stupid,” you murmured, stroking her back, voice thick with guilt. “I thought I was just messing around, but I hurt you, and I hate myself for it.” You cupped the back of her head, tilting her face up just enough to meet her eyes. “You’re my everything, Mel. No one else. Just you.”

Her plump lips trembled.

“I love you,” you sobbed. “I love you so much.”

Something in her cracked then, her breath shuddering as she let go of herself and finally grabbed onto you.

And then she was kissing you.

Desperate, messy, all shaky hands and tear-stained cheeks. She kissed you like she needed proof that you were still here, that you weren’t going anywhere. You kissed her back just as fiercely, one hand on her cheek, the other gripping her waist, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world—because Melissa Schemmenti was.

The redhead let out a shaky tiny noise against your lips, and you pulled back just enough to whisper, “Let me make it up to you.”

She swallowed, her forehead resting against yours, her breath still uneven. “H-How?”

You ran your hands slowly down her sides, soft and reverent, looking her straight in the eyes. “By showing you exactly how much I want you.”

A flicker of something passed through her eyes—uncertainty, vulnerability—but then her grip on your shirt tightened, and she nodded.

“Okay.”

And you kissed her again, slow and deep, determined to make her feel everything she had doubted tonight.

After a few more promises and kisses, Melissa led you upstairs, her grip on your hand tight, like she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go.

As you guided her toward your shared bedroom, your fingers tracing gentle patterns on her milky skin. Every step she took was hesitant, but you could see the hunger and need flickering behind her green eyes, along with the insecurity she’d shown you earlier.

When you reached the bed, your girlfriend hesitated, her fingers twitching at the hem of her shirt. Her cheeks were already flushed, a obvious combination of arousal and nervousness. You knew this side of her. The part that fought against vulnerability, the part that still struggled to believe she could be adored so thoroughly after decades of being humiliated by her ex-husband.

“C’mere,” you coaxed.

She breathed through her nose, then finally pulled the fabric over her head, dropping it to the floor as she laid down on the bed. Your breath caught as you took her in—her full, round breasts rising and falling with every uneven breath, her pink nipples already hardened in anticipation. She was beautiful. She was yours

But as soon as the cool air hit her hourglass figure, her arms reflexively crossed over her chest, shielding herself. “Y-you don’t have to do this,” she stuttered.

You stepped closer, gently brushing her arms aside. “None of that. Let me love you,” you reply, meeting her eyes, making sure she saw nothing but adoration in your gaze. You started slow, pressing kisses to her shoulders, trailing down the slope of her collarbone. The tension in her muscles eased little by little as you continued, your lips moving lower until they reached the soft swell of her breast.

Melissa let out a shaky breath, her fingers gripping the white sheets behind her.

The moment your mouth closed around one of her sensitive nipples, she gasped, her back arching instinctively. You sucked lightly at first, teasing, circling your tongue around the stiff peak. The way her breath hitched sent a rush of heat through you, and you did it again, this time flicking your tongue against the sensitive bud before wrapping your lips around it completely.

“Jesus H. Christ,” she groaned. Her fingers found their way into your hair, tangling there as if grounding herself.

You hummed against her skin, feeling the way she shivered in response. Your other hand moved to her neglected breast, cupping its warmth, your thumb brushing over her nipple in slow, deliberate strokes. Melissa’s hips shifted restlessly, and you could feel the heat radiating from her, the growing need that she was barely keeping at bay.

Her swollen lip was caught between her teeth as she tried to suppress the noises spilling from her throat, but it was useless. When you sucked harder, she let out a choked moan, her grip on you tightening.

“Fuck,” the older woman whispered, the curse slipping from her lips like a prayer. “Just like that…”

“Yeah? Does my pretty girl like this?” you asked before switching to her other breast, making sure to give it the same attention, sucking and licking until your girlfriend was writhing beneath you. She cursed again, raspier now, more desperate.

“God, honey,” Melissa groaned, her green eyes fluttering open just enough to look at you. The sight of you—your mouth on her, your hands worshiping every inch of her—made her chest rise and fall even quicker. “You are so good.”

She placed her hand over yours where it cupped her breast, silently urging you to squeeze harder, to give her more. You obeyed, kneading the soft flesh in your palm, rolling her nipple between your fingers while your tongue worked the other. Melissa threw her head back, her breath catching in her throat as pleasure coursed through her.

“Shit,” she panted, her thighs clenching together. “You’re gonna—” her words broke off into another moan as you sucked particularly hard.

You could feel her body trembling, could hear the way her voice wavered between curses and needy gasps. She was unraveling under you, and you weren’t about to stop now.

As you continued, your free hand trailed down her stomach, inching closer to where you knew she needed you most. Melissa’s breath hitched again, her entire body tensing in anticipation. She was already wet—you could tell just by the way she squirmed, by the way her hips kept shifting toward you.

You released her nipple with a soft, teasing kiss, then glanced up at her, meeting her darkened gaze. Her lips were swollen from how hard she’d been biting them, her pupils blown wide with desire.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmured, your fingers slipping lower.

The green eyed woman shuddered at your words, her hands gripping your shoulders now. “You’re fuckin’ unreal,” she breathed, as your mouth traveled lower, brushing over her soft belly. “I need you.”

You didn’t make her wait.

Melissa reclines further on a now rumpled white duvet, her skin aglow under the gentle caress of a bedside lamp. Her gaze meet yours as if silently inviting you to explore every inch of her. Though her sultry allure is undeniable, there’s an obvious shyness in the way she quivers, a subtle reminder that beneath the polished exterior, she is as human and tender as anyone could be.

You step forward, drawn inexorably to her magnetic presence. As you kneel between her spread legs, you become acutely aware of every detail—the way her heart flutters in the quiet moments before passion takes over, the delicate rise and fall of her chest, the soft hum of her breath that mingles with the ambient sound of a distant rain. It is in this space, at the precipice between fantasy and reality, that you begin to trace your own exploration of her body.

Your eyes travel slowly over her form, and you can’t help but admire the intricate interplay of contrasts. Her red pubic hair, neatly trimmed and soft to the touch, frames her most intimate parts with an unexpected elegance. With a sense of reverence and delight, you gently guide your nose along the tender patch, inhaling the uniquely intoxicating scent of her skin mixed with the subtle hints of shampoo and the lingering aroma of passion. The sensation is both curious and deeply erotic, a melding of senses that intensifies your connection.

Melissa moans, a tentative sound that gradually builds into a crescendo of pleasure. Though her voice trembles with shyness, every note carries a resonance of desire, hinting at an inner fire that is waiting to be fully ignited. Encouraged by her reaction, you lean in further, your warm breath mingling with her soft, arched exhale. Your hand caresses her thigh, slowly working its way upward, tracing patterns along her smooth meat flesh as if mapping out a treasure. The contact sends ripples of delight through her.

“That’s it, baby,” she pants. “Give it to me. Just fucking eat me out.”

Obeying, you lower your head, your tongue seeking out the very heart of her pussy. The moment your tongue makes contact, the bedroom seems to fill with the heady scent of her arousal. You begin with gentle flicks, tasting her essence, savoring the salt and the sweet tang that is uniquely hers.

Melissa parts her lips. “Yes… yes, please.”

As you work, your nose remains in contact with that enticing patch of trimmed red hair—a tactile reminder of the natural beauty that frames her most intimate self. The juxtaposition of the soft fuzz against your skin, the lingering warmth of your breath on her flesh, creates a symphony of sensations that both of you share. Her hands grip the sheets in silent encouragement, her body arching ever so slightly as if to offer you more, to signal that she is ready to surrender to this shared passion.

Your girlfriend’s whimpering grows louder, a combination of pleasure and the bittersweet vulnerability of someone who has long guarded her deepest desires. In the gentle rhythm of your attentions, you hear the subtle cadence of her voice, a melody that rises and falls with every wave of sensation. Even in her shyness, there is an undeniable strength; every gasp and every sigh is a testament to the courage it takes to expose oneself so completely.

You notice how her eyes close tighter, her lashes brushing her flushed cheeks as if trying to capture every sensation. The contrast between her shyness and the bold passion of her moans creates an alluring paradox, one that only deepens your resolve to explore every hidden corner of her.

The warmth of your body pressed against hers, the intertwining of your breaths, all contribute to a growing intimacy that transcends the physical act. It’s as if every touch, every caress, is a silent conversation—a dialogue that speaks of trust, longing, and the exquisite pleasure of being seen and understood in your most vulnerable state. And in that quiet exchange, you find a beauty that is both raw and transformative.

Your flat tongue dances along her contours, tight walls, varying its pace and pressure in an attempt to coax every moan and every shudder from her. The taste of her juice is intoxicating—a heady blend that speaks of secrets, dreams, and the deeply personal nature of desire. Every now and then, you pause, allowing the anticipation to build, savoring the silence that hangs heavy with unspoken apologies. In those pauses, you can almost hear the language of her hourglass shape, the subtle signals that tell you exactly how far to push, where to slow down, and when to simply be.

Her moans soon evolve into words, breathless confessions of pleasure that escape her mouth between shudders.

“Oh…” she gasps, a single syllable laden with meaning, a delicate sound that sends fresh waves of warmth surging through you. It is in these moment that you realize the power of your actions—not just in the physical pleasure you are bestowing, but in the way you are helping her to embrace every facet of her own self.

As the older woman gets closer and closer, you become increasingly attuned to the subtle shifts in her rhythm. Her breathing deepens, her body trembles with each passing second, and you know that the boundary between anticipation and fulfillment is drawing ever closer.

“Mmm,” you groan. “My good girl tastes so sweet.”

Her breath stutters, heat blooming low in her stomach all over again.

The feeling is that you are both artists and muses, engaged in a performance that is as much about emotion as it is about physical sensation. The interplay of your hands, your tongues, and your hearts creates a tableau of raw, unfiltered desire—one that is both fleeting and timeless.

Minutes stretch into what feels like an eternity of ecstasy. Melissa’s whines become a constant, a beautiful chorus that underscores the symphony unfolding between you. The sound of her raspy breathing, sometimes tentative, sometimes urgent, is a living reminder of the beauty found in vulnerability—a vulnerability that, in this sacred space, has been met with nothing but tenderness and reverence.

Your own senses are alight with the acting of giving, each detail etched into your memory. The texture of her beneath you, the taste of her mingling with the aroma of her natural essence, and the sound of her enjoying everything form a tapestry of sensations that you will carry with you long after the night has ended.

She cums with a final, shuddering gasp, a sweet symphony of release that echoes softly through the neighborhood. In that exquisite instant, the tension that had been building for so long gives way to a profound sense of relief and connection. It is as if every whispered sigh and every gentle moan had been leading to this singular, transcendent moment.

Her fingers, still trembling from the aftershocks, reach for you with a tenderness that makes your breath catch. The redheaded pulls you up gently, guiding you until you’re resting against her, your bare and clothed chests warm beneath the quiet hush of the bedroom. Her orbs meet yours—stormy green softened with something that looks like awe, or maybe love—and then her lips are on yours.

It isn’t hurried. It isn’t wild. It’s a kiss full of gratitude, affection, apology. Her thumb brushes your cheek as she pulls back just enough to whisper. “I’m sorry, baby. For reacting like that.”

You can only nod, your heart too full for words. Whatever had weighed on you both before this—whatever doubts or distance—feels far away now, melted in the heat of her touch and the certainty in her voice.

And when the cheating comes to light? Becomes public knowledge within a social circle? The pain it causes the poor betrayed can only be compared to grief. The grief for a relationship as it was imagined. The grief for trust, for intimacy, for the idea of exclusivity. Often, the betrayed feels like they are no longer enough, like they failed, like they were discarded. But in truth, the fault is never theirs. Because the one who cheats chooses. They choose to break a pact, even when they could have talked, asked for space, admitted doubts.

And it’s not just the betrayed who feels it. Those around them sense it too. Some drift away, uncomfortable. Others take sides. Some say, “You deserve better.” And some just look at you with pity, not knowing what to say. Friends whisper. Family pretends they didn’t see. Some even blame you.

“Maybe you weren’t giving enough attention?”

Cheating, in any form, is a deep selfish act. It may come with a thousand justifications, but it always leaves someone wounded. And the wounds caused by cheating... they ache in silence. They wake you up in the middle of the night. And they don’t heal easily. It makes you doubt others — but worse: it makes you doubt yourself. Your worth, your judgment, your ability to be loved.

And when you finally try to move on, you realize you’re not just rebuilding a relationship with the world.

You’re trying to rebuild yourself from the inside out. Because after being cheated, even the mirror feels like a stranger.

Barbara Howard once mentioned to Janine Teagues on a work day at school that her work wife and close friend does cheat from time to time.

The thing was that Melissa Schemmenti had never wanted to be a cheater.

She told herself that, over and over, gripping the steering wheel so tight her fingers ached. The car engine hummed beneath her, a low, steady thing, but inside her chest, her heart pounded like a war drum. The street outside your apartment complex was quiet, save for the occasional car rolling by, headlights cutting through the dark.

The first time she ever cheated, she was seventeen. A high school boyfriend whose name she barely remembered—Tony, maybe? Tommy?—sweet in that dumb, teenage-boy kind of way. She had kissed another boy behind the bleachers after a game, a fleeting, breathless thing, tasting like cheap beer and peppermint gum. The guilt had set in almost instantly, but back then, it had been simple. She had apologized, cried, promised it wouldn’t happen again.

And it hadn’t.

Not with Joseph, even after the lies started. Not when she’d find strands of blonde hair on his firefighter uniform or coat or when he came home smelling of someone else’s perfume, floral and sharp, making her stomach twist. Not when he looked her in the eye and told her he loved her while his phone lit up with another woman’s name. She had held on for too long, clinging to the version of him that had once been hers, hoping love could outweigh betrayal. But love had limits. And when she had finally reached hers, she had left.

She had sworn she’d never be like him.

Like her ma, Teresa Schemmenti, either. Her mother was the kind of woman people in South Philly whispered about but never confronted. Voluptuous, always in tight blouses that hugged her too hard and heels that clicked like a metronome of danger. She was beautiful in a brutal way—like a stained-glass window thrown through someone’s windshield.

The redheaded second grade teacher grew up in a home where infidelity wasn’t just a possibility — it was a shadow cast across every dinner table conversation, every late night her father didn’t ask questions, every moment her mother came home with too much lipstick on and a laugh that didn’t belong to family.

Melissa was eleven or twelve the first time she saw it—her mother leaning against the kitchen counter, a cigarette burning low between her fingers, laughing at something a man who wasn’t her father had whispered in her ear. She had stood frozen in the doorway, watching the way the older woman’s hand lingered on his chest, the way he touched her wrist like it was familiar, like it was allowed.

“You think men don’t cheat on us every day? This is just getting even.”

“You tell your father, I’ll make sure he leaves. And when he does, I’m takin’ your sisters and brothers and leavin’ you behind. See how you like that.”

The fight that night had been loud. Her pa screaming, Teresa calling him crazy, like she hadn’t been caught red-handed. And Melissa had stood at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing so tight she thought it might snap, listening to them tear each other apart while her young siblings were locked in their shared bedrooms asleep. Or pretending to be.

She had promised herself she’d never be like that.

She wouldn’t be the one crying at the kitchen table over lipstick stains that weren’t hers. She wouldn’t be the one sneaking around, spinning stories, making someone doubt their own gut.

She had kept that promise her whole life.

Until now. The affair with you was not supposed to happen more than once.

But it did.

Again.

And again.

And now your situationship couldn’t even say for sure where the mistake ended and the addiction began.

She told herself it was just a weakness. A moment. A beautiful body. A curiosity. You — young, bold, with that carefree way of looking directly into her eyes and asking, without hesitation:

“Have you ever wanted a real woman, Lis?”

And Melissa had laughed at the time. Called you conceited. Said she wasn’t that type of woman.

But that Friday night, in the parking lot behind the school, with the cigarette still between her fingers and the lipstick smeared on the corner of her mouth, she kissed you as if she were trying to rip something out of herself.

And you let her.

You pulled her by the waist, whispered against her plump lips. “You can lie to everyone. Just don't lie to me.”

She should have stopped right there.

But her hand was already between your legs, touching you like she was relearning how to pray.

It happened on your living room couch. Then in the car. Then, in a cheap motel with orange curtains and a mirror she refused to face. She kept saying it was just sex. That it meant nothing. That she wasn't cheating on anyone because she didn't love you.

But she kept coming back. Always coming back.

And it wasn't just because of the way you moaned softly, embarrassed, biting her shoulder to keep quiet. It wasn't just because you let her be in control, calling her mine with a choked voice. It was because, with you, Melissa felt something that had no name.

And that terrified her. Now, she was thinking about the way your fingers had brushed against hers earlier that night, lingering, testing. How she hadn’t pulled away. How, when you smiled at her, that knowing, patient thing, she had felt something she wasn’t supposed to feel.

She had been telling herself it wasn’t real for weeks. That she wasn’t thinking about you when her boyfriend kissed her.

That she didn’t dream about your voice, your laugh, the way your lips would feel if she let you close that distance between you.

That she didn’t want this.

But she did.

And now, Melissa Schemmenti was about to do something she could never take back. Because she had spent her whole life running from cheaters. And maybe she had just become one.

After rubbing her face, the green eyed woman gripped the steering wheel once more like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth. Her manicured white nails dug crescents into the cheap leather, her knuckles stark white, wrists stiff, tendons burning from how tightly she held herself in place. She felt a dull vibration in her thighs. Somewhere, a dog barked.

She hadn’t meant to drive here. At least, that’s what she told herself. She was just out. Just needed some air. Needed to think.

And yet here Melissa was. Five minutes. Ten. Now twenty-three.

Just sitting there.

Phone face-down in the passenger seat. Screen lighting up every few minutes with the same message.

Capitan Robinson: u okay babe? gonna pick up beer—want anything? miss you. come home soon, meatloaf night??

Meatloaf.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Her green eyes burned. Not with tears—no, she was too angry for tears—but with the sheer heat of it. The frustration. The bile in her throat. She hated herself more every second she sat here.

She had told herself Robinson was the smart choice. Good guy. Clean. Strong. Handsome (on her eyes.) Firefighter. The kind of man you could bring home to your mother’s grave and not feel her bones turning in protest. The kind of man who didn’t raise his voice. Who folded her laundry. Who kissed her forehead. Who bought tampons without blinking.

Who loved her.

And God, she hated him for it.

She hated that he did everything right and yet she still couldn’t look at him without wanting to scream.

She hated that she’d begged him to be with her.

Begged, like some pathetic, stupid broken animal. Like a annoying woman who needs a man next to her.

It was the unfortunate day Gary, the vending machine guy who proposed to her and was told no, called and came to Willard R. Abbott before her second graders arrived. The morning he said he was getting married to a woman—a nurse, of course. Lucy or Stefhany? She doesn't even remember her name. When she got the invitation, Melissa could hear the smug little smile in his voice, that polished brand of condescension only ex-boyfriends can achieve.

“She’s kind,” he said. “You’d like her.”

Like hell she would. She had brushed off and stared at the wall for a long time, the silence crawling down her spine like mildew.

Then she called Captain Robinson after a talk with Barb and Jacob at the teachers lounge.

She didn’t think. Didn’t pause. Just called and said. “I think I would like us to be exclusive.”

And when he said. “Exclusive sounds good to me.”

She lied to herself and whispered. “Good man.” Before kissing him and smiling like a dork.

At first, the green eyed woman convinced herself it was fine. Great, even. He was sweet in bed. Solid. The first few times, he fucked her like he meant it—held her down, gripped her thighs like he was scared she’d vanish, breathed hard into her ear while she clung to the mattress and pretended she wasn’t dying inside.

She liked it. Or thought she did. It was easy to moan at the right moments, to arch her back, to dig her nails into his shoulders and let him believe he was everything she needed. That she was normal. Straight enough. Stable enough. Woman enough.

But then things slowed. Settled.

And the sex turned dull. Rhythmic. Predictable. It was like being on a treadmill she couldn’t step off. He had a routine. A script. The firefighter always started with his hands. Always moved down. Always asked, “You like that?” in the same voice, at the same time, as if it were written on a checklist.

The redheaded woman faked her orgasms so often now it became muscle memory. Her hourglass shaped body knew when to shudder. When to gasp. When to murmur, “Yes, right there,” even when nothing was there. Nothing had been there in a long time.

And the worst part? He didn’t notice. He’d kiss her shoulder, fall asleep sweaty and smiling, and she’d lie awake beside him, her thighs still sticky, her chest hollow, her fingers itching to reach for her phone.

Which she always did.

Lying there in the dark, pressed against a man who thought she was his, Melissa would open her photo app. Scroll through the pictures she should’ve deleted months ago.

There you were. Laughing, your hand in her hair, your eyes half-lidded from the sun. Another photo of your arm wrapped around her waist, your lips on her cheek. She looked happy. She looked real.

She’d zoom in slowly. Her thumb hovering over your mouth, tracing the edges of your face like she was memorizing you from a distance. Sometimes she’d stare at one photo for fifteen minutes. In silence. Barely breathing.

It made her sick. How much she missed you. How her body responded to the idea of you more than it ever did to Robinson’s hands. How you made her feel something that didn’t feel like pretending.

But Melissa Ann couldn’t let herself want you.

Not really.

Because wanting you meant accepting something she had buried for years. Decades, even.

It meant admitting she wasn’t straight. Not even “a little bi.” Not even “experimented once at Temple.” No. It meant digging up all those things she’d crushed under layers of denial and fear and pride.

It meant admitting she had a crush on Barbara Howard once—Barbara fucking Howard—because her voice made Melissa go still in the knees. Meant admitting she’d stare at Ava Coleman’s ass when she walked by in those skin-tight skirts and then spend the whole afternoon hating herself for it.

It meant admitting that she had spent her whole life performing straightness like it was a punishment she deserved.

And Capitan Robinson? He was her reward for playing the part right. For folding herself into someone small and digestible. He was the prize for surviving her childhood. For shutting up. For picking men. For staying quiet when her cousin said dykes ruined everything. For not flinching when her brothers made jokes about “bull-daggers” and “girls who want to be men.”

He was proof that she wasn’t broken.

Except she was.

She was so broken it bled out of her.

And now here she was—sitting outside your apartment at 11:42PM, hands shaking, stomach in knots, phone buzzing like a fucking ghost in the backseat—and all she could think about was you.

About your breath on her neck. About how you touched her like you weren’t scared. About how you let her fall apart in your arms and didn’t try to fix her. Just held her. Just saw her.

Melissa exhaled hard, eyes stinging.

Then she picked up her phone and opened your photo again.

Just one more look.

Just a few seconds.

Her thumb traced the line of your cheek, your lips, that little scar near your brow she used to kiss without thinking.

The older woman whispered, “Fuck,” under her breath. And for the first time in weeks, the truth slipped out—soft, angry, ugly.

“I’m not straight,” she said to no one. “I’m not straight. I’m not straight.”

Her voice cracked. Her shoulders shook.

But she still didn’t get out of the car.

Because admitting it was one thing.

Doing something about it…

And when the cheating comes to light? Becomes public knowledge within a social circle? The pain it causes the poor betrayed can only be compared to grief. The grief for a relationship as it was imagined. The grief for trust, for intimacy, for the idea of exclusivity. Often, the betrayed feels like they are no longer enough, like they failed, like they were discarded. But in truth, the fault is never theirs. Because the one who cheats chooses. They choose to break a pact, even when they could have talked, asked for space, admitted doubts.

And it’s not just the betrayed who feels it. Those around them sense it too. Some drift away, uncomfortable. Others take sides. Some say, “You deserve better.” And some just look at you with pity, not knowing what to say. Friends whisper. Family pretends they didn’t see. Some even blame you.

“Maybe you weren’t giving enough attention?”

Cheating, in any form, is a deep selfish act. It may come with a thousand justifications, but it always leaves someone wounded. And the wounds caused by cheating... they ache in silence. They wake you up in the middle of the night. And they don’t heal easily. It makes you doubt others — but worse: it makes you doubt yourself. Your worth, your judgment, your ability to be loved.

And when you finally try to move on, you realize you’re not just rebuilding a relationship with the world.

You’re trying to rebuild yourself from the inside out. Because after being cheated, even the mirror feels like a stranger.

Barbara Howard once mentioned to Janine Teagues on a work day at school that her work wife and close friend does cheat from time to time.

The thing was that Melissa Schemmenti had never wanted to be a cheater.

She told herself that, over and over, gripping the steering wheel so tight her fingers ached. The car engine hummed beneath her, a low, steady thing, but inside her chest, her heart pounded like a war drum. The street outside your apartment complex was quiet, save for the occasional car rolling by, headlights cutting through the dark.

The first time she ever cheated, she was seventeen. A high school boyfriend whose name she barely remembered—Tony, maybe? Tommy?—sweet in that dumb, teenage-boy kind of way. She had kissed another boy behind the bleachers after a game, a fleeting, breathless thing, tasting like cheap beer and peppermint gum. The guilt had set in almost instantly, but back then, it had been simple. She had apologized, cried, promised it wouldn’t happen again.

And it hadn’t.

Not with Joseph, even after the lies started. Not when she’d find strands of blonde hair on his firefighter uniform or coat or when he came home smelling of someone else’s perfume, floral and sharp, making her stomach twist. Not when he looked her in the eye and told her he loved her while his phone lit up with another woman’s name. She had held on for too long, clinging to the version of him that had once been hers, hoping love could outweigh betrayal. But love had limits. And when she had finally reached hers, she had left.

She had sworn she’d never be like him.

Like her ma, Teresa Schemmenti, either. Her mother was the kind of woman people in South Philly whispered about but never confronted. Voluptuous, always in tight blouses that hugged her too hard and heels that clicked like a metronome of danger. She was beautiful in a brutal way—like a stained-glass window thrown through someone’s windshield.

The redheaded second grade teacher grew up in a home where infidelity wasn’t just a possibility — it was a shadow cast across every dinner table conversation, every late night her father didn’t ask questions, every moment her mother came home with too much lipstick on and a laugh that didn’t belong to family.

Melissa was eleven or twelve the first time she saw it—her mother leaning against the kitchen counter, a cigarette burning low between her fingers, laughing at something a man who wasn’t her father had whispered in her ear. She had stood frozen in the doorway, watching the way the older woman’s hand lingered on his chest, the way he touched her wrist like it was familiar, like it was allowed.

“You think men don’t cheat on us every day? This is just getting even.”

“You tell your father, I’ll make sure he leaves. And when he does, I’m takin’ your sisters and brothers and leavin’ you behind. See how you like that.”

The fight that night had been loud. Her pa screaming, Teresa calling him crazy, like she hadn’t been caught red-handed. And Melissa had stood at the top of the stairs, gripping the railing so tight she thought it might snap, listening to them tear each other apart while her young siblings were locked in their shared bedrooms asleep. Or pretending to be.

She had promised herself she’d never be like that.

She wouldn’t be the one crying at the kitchen table over lipstick stains that weren’t hers. She wouldn’t be the one sneaking around, spinning stories, making someone doubt their own gut.

She had kept that promise her whole life.

Until now. The affair with you was not supposed to happen more than once.

But it did.

Again.

And again.

And now your situationship couldn’t even say for sure where the mistake ended and the addiction began.

She told herself it was just a weakness. A moment. A beautiful body. A curiosity. You — young, bold, with that carefree way of looking directly into her eyes and asking, without hesitation:

“Have you ever wanted a real woman, Lis?”

And Melissa had laughed at the time. Called you conceited. Said she wasn’t that type of woman.

But that Friday night, in the parking lot behind the school, with the cigarette still between her fingers and the lipstick smeared on the corner of her mouth, she kissed you as if she were trying to rip something out of herself.

And you let her.

You pulled her by the waist, whispered against her plump lips. “You can lie to everyone. Just don't lie to me.”

She should have stopped right there.

But her hand was already between your legs, touching you like she was relearning how to pray.

It happened on your living room couch. Then in the car. Then, in a cheap motel with orange curtains and a mirror she refused to face. She kept saying it was just sex. That it meant nothing. That she wasn't cheating on anyone because she didn't love you.

But she kept coming back. Always coming back.

And it wasn't just because of the way you moaned softly, embarrassed, biting her shoulder to keep quiet. It wasn't just because you let her be in control, calling her mine with a choked voice. It was because, with you, Melissa felt something that had no name.

And that terrified her. Now, she was thinking about the way your fingers had brushed against hers earlier that night, lingering, testing. How she hadn’t pulled away. How, when you smiled at her, that knowing, patient thing, she had felt something she wasn’t supposed to feel.

She had been telling herself it wasn’t real for weeks. That she wasn’t thinking about you when her boyfriend kissed her.

That she didn’t dream about your voice, your laugh, the way your lips would feel if she let you close that distance between you.

That she didn’t want this.

But she did.

And now, Melissa Schemmenti was about to do something she could never take back. Because she had spent her whole life running from cheaters. And maybe she had just become one.

After rubbing her face, the green eyed woman gripped the steering wheel once more like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth. Her manicured white nails dug crescents into the cheap leather, her knuckles stark white, wrists stiff, tendons burning from how tightly she held herself in place. She felt a dull vibration in her thighs. Somewhere, a dog barked.

She hadn’t meant to drive here. At least, that’s what she told herself. She was just out. Just needed some air. Needed to think.

And yet here Melissa was. Five minutes. Ten. Now twenty-three.

Just sitting there.

Phone face-down in the passenger seat. Screen lighting up every few minutes with the same message.

Capitan Robinson: u okay babe? gonna pick up beer—want anything? miss you. come home soon, meatloaf night??

Meatloaf.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Her green eyes burned. Not with tears—no, she was too angry for tears—but with the sheer heat of it. The frustration. The bile in her throat. She hated herself more every second she sat here.

She had told herself Robinson was the smart choice. Good guy. Clean. Strong. Handsome (on her eyes.) Firefighter. The kind of man you could bring home to your mother’s grave and not feel her bones turning in protest. The kind of man who didn’t raise his voice. Who folded her laundry. Who kissed her forehead. Who bought tampons without blinking.

Who loved her.

And God, she hated him for it.

She hated that he did everything right and yet she still couldn’t look at him without wanting to scream.

She hated that she’d begged him to be with her.

Begged, like some pathetic, stupid broken animal. Like a annoying woman who needs a man next to her.

It was the unfortunate day Gary, the vending machine guy who proposed to her and was told no, called and came to Willard R. Abbott before her second graders arrived. The morning he said he was getting married to a woman—a nurse, of course. Lucy or Stefhany? She doesn't even remember her name. When she got the invitation, Melissa could hear the smug little smile in his voice, that polished brand of condescension only ex-boyfriends can achieve.

“She’s kind,” he said. “You’d like her.”

Like hell she would. She had brushed off and stared at the wall for a long time, the silence crawling down her spine like mildew.

Then she called Captain Robinson after a talk with Barb and Jacob at the teachers lounge.

She didn’t think. Didn’t pause. Just called and said. “I think I would like us to be exclusive.”

And when he said. “Exclusive sounds good to me.”

She lied to herself and whispered. “Good man.” Before kissing him and smiling like a dork.

At first, the green eyed woman convinced herself it was fine. Great, even. He was sweet in bed. Solid. The first few times, he fucked her like he meant it—held her down, gripped her thighs like he was scared she’d vanish, breathed hard into her ear while she clung to the mattress and pretended she wasn’t dying inside.

She liked it. Or thought she did. It was easy to moan at the right moments, to arch her back, to dig her nails into his shoulders and let him believe he was everything she needed. That she was normal. Straight enough. Stable enough. Woman enough.

But then things slowed. Settled.

And the sex turned dull. Rhythmic. Predictable. It was like being on a treadmill she couldn’t step off. He had a routine. A script. The firefighter always started with his hands. Always moved down. Always asked, “You like that?” in the same voice, at the same time, as if it were written on a checklist.

The redheaded woman faked her orgasms so often now it became muscle memory. Her hourglass shaped body knew when to shudder. When to gasp. When to murmur, “Yes, right there,” even when nothing was there. Nothing had been there in a long time.

And the worst part? He didn’t notice. He’d kiss her shoulder, fall asleep sweaty and smiling, and she’d lie awake beside him, her thighs still sticky, her chest hollow, her fingers itching to reach for her phone.

Which she always did.

Lying there in the dark, pressed against a man who thought she was his, Melissa would open her photo app. Scroll through the pictures she should’ve deleted months ago.

There you were. Laughing, your hand in her hair, your eyes half-lidded from the sun. Another photo of your arm wrapped around her waist, your lips on her cheek. She looked happy. She looked real.

She’d zoom in slowly. Her thumb hovering over your mouth, tracing the edges of your face like she was memorizing you from a distance. Sometimes she’d stare at one photo for fifteen minutes. In silence. Barely breathing.

It made her sick. How much she missed you. How her body responded to the idea of you more than it ever did to Robinson’s hands. How you made her feel something that didn’t feel like pretending.

But Melissa Ann couldn’t let herself want you.

Not really.

Because wanting you meant accepting something she had buried for years. Decades, even.

It meant admitting she wasn’t straight. Not even “a little bi.” Not even “experimented once at Temple.” No. It meant digging up all those things she’d crushed under layers of denial and fear and pride.

It meant admitting she had a crush on Barbara Howard once—Barbara fucking Howard—because her voice made Melissa go still in the knees. Meant admitting she’d stare at Ava Coleman’s ass when she walked by in those skin-tight skirts and then spend the whole afternoon hating herself for it.

It meant admitting that she had spent her whole life performing straightness like it was a punishment she deserved.

And Capitan Robinson? He was her reward for playing the part right. For folding herself into someone small and digestible. He was the prize for surviving her childhood. For shutting up. For picking men. For staying quiet when her cousin said dykes ruined everything. For not flinching when her brothers made jokes about “bull-daggers” and “girls who want to be men.”

He was proof that she wasn’t broken.

Except she was.

She was so broken it bled out of her.

And now here she was—sitting outside your apartment at 11:42PM, hands shaking, stomach in knots, phone buzzing like a fucking ghost in the backseat—and all she could think about was you.

About your breath on her neck. About how you touched her like you weren’t scared. About how you let her fall apart in your arms and didn’t try to fix her. Just held her. Just saw her.

Melissa exhaled hard, eyes stinging.

Then she picked up her phone and opened your photo again.

Just one more look.

Just a few seconds.

Her thumb traced the line of your cheek, your lips, that little scar near your brow she used to kiss without thinking.

The older woman whispered, “Fuck,” under her breath. And for the first time in weeks, the truth slipped out—soft, angry, ugly.

“I’m not straight,” she said to no one. “I’m not straight. I’m not straight.”

Her voice cracked. Her shoulders shook.

But she still didn’t get out of the car.

Because admitting it was one thing.

Doing something about it…

She wasn’t there to make friends, but she wasn’t willing to distance herself from those who truly mattered either. The words “compassion” and “care” weren’t used lightly by her, but when she cared, you felt it. She was the type of person who would do the unthinkable to protect those who, in some way, were in her orbit. That made her more unique, harder to understand – and, for that reason, more fascinating.

Compared to the others, she was a storm, full of intense and unsettling energy, something much more complicated than any of the cheerier or more inspiring facets of the other team members. And, paradoxically, it was this complexity that made someone like you feel drawn to her.

It had started as simple curiosity. You’d heard plenty of stories about her from Ava, most of them exaggerated, of course. She loved to poke fun at Melissa Schemmenti, often calling her Ms. Tough Guy or The Abbott Enforcer, always with a mischievous grin. And that grew even more often with their newfound friendship after the small heist at the visit to Girard Creek Golf Course, maybe they weren't so different at all. But when you actually started working alongside your current situationship, you realized that those stories didn’t do her justice at all. Never did.

There was a depth to her that your older sister never mentioned. The way she’d stay late to make sure her classroom was perfect for the next day. The way she’d show up after a Philadelphia Eagles win. The way she’d give the students in her class little pep talks when she thought no one was listening. The way she’d call out nonsense in staff meetings but somehow still manage to sound extremely professional.

At first, you only admired her from afar. She was just some random colleague — sure, one you couldn’t stop thinking about, but still, a colleague. Part of the reason you always kept some distance was Ava. Your older sister had an imposing presence, and her overly protective stance made it impossible for anything to escape her radar. To her, you were the helpless little sister, the one the world kept trying to bring down — even though, most of the time, you insisted you could take care of yourself.

Ava never hesitated to push away anyone she considered a threat to you. When you were younger, that meant crashing parties to get you out if she thought the environment wasn’t safe. Later, it meant monitoring your relationships, intimidating any suitor with her sharp gaze, and even showing up at your old job to “check on how things were going.” You knew that, behind all that chaotic energy, there was an unconditional love. But you also knew she’d never stand by if she suspected someone was breaking your heart.

Maybe that’s why you never got too close to the other teachers. Jacob was too friendly, always trying to start conversations about some obscure documentary you wouldn’t watch even if paid. Janine, with her overflowing energy, made you feel even more out of place, as if every interaction required an excessive effort. Gregory was polite but distant — and you knew Ava had a sixth sense for spotting “awkward guys,” as she called them. As for Barbara… well, she was a legend, and you never wanted to risk looking foolish in front of her.

So, you contented yourself with staying in the shadows, doing your job without drawing much attention. At least until Melissa Schemmenti.

The green-eyed woman was different. And, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, there was something about her that pulled you closer. That blunt attitude, the raspy laugh that echoed down the hallways, the intense glances she’d throw over her various pairs of glasses when someone said something particularly stupid. It was impossible not to notice. And worse, it was impossible not to want more.

But, of course, there was Principal Coleman. And just the thought of what your sister would do if she found out you were interested in the most feared teacher at the school was enough to keep you in line. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. It was during that staff meeting that everything changed.

In the long development week, being the lovely and helpful principal that she was, Ava was monotonously talking about another poorly executed initiative, her excited voice echoing off the walls in that sing-song tone she used when she knew no one was listening. Janine sat at the edge of her chair, forcing a polite smile and nodding enthusiastically in an attempt to seem engaged, even though her big eyes occasionally darted toward the door. Jacob was fiddling with his pen, aimlessly doodling on the margins of his notebook, clearly trying to stay awake. Barb reclined with her arms crossed, her expression exuding mild disapproval and resignation, while Gregory kept glancing at the clock, letting out a subtle sigh every few seconds, his boredom clearly etched on his face.

The other staff members just remained silent.

“Ava,” Janine said after a while, running her hand through her curls. “Look, your proposal is reasonable. But we can’t afford this!”

“Shut up,” your older sister huffed, walking over to the projector to make a PowerPoint presentation about her planning for new posts on Instagram.

“God bless that O’shon, poor kid,” Mr. Johnson muttered to himself, looking at the cameras. “Or that Crystal Rilley.”

The mention of the rival made Ava freeze.

“Mr. J, how dare you mention that bitch’s name? We shouldn’t even speak it! It’s like any Christian wouldn’t dare mention Satan’s name.”

Mrs. Howard jumped out of her seat in an instant, looking offended. “Excuse me?”

“Uh. Sorry?” The principal shot back.

You were sitting on the other side of the room from the redhaired woman, half paying attention, when you caught her rolling her beautiful green eyes. Without thinking, you stared at her and murmured.

“This is a waste of time, don't you think?”

Her plump lips curled into a shy smile before she quickly averted her gaze, not bothering to give you a single response, but at that moment, something clicked. It was as if you'd unlocked a secret part of her, a part she didn't show everyone. After that, you couldn’t stop noticing her, or the way Melissa Schemmenti started noticing you back.

At first, it was in the little things. The way she lingered just a second longer in the hall if you were there. The way her sharp responses softened when they were directed at you, the edges of her voice rounded with something you couldn’t name. The way her eyes would find yours during faculty meetings, as if she were looking for an ally in the sea of chaos that Ava always seemed to create.

“Another motivational poster initiative?” you asked quietly one afternoon, glancing at the second-grade teacher across the room during a PTA meeting. “What's next, a dance competition to inspire better test scores?”

Melissa turned her head slightly, pretending to adjust the papers in front of her. “Careful, rookie,”she whispered loud enough for you to hear. “Your sister might actually pick up that idea and run with it.”

You suppressed a laugh, her green eyes sparkling with amusement as she caught your reaction. It felt like a game that only the two of you were playing, a quiet rebellion against the absurdity of the daily grind that seemed to infect that building.

The first time you really had a conversation alone with her was after school one day. You were staying late to reorganize your classroom, frustrated with the mess your students had managed to create. Melissa walked in, probably looking for something—likely her stapler, which seemed to disappear weekly.

“You’re still here, Y/N?” she asked, leaning against the door with her arms crossed.

“Apparently, my fourth graders are aspiring tornadoes,” you replied, holding up a crumpled worksheet you found shoved inside a desk. “This is my life now.”

The older woman laughed, walking in. “Fourth grade, huh? You’ve got the sweet spot. Too old to be clingy, too young to be chatty.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think that's the sweet spot? Yesterday, a kid tried to trade homework for a pack of gum.”

Her laughter came easily this time, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine. “Okay, fair enough. But at least they’re creative. My second-graders think spelling their names correctly deserves a gold star.”

You smiled. “I’d trade you any day.”

Melissa tilted her head, her gaze lingering just a moment longer. “Careful what you wish for, rookie. You might not survive a day with my kids.”

The friendship between you two grew slowly, like a secret entrusted to the wind. There wasn’t a specific moment when you realized she had become an essential part of your life—it was like the golden light streaming through the blinds in the morning, coming without warning but filling everything with warmth.

At first, the older woman was just the stubborn colleague who always knew how to have the last word. You argued more than you talked, each of you determined to prove your point, until one day, laughter won. It was during yet another endless school meeting, when you made a whispered joke about the broken coffee machine, and Melissa, without even trying to hide it, let out a laugh—a rough, authentic sound, as if it had come from a place she didn’t open up to often. From there, everything changed.

The green eyed woman started stopping by your classroom after hours, sometimes just to complain about the school’s awful coffee, other times to share some hallway gossip. You found a rhythm in your interactions, a silent dance of teasing and camaraderie. And then, without realizing it, you became her safe place.

The first time she really spoke about herself was on a gray day, the smell of rain still hanging in the air. You were sitting in the parking lot, on the concrete steps, sharing a cigarette she pulled from her pocket as if offering a secret. The smoke rose between you two, creating an ephemeral veil that made everything feel more intimate.

“Ma used to say cigarettes were for weak men,” Melissa said, with a half-smile that was bitter. “But after Joseph left home, well... Weak or not, here I am.”

It was the first time she mentioned the divorce. The word hung in the air, heavy and inevitable. She didn’t cry. The second-grade teacher was never one for easy tears. But the way her shoulders dropped slightly revealed the weight she carried. She talked about the marriage, how Joe’s laughter had become rarer, until the silent house became unbearable. She spoke of the muffled arguments behind closed doors and the nights when sleep wouldn’t come, even after another cigarette smoked to the filter.

“Teresa?” your coworker continued, taking a deep drag. “Oh, she loved being right. She said if I’d listened to my famiglia, I wouldn’t have ended up like this.”

There was bitterness in her voice, but also a kind of acceptance. You didn’t interrupt. You just listened. And that’s how she went on, unraveling the knots of her own story—the childhood surrounded by traditions that allowed no room for deviation, the prayers murmured in Italian in the kitchen, the smell of tomato sauce that always seemed to linger in the air. The older Schemmenti grew up with Catholic faith as a tight cord around her chest, learning far too early to confuse guilt with devotion.

“Not that I go to church much anymore,” she confessed, blowing out the smoke with a sigh. “But sometimes, I light a candle. I think candles understand us more than priests.”

And then, as if needing to lift the weight of the moment, Melissa laughed. That half-smile laugh you’d come to know so well.

“Oh, and there’s another faith I take seriously. The firefighters from South Philly. Those arms? Those pants? My Holy Mother.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you say this... from personal experience?”

Melissa leaned back on the step, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, narrowing her eyes as if she was about to share a forbidden secret. “Listen, I’ve had sex with a lot of beautiful women in my life, but this firefighter… Madonna mia. She looked like Halle Berry.”

She made an exaggerated gesture with her hands, as if she had to draw the perfection.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm. Dark skin, soft as hell, you know? Like silk. Short curly hair, and those eyes…” Melissa sighed, tilting her head as if reliving the scene. “Brown, deep, like dark honey under the light. And the body?” She laughed, shaking her head. “The definition of hot. Strong arms, thighs that could crush a man without effort, and that posture of someone who knows she can carry you if she wants.”

She took a deep drag and released the smoke slowly, a lazy smile on her lips.

“She was in uniform that night, straight off her shift. The tight tank top, the pants low on her hips… Jesus Christ. I saw that woman and thought: ‘If I die in a fire, I hope I get to ride on that strap first.”

You couldn’t help but feel a hint of jealousy, and your cheeks warmed with her words.

The redhead laughed again, mischievous, and shot you a suggestive look. “And let me tell you... She knew how to use those hands for much more than just holding a hose.”

You laughed with her, the kind of laugh that understood. Because that's how Melissa was, intense, contradictory, absurdly alive. She spoke with the same passion about family traumas and about her most mundane pleasures. And when she mentioned her unwavering love for Real Housewives, gesturing with fervor to defend her favorite cast members, you realized how much you loved that about her.

She was never someone easily surprised. But when the name Chappell Roan first came up in casual conversation, something in her expression changed. She was sitting on the couch, a beer in hand and a slight look of disdain, until Pink Pony Club echoed from the TV. Suddenly, the way she adjusted herself, how her gaze focused on the screen, how her fingers gripped the bottle just a little tighter, made it clear: here was a genuine passion.

Being her friend was like holding a lit match. She burned with anger, with desire, with sharp humor and still, you couldn't pull away. Because, even with all the ashes, she was warmth. She was presence. And now, she was your one of your best friends.

The flirting between you started unnamed, with no declared intention, like a fire born from discreet sparks. At first, it was just the lingering glances that were too long to be casual, a touch of fingers that lasted a second longer than necessary when passing papers to each other.

But then came the provocations. The biting comments disguised as jokes, the way the redhead smiled crookedly after making some sharp remark, just to see if you'd react in kind. And you did.

You challenged each other in small things, exchanged veiled insinuations in the middle of common conversations, until the air between you became thick, heavy with something unspoken but undeniably present. And when she leaned against your shoulder while laughing, or when her voice dropped to a lower, almost conspiratorial tone, your whole body seemed to recognize what your mind was still pretending not to know: you were dangerously close to crossing a line.

The first time she kissed you, it was as if gravity had shifted, as if the world’s axis tilted just to remind you that, until that moment, you hadn't known what it truly meant to be alive.

Willard R Abbott was empty at that hour, the hallways bathed in pale light flickering from the old lamps, humming in a near-complicit silence. You and Melissa had been there for a while, discussing something trivial — maybe a detail about the fundraiser, but at that moment, none of the words seemed to matter. Everything dissolved when you noticed the way she looked at you, her green eyes less intense than usual, softer, as if she hesitated to hide something that was already beyond control.

Then, without warning, without space for you to anticipate, her lips touched yours. It was a moment of heat and dizziness, a contained hurricane in the narrow space between your two bodies. Your situationship pulled away too quickly, and in the startled gleam of her gaze, there was surprise, there was fear — but, above all, there was an undeniable desire to not undo what had just happened. And you felt the same. No regrets. No doubts.

The first time you both gave in to desire after the kiss, it was as if the whole world disappeared, as if everything around you became a blur, irrelevant in the face of the intensity of what was happening. There was no rush. Nothing seemed urgent. On the contrary, each second was lived with an unsettling calm, as if the universe knew that this moment was unique.

You were at her place, on a warm summer night. The air was thick, scented with earth and streetlights filtering through the window, casting a soft glow. The atmosphere was tense, laden with a silent expectation that filled the space between you. The leather couch in the corner of the room seemed to be the only safe place in that moment, as words began to fade, replaced by ragged breathing and gazes loaded with desire.

She touched your face with a softness that contrasted with the intensity of the moment. Your bodies were so close that the fine line between friendship and something more seemed to disappear. She was the one to break the silence first, her hands searching for yours, and when your fingers intertwined, it was as if the rest of the world stopped spinning.

The kiss was different this time, deeper, more urgent, as if all the promises made in that previous exchange of lips now needed to be fulfilled. Melissa Schemmenti’s taste was stronger, more urgent. Something between the cigarette and the perfume she wore, and you lost yourself in it, in that kiss that seemed to consume both of you. Her hands traveled across your body, exploring carefully and yet with the certainty of someone who knew what they wanted.

The moment was hot, unhurried, but also without shame. When your bodies finally fused together, there was something unusual in the way you felt with her, as if, in that act, you were more exposed than just physically. She, with her gentle touches, seemed to know exactly where to touch, how to make you feel desired, and you, in turn, knew how to give yourself up without fear. The sex wasn't just physical, it was a silent conversation between the two of you, a dialogue without words, where everything was said through gestures and sighs.

The encounters between you, now, were casual, but always tinged with a palpable tension, as if you were getting to know each other in every gesture, in every look. There was no commitment — at least, not on the surface. They appeared out of nowhere, a phone call to grab coffee, a trip to the movies, or even a nighttime walk through Center City Philadelphia. Each of these encounters felt like a small escape from reality, a space where the rules of the outside world didn't apply.

Weeks passed, but the weight of that secret only seemed to grow. Every exchange of glances with Melissa was a careful dance, a game of disguises where the smallest slip could expose what you were trying to hide. You found yourself caught in the details — the way she moistens her lips before speaking, the way her fingers nervously drummed against the wood of the table when she was lost in thought. Everything about her was an invitation to daydream. And still, fear loomed over you both like a storm waiting to strike.

Ava Coleman wasn’t stupid. Your sister had a nearly cruel talent for sniffing out secrets. She would throw jabs disguised as jokes, each comment laced with suspicion.

“You and Schemmenti have been... coincidentally spending a lot of time together, don't you think?”she once said, with a sly smile, as if she were just having fun.

You giggled, a fragile and empty sound. But the truth was, every word of hers pierced your chest. The fear of being discovered clung to your skin, like a second layer of guilt.

That Wednesday, the restlessness was unbearable. The empty classroom seemed smaller with each step you took, the creaking of the old floorboards accompanying your impatience. Your situationship hadn’t sought you out all day. No furtive glances in the hallways, no hidden touches. The emptiness of her absence was almost physical.

You knew you shouldn't expect anything. You understood the weight she carried, the walls she’d built to protect herself. But it was hard. Hard to hold back the desire for more from her, more stolen moments, more honesty. You wanted her in her entirety, not just in the shadows.

When you finally saw her, the twilight had already tinged the sky with copper hues. She came out of the building with quick steps, her head down, as if the very air around her was a risk. You called out to her.

“Babe,” you sighed heavily.

She didn’t respond. She didn't slow her pace, didn't look back. And that indifference, even if perhaps feigned, cut deep.

Later, back at your small apartment complex, silence became your only companion. The cold light from your laptop screen illuminated your face as you tried to correct papers. But the students’s words were just disconnected scribbles. Your mind was far away, trapped in the memory of Melissa Schemmenti. The sound of her laugh echoed in the most secret corners of your memory, along with the sensation of her touch on your skin.

You wondered what she was doing at that moment. If she was thinking of you too. Or if, perhaps, she was trying to forget.

A message. It was the least you could do. Something simple, discreet, without revealing the turmoil inside you.

You: I hope you’re doing well.

The response didn’t come. The screen remained dark and silent, as if the universe itself conspired to prolong your anxiety.

Each minute without a reply was a blow. The emptiness screamed louder than any word. You hated yourself for it. For depending so much on her. For wanting something you weren’t sure you could have.

When the phone finally vibrated, the subtle sound reverberated through the apartment. Your heart skipped, as if that small tremor was a whisper of hope. Your hands trembled as you picked up the device, the reflection of the illuminated screen dancing in your eyes.

And there it was. A message.

Red: Can we talk? Tomorrow after work? At your place? Jacob is bringing that Elijah over and I don’t wanna hear him on my roof again.

With trembling fingers, you typed out a response.

Of course. See you then.

You set the phone aside, leaned back on the couch, and closed your eyes. Tomorrow. You would talk tomorrow. Maybe then, you’d finally figure out where this was going, or if it was even going anywhere.

But this wasn’t easy for Melissa either.

Behind the sharp words and crooked smiles, Melissa Ann Catarina Schemmenti hid a soul accustomed to control. She was the kind of woman who balanced the chaos of a second-grade classroom with the finesse of someone who knew exactly how to tame storms. The friend who always had a quick response, ready to defend those she loved. The woman who never let others see when she was trembling inside. But with you, everything felt different. You were the anomaly, the exception.

She wasn’t proud of the way she'd avoided you today. How her steps quickened the moment she spotted you in the hallway, how she sought refuge by the vending machine, pretending to study the options just to make sure you were gone. Every glance dodged, every hurried step away only made the ache in her chest grow stronger. Running wasn't her style. But there she was — running from what she wanted most.

And the worst part? It was you. Ava Coleman's younger sister. Ava, who thrived in chaos as though it were an endless source of energy. The principal who turned every conversation into a grand performance and every secret into a scandal fit for a soap opera. Melissa couldn't even begin to imagine the storm that would follow if her boss ever found out about the two of you. It would be an inferno of unimaginable proportions.

Still, every time the green eyed woman tried to convince you to end it — to stop before it was too late — something held her back. Because you weren't just her boss’s sister. You were you. She hated how much she thought about you. The sound of your laughter lingered in her mind long after you'd left. The way your eyes held hers, as if you could see the very things she tried so hard to hide. She hated the insatiable urge to tell you everything, to tear down the walls she'd built over the years. But what if you saw too much? What if you uncovered the parts of her that no one else knew and decided she wasn't worth staying for?

The fear was always there, lurking beneath the surface. Fear of not being enough. Fear of being too much. Fear of opening the door and finding only emptiness on the other side. Uncertainty was unfamiliar ground for her, and you were a whirlwind, daring her to lose herself in the eye of the storm.

The Sicilian had never been friends with uncertainty. She liked things as they were: organized, predictable, manageable. She sought solidity, a clear structure amid the chaos. But you? You were fire in its purest form — untamed, insatiable. A spark that set everything ablaze and made her forget how dangerous it was to get too close. And yet, she did. Every time. Because there was nothing about you that could be ignored.

No, this wasn't easy for her. Not even close.

When Melissa crossed the threshold of her home, a heavy sigh escaped her lips. The air inside was still, as if the very walls could sense the weight she carried. Her bag slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud. But even without its small burden, the true weight remained, stubborn and unrelenting. She needed to talk, to unload the turmoil that swirled within her. And who else, besides Jacob, could listen without judgment?

He was the only one who could know. The only one who could understood.

Barbara? No. The memory of last time still stung. That CPR class had been a cruel reminder that keeping secrets from her best friend was like betraying a part of herself. But now, Melissa felt she had no other choice. This was too big, too absurd. How could she explain something so irrational without sounding like a woman lost in her own feelings?

The living room was cloaked in a soft, dim glow, with only the bluish light of the television pulsing against the walls. One Punch Man played in the background, as it often did during Jacob’s quiet evenings. He was there, sunk into the worn plastic-covered couch, eyes lazily scanning his phone. Probably reading another history article. The comfort of old words seemed to be his way of escaping the world.

The redhead woman envied him for a fleeting moment. He could lose himself in the noise, let the endless stream of information carry him away. But her? She never knew how to do that. Even in silence, her mind never found peace.

“Hey, man,” she greeted her roommate, trying to sound casual, even though her heart was pounding.

Jacob looked up from his smartphone, raising an eyebrow. “Mel. Didn’t see you at the lounge today. Long day?”

“You have no idea,” she muttered, sliding onto the plastic couch beside him. She rubbed her temples, trying to calm her racing thoughts.

“So... I’m guessing it’s not just the usual school stress you’re dealing with?” the young boy asked, his voice gentle but laced with concern. He had a way of reading his work mom, seeing right through the tough exterior she worked so hard to maintain. And for some reason, she trusted him with things she couldn’t trust anyone else with.

She chuckled bitterly. “You could say that.”

Jacob turned his body to face her fully, setting his phone down and giving her his undivided attention. Melissa could feel the weight of his stare, like he was waiting for her to spill everything.

“I’m seeing someone,” she said quietly, biting her nails.

He blinked in surprise. “Wait. Who? Another firefighter or the guy from the hot tub?”

Melissa let out a frustrated breath, sinking into the couch. “No! We don’t talk about those mistakes on this house! Y/N.”

Jacob’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re... seeing Y/N. The same who is the fourth grade teacher and Ava’s sister? The one you’ve been saying is a rookie for the past year?” He let out a small laugh, clearly trying to process what she’d just said. “This is... something else, Mel Mel. You sure about this? I didn’t know you were into women!”

The green eyed woman rubbed her hands over her face. “I am bisexual, you prick. And for the record, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. It’s just...everything’s different when I’m with her. But it’s complicated. We can’t tell no one, J. If anyone finds out, it’ll be a disaster. Coleman will kill me. And I don’t know what to do with all of this. It feels like I’m walking on a damn tightrope.”

“I never saw you so scared about a relationship,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “It looks like you are about to crack.”

Melissa rolled her eyes, trying to sound confident, though she wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

“I’m not gonna crack. But it’s just... I don’t know. It feels like one wrong move, and everything could blow up. She’s younger. I can’t—”

“I get it,” Jacob interrupted, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I get it, Mel. But just... don’t lose yourself in it, okay? Don’t let it become something you regret. Whatever happens, just promise me you’ll think it through. And if you need to talk, you know where I am.”

She looked at him, her heart heavy with gratitude. “Thanks, J. Really.”

“Anytime,” he said with a wink, picking his phone back up as he added. “Just try not to get caught, alright?”

“I’m working on it.”

Touching his golden curls, the thirty year old prompted. “So, does Barb know?”

“No.”

She wasn’t there to make friends, but she wasn’t willing to distance herself from those who truly mattered either. The words “compassion” and “care” weren’t used lightly by her, but when she cared, you felt it. She was the type of person who would do the unthinkable to protect those who, in some way, were in her orbit. That made her more unique, harder to understand – and, for that reason, more fascinating.

Compared to the others, she was a storm, full of intense and unsettling energy, something much more complicated than any of the cheerier or more inspiring facets of the other team members. And, paradoxically, it was this complexity that made someone like you feel drawn to her.

It had started as simple curiosity. You’d heard plenty of stories about her from Ava, most of them exaggerated, of course. She loved to poke fun at Melissa Schemmenti, often calling her Ms. Tough Guy or The Abbott Enforcer, always with a mischievous grin. And that grew even more often with their newfound friendship after the small heist at the visit to Girard Creek Golf Course, maybe they weren't so different at all. But when you actually started working alongside your current situationship, you realized that those stories didn’t do her justice at all. Never did.

There was a depth to her that your older sister never mentioned. The way she’d stay late to make sure her classroom was perfect for the next day. The way she’d show up after a Philadelphia Eagles win. The way she’d give the students in her class little pep talks when she thought no one was listening. The way she’d call out nonsense in staff meetings but somehow still manage to sound extremely professional.

At first, you only admired her from afar. She was just some random colleague — sure, one you couldn’t stop thinking about, but still, a colleague. Part of the reason you always kept some distance was Ava. Your older sister had an imposing presence, and her overly protective stance made it impossible for anything to escape her radar. To her, you were the helpless little sister, the one the world kept trying to bring down — even though, most of the time, you insisted you could take care of yourself.

Ava never hesitated to push away anyone she considered a threat to you. When you were younger, that meant crashing parties to get you out if she thought the environment wasn’t safe. Later, it meant monitoring your relationships, intimidating any suitor with her sharp gaze, and even showing up at your old job to “check on how things were going.” You knew that, behind all that chaotic energy, there was an unconditional love. But you also knew she’d never stand by if she suspected someone was breaking your heart.

Maybe that’s why you never got too close to the other teachers. Jacob was too friendly, always trying to start conversations about some obscure documentary you wouldn’t watch even if paid. Janine, with her overflowing energy, made you feel even more out of place, as if every interaction required an excessive effort. Gregory was polite but distant — and you knew Ava had a sixth sense for spotting “awkward guys,” as she called them. As for Barbara… well, she was a legend, and you never wanted to risk looking foolish in front of her.

So, you contented yourself with staying in the shadows, doing your job without drawing much attention. At least until Melissa Schemmenti.

The green-eyed woman was different. And, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, there was something about her that pulled you closer. That blunt attitude, the raspy laugh that echoed down the hallways, the intense glances she’d throw over her various pairs of glasses when someone said something particularly stupid. It was impossible not to notice. And worse, it was impossible not to want more.

But, of course, there was Principal Coleman. And just the thought of what your sister would do if she found out you were interested in the most feared teacher at the school was enough to keep you in line. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. It was during that staff meeting that everything changed.

In the long development week, being the lovely and helpful principal that she was, Ava was monotonously talking about another poorly executed initiative, her excited voice echoing off the walls in that sing-song tone she used when she knew no one was listening. Janine sat at the edge of her chair, forcing a polite smile and nodding enthusiastically in an attempt to seem engaged, even though her big eyes occasionally darted toward the door. Jacob was fiddling with his pen, aimlessly doodling on the margins of his notebook, clearly trying to stay awake. Barb reclined with her arms crossed, her expression exuding mild disapproval and resignation, while Gregory kept glancing at the clock, letting out a subtle sigh every few seconds, his boredom clearly etched on his face.

The other staff members just remained silent.

“Ava,” Janine said after a while, running her hand through her curls. “Look, your proposal is reasonable. But we can’t afford this!”

“Shut up,” your older sister huffed, walking over to the projector to make a PowerPoint presentation about her planning for new posts on Instagram.

“God bless that O’shon, poor kid,” Mr. Johnson muttered to himself, looking at the cameras. “Or that Crystal Rilley.”

The mention of the rival made Ava freeze.

“Mr. J, how dare you mention that bitch’s name? We shouldn’t even speak it! It’s like any Christian wouldn’t dare mention Satan’s name.”

Mrs. Howard jumped out of her seat in an instant, looking offended. “Excuse me?”

“Uh. Sorry?” The principal shot back.

You were sitting on the other side of the room from the redhaired woman, half paying attention, when you caught her rolling her beautiful green eyes. Without thinking, you stared at her and murmured.

“This is a waste of time, don't you think?”

Her plump lips curled into a shy smile before she quickly averted her gaze, not bothering to give you a single response, but at that moment, something clicked. It was as if you'd unlocked a secret part of her, a part she didn't show everyone. After that, you couldn’t stop noticing her, or the way Melissa Schemmenti started noticing you back.

At first, it was in the little things. The way she lingered just a second longer in the hall if you were there. The way her sharp responses softened when they were directed at you, the edges of her voice rounded with something you couldn’t name. The way her eyes would find yours during faculty meetings, as if she were looking for an ally in the sea of chaos that Ava always seemed to create.

“Another motivational poster initiative?” you asked quietly one afternoon, glancing at the second-grade teacher across the room during a PTA meeting. “What's next, a dance competition to inspire better test scores?”

Melissa turned her head slightly, pretending to adjust the papers in front of her. “Careful, rookie,”she whispered loud enough for you to hear. “Your sister might actually pick up that idea and run with it.”

You suppressed a laugh, her green eyes sparkling with amusement as she caught your reaction. It felt like a game that only the two of you were playing, a quiet rebellion against the absurdity of the daily grind that seemed to infect that building.

The first time you really had a conversation alone with her was after school one day. You were staying late to reorganize your classroom, frustrated with the mess your students had managed to create. Melissa walked in, probably looking for something—likely her stapler, which seemed to disappear weekly.

“You’re still here, Y/N?” she asked, leaning against the door with her arms crossed.

“Apparently, my fourth graders are aspiring tornadoes,” you replied, holding up a crumpled worksheet you found shoved inside a desk. “This is my life now.”

The older woman laughed, walking in. “Fourth grade, huh? You’ve got the sweet spot. Too old to be clingy, too young to be chatty.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think that's the sweet spot? Yesterday, a kid tried to trade homework for a pack of gum.”

Her laughter came easily this time, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine. “Okay, fair enough. But at least they’re creative. My second-graders think spelling their names correctly deserves a gold star.”

You smiled. “I’d trade you any day.”

Melissa tilted her head, her gaze lingering just a moment longer. “Careful what you wish for, rookie. You might not survive a day with my kids.”

The friendship between you two grew slowly, like a secret entrusted to the wind. There wasn’t a specific moment when you realized she had become an essential part of your life—it was like the golden light streaming through the blinds in the morning, coming without warning but filling everything with warmth.

At first, the older woman was just the stubborn colleague who always knew how to have the last word. You argued more than you talked, each of you determined to prove your point, until one day, laughter won. It was during yet another endless school meeting, when you made a whispered joke about the broken coffee machine, and Melissa, without even trying to hide it, let out a laugh—a rough, authentic sound, as if it had come from a place she didn’t open up to often. From there, everything changed.

The green eyed woman started stopping by your classroom after hours, sometimes just to complain about the school’s awful coffee, other times to share some hallway gossip. You found a rhythm in your interactions, a silent dance of teasing and camaraderie. And then, without realizing it, you became her safe place.

The first time she really spoke about herself was on a gray day, the smell of rain still hanging in the air. You were sitting in the parking lot, on the concrete steps, sharing a cigarette she pulled from her pocket as if offering a secret. The smoke rose between you two, creating an ephemeral veil that made everything feel more intimate.

“Ma used to say cigarettes were for weak men,” Melissa said, with a half-smile that was bitter. “But after Joseph left home, well... Weak or not, here I am.”

It was the first time she mentioned the divorce. The word hung in the air, heavy and inevitable. She didn’t cry. The second-grade teacher was never one for easy tears. But the way her shoulders dropped slightly revealed the weight she carried. She talked about the marriage, how Joe’s laughter had become rarer, until the silent house became unbearable. She spoke of the muffled arguments behind closed doors and the nights when sleep wouldn’t come, even after another cigarette smoked to the filter.

“Teresa?” your coworker continued, taking a deep drag. “Oh, she loved being right. She said if I’d listened to my famiglia, I wouldn’t have ended up like this.”

There was bitterness in her voice, but also a kind of acceptance. You didn’t interrupt. You just listened. And that’s how she went on, unraveling the knots of her own story—the childhood surrounded by traditions that allowed no room for deviation, the prayers murmured in Italian in the kitchen, the smell of tomato sauce that always seemed to linger in the air. The older Schemmenti grew up with Catholic faith as a tight cord around her chest, learning far too early to confuse guilt with devotion.

“Not that I go to church much anymore,” she confessed, blowing out the smoke with a sigh. “But sometimes, I light a candle. I think candles understand us more than priests.”

And then, as if needing to lift the weight of the moment, Melissa laughed. That half-smile laugh you’d come to know so well.

“Oh, and there’s another faith I take seriously. The firefighters from South Philly. Those arms? Those pants? My Holy Mother.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you say this... from personal experience?”

Melissa leaned back on the step, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, narrowing her eyes as if she was about to share a forbidden secret. “Listen, I’ve had sex with a lot of beautiful women in my life, but this firefighter… Madonna mia. She looked like Halle Berry.”

She made an exaggerated gesture with her hands, as if she had to draw the perfection.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm. Dark skin, soft as hell, you know? Like silk. Short curly hair, and those eyes…” Melissa sighed, tilting her head as if reliving the scene. “Brown, deep, like dark honey under the light. And the body?” She laughed, shaking her head. “The definition of hot. Strong arms, thighs that could crush a man without effort, and that posture of someone who knows she can carry you if she wants.”

She took a deep drag and released the smoke slowly, a lazy smile on her lips.

“She was in uniform that night, straight off her shift. The tight tank top, the pants low on her hips… Jesus Christ. I saw that woman and thought: ‘If I die in a fire, I hope I get to ride on that strap first.”

You couldn’t help but feel a hint of jealousy, and your cheeks warmed with her words.

The redhead laughed again, mischievous, and shot you a suggestive look. “And let me tell you... She knew how to use those hands for much more than just holding a hose.”

You laughed with her, the kind of laugh that understood. Because that's how Melissa was, intense, contradictory, absurdly alive. She spoke with the same passion about family traumas and about her most mundane pleasures. And when she mentioned her unwavering love for Real Housewives, gesturing with fervor to defend her favorite cast members, you realized how much you loved that about her.

She was never someone easily surprised. But when the name Chappell Roan first came up in casual conversation, something in her expression changed. She was sitting on the couch, a beer in hand and a slight look of disdain, until Pink Pony Club echoed from the TV. Suddenly, the way she adjusted herself, how her gaze focused on the screen, how her fingers gripped the bottle just a little tighter, made it clear: here was a genuine passion.

Being her friend was like holding a lit match. She burned with anger, with desire, with sharp humor and still, you couldn't pull away. Because, even with all the ashes, she was warmth. She was presence. And now, she was your one of your best friends.

The flirting between you started unnamed, with no declared intention, like a fire born from discreet sparks. At first, it was just the lingering glances that were too long to be casual, a touch of fingers that lasted a second longer than necessary when passing papers to each other.

But then came the provocations. The biting comments disguised as jokes, the way the redhead smiled crookedly after making some sharp remark, just to see if you'd react in kind. And you did.

You challenged each other in small things, exchanged veiled insinuations in the middle of common conversations, until the air between you became thick, heavy with something unspoken but undeniably present. And when she leaned against your shoulder while laughing, or when her voice dropped to a lower, almost conspiratorial tone, your whole body seemed to recognize what your mind was still pretending not to know: you were dangerously close to crossing a line.

The first time she kissed you, it was as if gravity had shifted, as if the world’s axis tilted just to remind you that, until that moment, you hadn't known what it truly meant to be alive.

Willard R Abbott was empty at that hour, the hallways bathed in pale light flickering from the old lamps, humming in a near-complicit silence. You and Melissa had been there for a while, discussing something trivial — maybe a detail about the fundraiser, but at that moment, none of the words seemed to matter. Everything dissolved when you noticed the way she looked at you, her green eyes less intense than usual, softer, as if she hesitated to hide something that was already beyond control.

Then, without warning, without space for you to anticipate, her lips touched yours. It was a moment of heat and dizziness, a contained hurricane in the narrow space between your two bodies. Your situationship pulled away too quickly, and in the startled gleam of her gaze, there was surprise, there was fear — but, above all, there was an undeniable desire to not undo what had just happened. And you felt the same. No regrets. No doubts.

The first time you both gave in to desire after the kiss, it was as if the whole world disappeared, as if everything around you became a blur, irrelevant in the face of the intensity of what was happening. There was no rush. Nothing seemed urgent. On the contrary, each second was lived with an unsettling calm, as if the universe knew that this moment was unique.

You were at her place, on a warm summer night. The air was thick, scented with earth and streetlights filtering through the window, casting a soft glow. The atmosphere was tense, laden with a silent expectation that filled the space between you. The leather couch in the corner of the room seemed to be the only safe place in that moment, as words began to fade, replaced by ragged breathing and gazes loaded with desire.

She touched your face with a softness that contrasted with the intensity of the moment. Your bodies were so close that the fine line between friendship and something more seemed to disappear. She was the one to break the silence first, her hands searching for yours, and when your fingers intertwined, it was as if the rest of the world stopped spinning.

The kiss was different this time, deeper, more urgent, as if all the promises made in that previous exchange of lips now needed to be fulfilled. Melissa Schemmenti’s taste was stronger, more urgent. Something between the cigarette and the perfume she wore, and you lost yourself in it, in that kiss that seemed to consume both of you. Her hands traveled across your body, exploring carefully and yet with the certainty of someone who knew what they wanted.

The moment was hot, unhurried, but also without shame. When your bodies finally fused together, there was something unusual in the way you felt with her, as if, in that act, you were more exposed than just physically. She, with her gentle touches, seemed to know exactly where to touch, how to make you feel desired, and you, in turn, knew how to give yourself up without fear. The sex wasn't just physical, it was a silent conversation between the two of you, a dialogue without words, where everything was said through gestures and sighs.

The encounters between you, now, were casual, but always tinged with a palpable tension, as if you were getting to know each other in every gesture, in every look. There was no commitment — at least, not on the surface. They appeared out of nowhere, a phone call to grab coffee, a trip to the movies, or even a nighttime walk through Center City Philadelphia. Each of these encounters felt like a small escape from reality, a space where the rules of the outside world didn't apply.

Weeks passed, but the weight of that secret only seemed to grow. Every exchange of glances with Melissa was a careful dance, a game of disguises where the smallest slip could expose what you were trying to hide. You found yourself caught in the details — the way she moistens her lips before speaking, the way her fingers nervously drummed against the wood of the table when she was lost in thought. Everything about her was an invitation to daydream. And still, fear loomed over you both like a storm waiting to strike.

Ava Coleman wasn’t stupid. Your sister had a nearly cruel talent for sniffing out secrets. She would throw jabs disguised as jokes, each comment laced with suspicion.

“You and Schemmenti have been... coincidentally spending a lot of time together, don't you think?”she once said, with a sly smile, as if she were just having fun.

You giggled, a fragile and empty sound. But the truth was, every word of hers pierced your chest. The fear of being discovered clung to your skin, like a second layer of guilt.

That Wednesday, the restlessness was unbearable. The empty classroom seemed smaller with each step you took, the creaking of the old floorboards accompanying your impatience. Your situationship hadn’t sought you out all day. No furtive glances in the hallways, no hidden touches. The emptiness of her absence was almost physical.

You knew you shouldn't expect anything. You understood the weight she carried, the walls she’d built to protect herself. But it was hard. Hard to hold back the desire for more from her, more stolen moments, more honesty. You wanted her in her entirety, not just in the shadows.

When you finally saw her, the twilight had already tinged the sky with copper hues. She came out of the building with quick steps, her head down, as if the very air around her was a risk. You called out to her.

“Babe,” you sighed heavily.

She didn’t respond. She didn't slow her pace, didn't look back. And that indifference, even if perhaps feigned, cut deep.

Later, back at your small apartment complex, silence became your only companion. The cold light from your laptop screen illuminated your face as you tried to correct papers. But the students’s words were just disconnected scribbles. Your mind was far away, trapped in the memory of Melissa Schemmenti. The sound of her laugh echoed in the most secret corners of your memory, along with the sensation of her touch on your skin.

You wondered what she was doing at that moment. If she was thinking of you too. Or if, perhaps, she was trying to forget.

A message. It was the least you could do. Something simple, discreet, without revealing the turmoil inside you.

You: I hope you’re doing well.

The response didn’t come. The screen remained dark and silent, as if the universe itself conspired to prolong your anxiety.

Each minute without a reply was a blow. The emptiness screamed louder than any word. You hated yourself for it. For depending so much on her. For wanting something you weren’t sure you could have.

When the phone finally vibrated, the subtle sound reverberated through the apartment. Your heart skipped, as if that small tremor was a whisper of hope. Your hands trembled as you picked up the device, the reflection of the illuminated screen dancing in your eyes.

And there it was. A message.

Red: Can we talk? Tomorrow after work? At your place? Jacob is bringing that Elijah over and I don’t wanna hear him on my roof again.

With trembling fingers, you typed out a response.

Of course. See you then.

You set the phone aside, leaned back on the couch, and closed your eyes. Tomorrow. You would talk tomorrow. Maybe then, you’d finally figure out where this was going, or if it was even going anywhere.

But this wasn’t easy for Melissa either.

Behind the sharp words and crooked smiles, Melissa Ann Catarina Schemmenti hid a soul accustomed to control. She was the kind of woman who balanced the chaos of a second-grade classroom with the finesse of someone who knew exactly how to tame storms. The friend who always had a quick response, ready to defend those she loved. The woman who never let others see when she was trembling inside. But with you, everything felt different. You were the anomaly, the exception.

She wasn’t proud of the way she'd avoided you today. How her steps quickened the moment she spotted you in the hallway, how she sought refuge by the vending machine, pretending to study the options just to make sure you were gone. Every glance dodged, every hurried step away only made the ache in her chest grow stronger. Running wasn't her style. But there she was — running from what she wanted most.

And the worst part? It was you. Ava Coleman's younger sister. Ava, who thrived in chaos as though it were an endless source of energy. The principal who turned every conversation into a grand performance and every secret into a scandal fit for a soap opera. Melissa couldn't even begin to imagine the storm that would follow if her boss ever found out about the two of you. It would be an inferno of unimaginable proportions.

Still, every time the green eyed woman tried to convince you to end it — to stop before it was too late — something held her back. Because you weren't just her boss’s sister. You were you. She hated how much she thought about you. The sound of your laughter lingered in her mind long after you'd left. The way your eyes held hers, as if you could see the very things she tried so hard to hide. She hated the insatiable urge to tell you everything, to tear down the walls she'd built over the years. But what if you saw too much? What if you uncovered the parts of her that no one else knew and decided she wasn't worth staying for?

The fear was always there, lurking beneath the surface. Fear of not being enough. Fear of being too much. Fear of opening the door and finding only emptiness on the other side. Uncertainty was unfamiliar ground for her, and you were a whirlwind, daring her to lose herself in the eye of the storm.

The Sicilian had never been friends with uncertainty. She liked things as they were: organized, predictable, manageable. She sought solidity, a clear structure amid the chaos. But you? You were fire in its purest form — untamed, insatiable. A spark that set everything ablaze and made her forget how dangerous it was to get too close. And yet, she did. Every time. Because there was nothing about you that could be ignored.

No, this wasn't easy for her. Not even close.

When Melissa crossed the threshold of her home, a heavy sigh escaped her lips. The air inside was still, as if the very walls could sense the weight she carried. Her bag slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud. But even without its small burden, the true weight remained, stubborn and unrelenting. She needed to talk, to unload the turmoil that swirled within her. And who else, besides Jacob, could listen without judgment?

He was the only one who could know. The only one who could understood.

Barbara? No. The memory of last time still stung. That CPR class had been a cruel reminder that keeping secrets from her best friend was like betraying a part of herself. But now, Melissa felt she had no other choice. This was too big, too absurd. How could she explain something so irrational without sounding like a woman lost in her own feelings?

The living room was cloaked in a soft, dim glow, with only the bluish light of the television pulsing against the walls. One Punch Man played in the background, as it often did during Jacob’s quiet evenings. He was there, sunk into the worn plastic-covered couch, eyes lazily scanning his phone. Probably reading another history article. The comfort of old words seemed to be his way of escaping the world.

The redhead woman envied him for a fleeting moment. He could lose himself in the noise, let the endless stream of information carry him away. But her? She never knew how to do that. Even in silence, her mind never found peace.

“Hey, man,” she greeted her roommate, trying to sound casual, even though her heart was pounding.

Jacob looked up from his smartphone, raising an eyebrow. “Mel. Didn’t see you at the lounge today. Long day?”

“You have no idea,” she muttered, sliding onto the plastic couch beside him. She rubbed her temples, trying to calm her racing thoughts.

“So... I’m guessing it’s not just the usual school stress you’re dealing with?” the young boy asked, his voice gentle but laced with concern. He had a way of reading his work mom, seeing right through the tough exterior she worked so hard to maintain. And for some reason, she trusted him with things she couldn’t trust anyone else with.

She chuckled bitterly. “You could say that.”

Jacob turned his body to face her fully, setting his phone down and giving her his undivided attention. Melissa could feel the weight of his stare, like he was waiting for her to spill everything.

“I’m seeing someone,” she said quietly, biting her nails.

He blinked in surprise. “Wait. Who? Another firefighter or the guy from the hot tub?”

Melissa let out a frustrated breath, sinking into the couch. “No! We don’t talk about those mistakes on this house! Y/N.”

Jacob’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re... seeing Y/N. The same who is the fourth grade teacher and Ava’s sister? The one you’ve been saying is a rookie for the past year?” He let out a small laugh, clearly trying to process what she’d just said. “This is... something else, Mel Mel. You sure about this? I didn’t know you were into women!”

The green eyed woman rubbed her hands over her face. “I am bisexual, you prick. And for the record, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. It’s just...everything’s different when I’m with her. But it’s complicated. We can’t tell no one, J. If anyone finds out, it’ll be a disaster. Coleman will kill me. And I don’t know what to do with all of this. It feels like I’m walking on a damn tightrope.”

“I never saw you so scared about a relationship,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “It looks like you are about to crack.”

Melissa rolled her eyes, trying to sound confident, though she wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

“I’m not gonna crack. But it’s just... I don’t know. It feels like one wrong move, and everything could blow up. She’s younger. I can’t—”

“I get it,” Jacob interrupted, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I get it, Mel. But just... don’t lose yourself in it, okay? Don’t let it become something you regret. Whatever happens, just promise me you’ll think it through. And if you need to talk, you know where I am.”

She looked at him, her heart heavy with gratitude. “Thanks, J. Really.”

“Anytime,” he said with a wink, picking his phone back up as he added. “Just try not to get caught, alright?”

“I’m working on it.”

Touching his golden curls, the thirty year old prompted. “So, does Barb know?”

“No.”

She wasn’t there to make friends, but she wasn’t willing to distance herself from those who truly mattered either. The words “compassion” and “care” weren’t used lightly by her, but when she cared, you felt it. She was the type of person who would do the unthinkable to protect those who, in some way, were in her orbit. That made her more unique, harder to understand – and, for that reason, more fascinating.

Compared to the others, she was a storm, full of intense and unsettling energy, something much more complicated than any of the cheerier or more inspiring facets of the other team members. And, paradoxically, it was this complexity that made someone like you feel drawn to her.

It had started as simple curiosity. You’d heard plenty of stories about her from Ava, most of them exaggerated, of course. She loved to poke fun at Melissa Schemmenti, often calling her Ms. Tough Guy or The Abbott Enforcer, always with a mischievous grin. And that grew even more often with their newfound friendship after the small heist at the visit to Girard Creek Golf Course, maybe they weren't so different at all. But when you actually started working alongside your current situationship, you realized that those stories didn’t do her justice at all. Never did.

There was a depth to her that your older sister never mentioned. The way she’d stay late to make sure her classroom was perfect for the next day. The way she’d show up after a Philadelphia Eagles win. The way she’d give the students in her class little pep talks when she thought no one was listening. The way she’d call out nonsense in staff meetings but somehow still manage to sound extremely professional.

At first, you only admired her from afar. She was just some random colleague — sure, one you couldn’t stop thinking about, but still, a colleague. Part of the reason you always kept some distance was Ava. Your older sister had an imposing presence, and her overly protective stance made it impossible for anything to escape her radar. To her, you were the helpless little sister, the one the world kept trying to bring down — even though, most of the time, you insisted you could take care of yourself.

Ava never hesitated to push away anyone she considered a threat to you. When you were younger, that meant crashing parties to get you out if she thought the environment wasn’t safe. Later, it meant monitoring your relationships, intimidating any suitor with her sharp gaze, and even showing up at your old job to “check on how things were going.” You knew that, behind all that chaotic energy, there was an unconditional love. But you also knew she’d never stand by if she suspected someone was breaking your heart.

Maybe that’s why you never got too close to the other teachers. Jacob was too friendly, always trying to start conversations about some obscure documentary you wouldn’t watch even if paid. Janine, with her overflowing energy, made you feel even more out of place, as if every interaction required an excessive effort. Gregory was polite but distant — and you knew Ava had a sixth sense for spotting “awkward guys,” as she called them. As for Barbara… well, she was a legend, and you never wanted to risk looking foolish in front of her.

So, you contented yourself with staying in the shadows, doing your job without drawing much attention. At least until Melissa Schemmenti.

The green-eyed woman was different. And, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, there was something about her that pulled you closer. That blunt attitude, the raspy laugh that echoed down the hallways, the intense glances she’d throw over her various pairs of glasses when someone said something particularly stupid. It was impossible not to notice. And worse, it was impossible not to want more.

But, of course, there was Principal Coleman. And just the thought of what your sister would do if she found out you were interested in the most feared teacher at the school was enough to keep you in line. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. It was during that staff meeting that everything changed.

In the long development week, being the lovely and helpful principal that she was, Ava was monotonously talking about another poorly executed initiative, her excited voice echoing off the walls in that sing-song tone she used when she knew no one was listening. Janine sat at the edge of her chair, forcing a polite smile and nodding enthusiastically in an attempt to seem engaged, even though her big eyes occasionally darted toward the door. Jacob was fiddling with his pen, aimlessly doodling on the margins of his notebook, clearly trying to stay awake. Barb reclined with her arms crossed, her expression exuding mild disapproval and resignation, while Gregory kept glancing at the clock, letting out a subtle sigh every few seconds, his boredom clearly etched on his face.

The other staff members just remained silent.

“Ava,” Janine said after a while, running her hand through her curls. “Look, your proposal is reasonable. But we can’t afford this!”

“Shut up,” your older sister huffed, walking over to the projector to make a PowerPoint presentation about her planning for new posts on Instagram.

“God bless that O’shon, poor kid,” Mr. Johnson muttered to himself, looking at the cameras. “Or that Crystal Rilley.”

The mention of the rival made Ava freeze.

“Mr. J, how dare you mention that bitch’s name? We shouldn’t even speak it! It’s like any Christian wouldn’t dare mention Satan’s name.”

Mrs. Howard jumped out of her seat in an instant, looking offended. “Excuse me?”

“Uh. Sorry?” The principal shot back.

You were sitting on the other side of the room from the redhaired woman, half paying attention, when you caught her rolling her beautiful green eyes. Without thinking, you stared at her and murmured.

“This is a waste of time, don't you think?”

Her plump lips curled into a shy smile before she quickly averted her gaze, not bothering to give you a single response, but at that moment, something clicked. It was as if you'd unlocked a secret part of her, a part she didn't show everyone. After that, you couldn’t stop noticing her, or the way Melissa Schemmenti started noticing you back.

At first, it was in the little things. The way she lingered just a second longer in the hall if you were there. The way her sharp responses softened when they were directed at you, the edges of her voice rounded with something you couldn’t name. The way her eyes would find yours during faculty meetings, as if she were looking for an ally in the sea of chaos that Ava always seemed to create.

“Another motivational poster initiative?” you asked quietly one afternoon, glancing at the second-grade teacher across the room during a PTA meeting. “What's next, a dance competition to inspire better test scores?”

Melissa turned her head slightly, pretending to adjust the papers in front of her. “Careful, rookie,”she whispered loud enough for you to hear. “Your sister might actually pick up that idea and run with it.”

You suppressed a laugh, her green eyes sparkling with amusement as she caught your reaction. It felt like a game that only the two of you were playing, a quiet rebellion against the absurdity of the daily grind that seemed to infect that building.

The first time you really had a conversation alone with her was after school one day. You were staying late to reorganize your classroom, frustrated with the mess your students had managed to create. Melissa walked in, probably looking for something—likely her stapler, which seemed to disappear weekly.

“You’re still here, Y/N?” she asked, leaning against the door with her arms crossed.

“Apparently, my fourth graders are aspiring tornadoes,” you replied, holding up a crumpled worksheet you found shoved inside a desk. “This is my life now.”

The older woman laughed, walking in. “Fourth grade, huh? You’ve got the sweet spot. Too old to be clingy, too young to be chatty.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think that's the sweet spot? Yesterday, a kid tried to trade homework for a pack of gum.”

Her laughter came easily this time, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine. “Okay, fair enough. But at least they’re creative. My second-graders think spelling their names correctly deserves a gold star.”

You smiled. “I’d trade you any day.”

Melissa tilted her head, her gaze lingering just a moment longer. “Careful what you wish for, rookie. You might not survive a day with my kids.”

The friendship between you two grew slowly, like a secret entrusted to the wind. There wasn’t a specific moment when you realized she had become an essential part of your life—it was like the golden light streaming through the blinds in the morning, coming without warning but filling everything with warmth.

At first, the older woman was just the stubborn colleague who always knew how to have the last word. You argued more than you talked, each of you determined to prove your point, until one day, laughter won. It was during yet another endless school meeting, when you made a whispered joke about the broken coffee machine, and Melissa, without even trying to hide it, let out a laugh—a rough, authentic sound, as if it had come from a place she didn’t open up to often. From there, everything changed.

The green eyed woman started stopping by your classroom after hours, sometimes just to complain about the school’s awful coffee, other times to share some hallway gossip. You found a rhythm in your interactions, a silent dance of teasing and camaraderie. And then, without realizing it, you became her safe place.

The first time she really spoke about herself was on a gray day, the smell of rain still hanging in the air. You were sitting in the parking lot, on the concrete steps, sharing a cigarette she pulled from her pocket as if offering a secret. The smoke rose between you two, creating an ephemeral veil that made everything feel more intimate.

“Ma used to say cigarettes were for weak men,” Melissa said, with a half-smile that was bitter. “But after Joseph left home, well... Weak or not, here I am.”

It was the first time she mentioned the divorce. The word hung in the air, heavy and inevitable. She didn’t cry. The second-grade teacher was never one for easy tears. But the way her shoulders dropped slightly revealed the weight she carried. She talked about the marriage, how Joe’s laughter had become rarer, until the silent house became unbearable. She spoke of the muffled arguments behind closed doors and the nights when sleep wouldn’t come, even after another cigarette smoked to the filter.

“Teresa?” your coworker continued, taking a deep drag. “Oh, she loved being right. She said if I’d listened to my famiglia, I wouldn’t have ended up like this.”

There was bitterness in her voice, but also a kind of acceptance. You didn’t interrupt. You just listened. And that’s how she went on, unraveling the knots of her own story—the childhood surrounded by traditions that allowed no room for deviation, the prayers murmured in Italian in the kitchen, the smell of tomato sauce that always seemed to linger in the air. The older Schemmenti grew up with Catholic faith as a tight cord around her chest, learning far too early to confuse guilt with devotion.

“Not that I go to church much anymore,” she confessed, blowing out the smoke with a sigh. “But sometimes, I light a candle. I think candles understand us more than priests.”

And then, as if needing to lift the weight of the moment, Melissa laughed. That half-smile laugh you’d come to know so well.

“Oh, and there’s another faith I take seriously. The firefighters from South Philly. Those arms? Those pants? My Holy Mother.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you say this... from personal experience?”

Melissa leaned back on the step, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, narrowing her eyes as if she was about to share a forbidden secret. “Listen, I’ve had sex with a lot of beautiful women in my life, but this firefighter… Madonna mia. She looked like Halle Berry.”

She made an exaggerated gesture with her hands, as if she had to draw the perfection.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm. Dark skin, soft as hell, you know? Like silk. Short curly hair, and those eyes…” Melissa sighed, tilting her head as if reliving the scene. “Brown, deep, like dark honey under the light. And the body?” She laughed, shaking her head. “The definition of hot. Strong arms, thighs that could crush a man without effort, and that posture of someone who knows she can carry you if she wants.”

She took a deep drag and released the smoke slowly, a lazy smile on her lips.

“She was in uniform that night, straight off her shift. The tight tank top, the pants low on her hips… Jesus Christ. I saw that woman and thought: ‘If I die in a fire, I hope I get to ride on that strap first.”

You couldn’t help but feel a hint of jealousy, and your cheeks warmed with her words.

The redhead laughed again, mischievous, and shot you a suggestive look. “And let me tell you... She knew how to use those hands for much more than just holding a hose.”

You laughed with her, the kind of laugh that understood. Because that's how Melissa was, intense, contradictory, absurdly alive. She spoke with the same passion about family traumas and about her most mundane pleasures. And when she mentioned her unwavering love for Real Housewives, gesturing with fervor to defend her favorite cast members, you realized how much you loved that about her.

She was never someone easily surprised. But when the name Chappell Roan first came up in casual conversation, something in her expression changed. She was sitting on the couch, a beer in hand and a slight look of disdain, until Pink Pony Club echoed from the TV. Suddenly, the way she adjusted herself, how her gaze focused on the screen, how her fingers gripped the bottle just a little tighter, made it clear: here was a genuine passion.

Being her friend was like holding a lit match. She burned with anger, with desire, with sharp humor and still, you couldn't pull away. Because, even with all the ashes, she was warmth. She was presence. And now, she was your one of your best friends.

The flirting between you started unnamed, with no declared intention, like a fire born from discreet sparks. At first, it was just the lingering glances that were too long to be casual, a touch of fingers that lasted a second longer than necessary when passing papers to each other.

But then came the provocations. The biting comments disguised as jokes, the way the redhead smiled crookedly after making some sharp remark, just to see if you'd react in kind. And you did.

You challenged each other in small things, exchanged veiled insinuations in the middle of common conversations, until the air between you became thick, heavy with something unspoken but undeniably present. And when she leaned against your shoulder while laughing, or when her voice dropped to a lower, almost conspiratorial tone, your whole body seemed to recognize what your mind was still pretending not to know: you were dangerously close to crossing a line.

The first time she kissed you, it was as if gravity had shifted, as if the world’s axis tilted just to remind you that, until that moment, you hadn't known what it truly meant to be alive.

Willard R Abbott was empty at that hour, the hallways bathed in pale light flickering from the old lamps, humming in a near-complicit silence. You and Melissa had been there for a while, discussing something trivial — maybe a detail about the fundraiser, but at that moment, none of the words seemed to matter. Everything dissolved when you noticed the way she looked at you, her green eyes less intense than usual, softer, as if she hesitated to hide something that was already beyond control.

Then, without warning, without space for you to anticipate, her lips touched yours. It was a moment of heat and dizziness, a contained hurricane in the narrow space between your two bodies. Your situationship pulled away too quickly, and in the startled gleam of her gaze, there was surprise, there was fear — but, above all, there was an undeniable desire to not undo what had just happened. And you felt the same. No regrets. No doubts.

The first time you both gave in to desire after the kiss, it was as if the whole world disappeared, as if everything around you became a blur, irrelevant in the face of the intensity of what was happening. There was no rush. Nothing seemed urgent. On the contrary, each second was lived with an unsettling calm, as if the universe knew that this moment was unique.

You were at her place, on a warm summer night. The air was thick, scented with earth and streetlights filtering through the window, casting a soft glow. The atmosphere was tense, laden with a silent expectation that filled the space between you. The leather couch in the corner of the room seemed to be the only safe place in that moment, as words began to fade, replaced by ragged breathing and gazes loaded with desire.

She touched your face with a softness that contrasted with the intensity of the moment. Your bodies were so close that the fine line between friendship and something more seemed to disappear. She was the one to break the silence first, her hands searching for yours, and when your fingers intertwined, it was as if the rest of the world stopped spinning.

The kiss was different this time, deeper, more urgent, as if all the promises made in that previous exchange of lips now needed to be fulfilled. Melissa Schemmenti’s taste was stronger, more urgent. Something between the cigarette and the perfume she wore, and you lost yourself in it, in that kiss that seemed to consume both of you. Her hands traveled across your body, exploring carefully and yet with the certainty of someone who knew what they wanted.

The moment was hot, unhurried, but also without shame. When your bodies finally fused together, there was something unusual in the way you felt with her, as if, in that act, you were more exposed than just physically. She, with her gentle touches, seemed to know exactly where to touch, how to make you feel desired, and you, in turn, knew how to give yourself up without fear. The sex wasn't just physical, it was a silent conversation between the two of you, a dialogue without words, where everything was said through gestures and sighs.

The encounters between you, now, were casual, but always tinged with a palpable tension, as if you were getting to know each other in every gesture, in every look. There was no commitment — at least, not on the surface. They appeared out of nowhere, a phone call to grab coffee, a trip to the movies, or even a nighttime walk through Center City Philadelphia. Each of these encounters felt like a small escape from reality, a space where the rules of the outside world didn't apply.

Weeks passed, but the weight of that secret only seemed to grow. Every exchange of glances with Melissa was a careful dance, a game of disguises where the smallest slip could expose what you were trying to hide. You found yourself caught in the details — the way she moistens her lips before speaking, the way her fingers nervously drummed against the wood of the table when she was lost in thought. Everything about her was an invitation to daydream. And still, fear loomed over you both like a storm waiting to strike.

Ava Coleman wasn’t stupid. Your sister had a nearly cruel talent for sniffing out secrets. She would throw jabs disguised as jokes, each comment laced with suspicion.

“You and Schemmenti have been... coincidentally spending a lot of time together, don't you think?”she once said, with a sly smile, as if she were just having fun.

You giggled, a fragile and empty sound. But the truth was, every word of hers pierced your chest. The fear of being discovered clung to your skin, like a second layer of guilt.

That Wednesday, the restlessness was unbearable. The empty classroom seemed smaller with each step you took, the creaking of the old floorboards accompanying your impatience. Your situationship hadn’t sought you out all day. No furtive glances in the hallways, no hidden touches. The emptiness of her absence was almost physical.

You knew you shouldn't expect anything. You understood the weight she carried, the walls she’d built to protect herself. But it was hard. Hard to hold back the desire for more from her, more stolen moments, more honesty. You wanted her in her entirety, not just in the shadows.

When you finally saw her, the twilight had already tinged the sky with copper hues. She came out of the building with quick steps, her head down, as if the very air around her was a risk. You called out to her.

“Babe,” you sighed heavily.

She didn’t respond. She didn't slow her pace, didn't look back. And that indifference, even if perhaps feigned, cut deep.

Later, back at your small apartment complex, silence became your only companion. The cold light from your laptop screen illuminated your face as you tried to correct papers. But the students’s words were just disconnected scribbles. Your mind was far away, trapped in the memory of Melissa Schemmenti. The sound of her laugh echoed in the most secret corners of your memory, along with the sensation of her touch on your skin.

You wondered what she was doing at that moment. If she was thinking of you too. Or if, perhaps, she was trying to forget.

A message. It was the least you could do. Something simple, discreet, without revealing the turmoil inside you.

You: I hope you’re doing well.

The response didn’t come. The screen remained dark and silent, as if the universe itself conspired to prolong your anxiety.

Each minute without a reply was a blow. The emptiness screamed louder than any word. You hated yourself for it. For depending so much on her. For wanting something you weren’t sure you could have.

When the phone finally vibrated, the subtle sound reverberated through the apartment. Your heart skipped, as if that small tremor was a whisper of hope. Your hands trembled as you picked up the device, the reflection of the illuminated screen dancing in your eyes.

And there it was. A message.

Red: Can we talk? Tomorrow after work? At your place? Jacob is bringing that Elijah over and I don’t wanna hear him on my roof again.

With trembling fingers, you typed out a response.

Of course. See you then.

You set the phone aside, leaned back on the couch, and closed your eyes. Tomorrow. You would talk tomorrow. Maybe then, you’d finally figure out where this was going, or if it was even going anywhere.

But this wasn’t easy for Melissa either.

Behind the sharp words and crooked smiles, Melissa Ann Catarina Schemmenti hid a soul accustomed to control. She was the kind of woman who balanced the chaos of a second-grade classroom with the finesse of someone who knew exactly how to tame storms. The friend who always had a quick response, ready to defend those she loved. The woman who never let others see when she was trembling inside. But with you, everything felt different. You were the anomaly, the exception.

She wasn’t proud of the way she'd avoided you today. How her steps quickened the moment she spotted you in the hallway, how she sought refuge by the vending machine, pretending to study the options just to make sure you were gone. Every glance dodged, every hurried step away only made the ache in her chest grow stronger. Running wasn't her style. But there she was — running from what she wanted most.

And the worst part? It was you. Ava Coleman's younger sister. Ava, who thrived in chaos as though it were an endless source of energy. The principal who turned every conversation into a grand performance and every secret into a scandal fit for a soap opera. Melissa couldn't even begin to imagine the storm that would follow if her boss ever found out about the two of you. It would be an inferno of unimaginable proportions.

Still, every time the green eyed woman tried to convince you to end it — to stop before it was too late — something held her back. Because you weren't just her boss’s sister. You were you. She hated how much she thought about you. The sound of your laughter lingered in her mind long after you'd left. The way your eyes held hers, as if you could see the very things she tried so hard to hide. She hated the insatiable urge to tell you everything, to tear down the walls she'd built over the years. But what if you saw too much? What if you uncovered the parts of her that no one else knew and decided she wasn't worth staying for?

The fear was always there, lurking beneath the surface. Fear of not being enough. Fear of being too much. Fear of opening the door and finding only emptiness on the other side. Uncertainty was unfamiliar ground for her, and you were a whirlwind, daring her to lose herself in the eye of the storm.

The Sicilian had never been friends with uncertainty. She liked things as they were: organized, predictable, manageable. She sought solidity, a clear structure amid the chaos. But you? You were fire in its purest form — untamed, insatiable. A spark that set everything ablaze and made her forget how dangerous it was to get too close. And yet, she did. Every time. Because there was nothing about you that could be ignored.

No, this wasn't easy for her. Not even close.

When Melissa crossed the threshold of her home, a heavy sigh escaped her lips. The air inside was still, as if the very walls could sense the weight she carried. Her bag slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud. But even without its small burden, the true weight remained, stubborn and unrelenting. She needed to talk, to unload the turmoil that swirled within her. And who else, besides Jacob, could listen without judgment?

He was the only one who could know. The only one who could understood.

Barbara? No. The memory of last time still stung. That CPR class had been a cruel reminder that keeping secrets from her best friend was like betraying a part of herself. But now, Melissa felt she had no other choice. This was too big, too absurd. How could she explain something so irrational without sounding like a woman lost in her own feelings?

The living room was cloaked in a soft, dim glow, with only the bluish light of the television pulsing against the walls. One Punch Man played in the background, as it often did during Jacob’s quiet evenings. He was there, sunk into the worn plastic-covered couch, eyes lazily scanning his phone. Probably reading another history article. The comfort of old words seemed to be his way of escaping the world.

The redhead woman envied him for a fleeting moment. He could lose himself in the noise, let the endless stream of information carry him away. But her? She never knew how to do that. Even in silence, her mind never found peace.

“Hey, man,” she greeted her roommate, trying to sound casual, even though her heart was pounding.

Jacob looked up from his smartphone, raising an eyebrow. “Mel. Didn’t see you at the lounge today. Long day?”

“You have no idea,” she muttered, sliding onto the plastic couch beside him. She rubbed her temples, trying to calm her racing thoughts.

“So... I’m guessing it’s not just the usual school stress you’re dealing with?” the young boy asked, his voice gentle but laced with concern. He had a way of reading his work mom, seeing right through the tough exterior she worked so hard to maintain. And for some reason, she trusted him with things she couldn’t trust anyone else with.

She chuckled bitterly. “You could say that.”

Jacob turned his body to face her fully, setting his phone down and giving her his undivided attention. Melissa could feel the weight of his stare, like he was waiting for her to spill everything.

“I’m seeing someone,” she said quietly, biting her nails.

He blinked in surprise. “Wait. Who? Another firefighter or the guy from the hot tub?”

Melissa let out a frustrated breath, sinking into the couch. “No! We don’t talk about those mistakes on this house! Y/N.”

Jacob’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re... seeing Y/N. The same who is the fourth grade teacher and Ava’s sister? The one you’ve been saying is a rookie for the past year?” He let out a small laugh, clearly trying to process what she’d just said. “This is... something else, Mel Mel. You sure about this? I didn’t know you were into women!”

The green eyed woman rubbed her hands over her face. “I am bisexual, you prick. And for the record, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. It’s just...everything’s different when I’m with her. But it’s complicated. We can’t tell no one, J. If anyone finds out, it’ll be a disaster. Coleman will kill me. And I don’t know what to do with all of this. It feels like I’m walking on a damn tightrope.”

“I never saw you so scared about a relationship,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “It looks like you are about to crack.”

Melissa rolled her eyes, trying to sound confident, though she wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

“I’m not gonna crack. But it’s just... I don’t know. It feels like one wrong move, and everything could blow up. She’s younger. I can’t—”

“I get it,” Jacob interrupted, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I get it, Mel. But just... don’t lose yourself in it, okay? Don’t let it become something you regret. Whatever happens, just promise me you’ll think it through. And if you need to talk, you know where I am.”

She looked at him, her heart heavy with gratitude. “Thanks, J. Really.”

“Anytime,” he said with a wink, picking his phone back up as he added. “Just try not to get caught, alright?”

“I’m working on it.”

Touching his golden curls, the thirty year old prompted. “So, does Barb know?”

“No.”

She wasn’t there to make friends, but she wasn’t willing to distance herself from those who truly mattered either. The words “compassion” and “care” weren’t used lightly by her, but when she cared, you felt it. She was the type of person who would do the unthinkable to protect those who, in some way, were in her orbit. That made her more unique, harder to understand – and, for that reason, more fascinating.

Compared to the others, she was a storm, full of intense and unsettling energy, something much more complicated than any of the cheerier or more inspiring facets of the other team members. And, paradoxically, it was this complexity that made someone like you feel drawn to her.

It had started as simple curiosity. You’d heard plenty of stories about her from Ava, most of them exaggerated, of course. She loved to poke fun at Melissa Schemmenti, often calling her Ms. Tough Guy or The Abbott Enforcer, always with a mischievous grin. And that grew even more often with their newfound friendship after the small heist at the visit to Girard Creek Golf Course, maybe they weren't so different at all. But when you actually started working alongside your current situationship, you realized that those stories didn’t do her justice at all. Never did.

There was a depth to her that your older sister never mentioned. The way she’d stay late to make sure her classroom was perfect for the next day. The way she’d show up after a Philadelphia Eagles win. The way she’d give the students in her class little pep talks when she thought no one was listening. The way she’d call out nonsense in staff meetings but somehow still manage to sound extremely professional.

At first, you only admired her from afar. She was just some random colleague — sure, one you couldn’t stop thinking about, but still, a colleague. Part of the reason you always kept some distance was Ava. Your older sister had an imposing presence, and her overly protective stance made it impossible for anything to escape her radar. To her, you were the helpless little sister, the one the world kept trying to bring down — even though, most of the time, you insisted you could take care of yourself.

Ava never hesitated to push away anyone she considered a threat to you. When you were younger, that meant crashing parties to get you out if she thought the environment wasn’t safe. Later, it meant monitoring your relationships, intimidating any suitor with her sharp gaze, and even showing up at your old job to “check on how things were going.” You knew that, behind all that chaotic energy, there was an unconditional love. But you also knew she’d never stand by if she suspected someone was breaking your heart.

Maybe that’s why you never got too close to the other teachers. Jacob was too friendly, always trying to start conversations about some obscure documentary you wouldn’t watch even if paid. Janine, with her overflowing energy, made you feel even more out of place, as if every interaction required an excessive effort. Gregory was polite but distant — and you knew Ava had a sixth sense for spotting “awkward guys,” as she called them. As for Barbara… well, she was a legend, and you never wanted to risk looking foolish in front of her.

So, you contented yourself with staying in the shadows, doing your job without drawing much attention. At least until Melissa Schemmenti.

The green-eyed woman was different. And, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it, there was something about her that pulled you closer. That blunt attitude, the raspy laugh that echoed down the hallways, the intense glances she’d throw over her various pairs of glasses when someone said something particularly stupid. It was impossible not to notice. And worse, it was impossible not to want more.

But, of course, there was Principal Coleman. And just the thought of what your sister would do if she found out you were interested in the most feared teacher at the school was enough to keep you in line. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. It was during that staff meeting that everything changed.

In the long development week, being the lovely and helpful principal that she was, Ava was monotonously talking about another poorly executed initiative, her excited voice echoing off the walls in that sing-song tone she used when she knew no one was listening. Janine sat at the edge of her chair, forcing a polite smile and nodding enthusiastically in an attempt to seem engaged, even though her big eyes occasionally darted toward the door. Jacob was fiddling with his pen, aimlessly doodling on the margins of his notebook, clearly trying to stay awake. Barb reclined with her arms crossed, her expression exuding mild disapproval and resignation, while Gregory kept glancing at the clock, letting out a subtle sigh every few seconds, his boredom clearly etched on his face.

The other staff members just remained silent.

“Ava,” Janine said after a while, running her hand through her curls. “Look, your proposal is reasonable. But we can’t afford this!”

“Shut up,” your older sister huffed, walking over to the projector to make a PowerPoint presentation about her planning for new posts on Instagram.

“God bless that O’shon, poor kid,” Mr. Johnson muttered to himself, looking at the cameras. “Or that Crystal Rilley.”

The mention of the rival made Ava freeze.

“Mr. J, how dare you mention that bitch’s name? We shouldn’t even speak it! It’s like any Christian wouldn’t dare mention Satan’s name.”

Mrs. Howard jumped out of her seat in an instant, looking offended. “Excuse me?”

“Uh. Sorry?” The principal shot back.

You were sitting on the other side of the room from the redhaired woman, half paying attention, when you caught her rolling her beautiful green eyes. Without thinking, you stared at her and murmured.

“This is a waste of time, don't you think?”

Her plump lips curled into a shy smile before she quickly averted her gaze, not bothering to give you a single response, but at that moment, something clicked. It was as if you'd unlocked a secret part of her, a part she didn't show everyone. After that, you couldn’t stop noticing her, or the way Melissa Schemmenti started noticing you back.

At first, it was in the little things. The way she lingered just a second longer in the hall if you were there. The way her sharp responses softened when they were directed at you, the edges of her voice rounded with something you couldn’t name. The way her eyes would find yours during faculty meetings, as if she were looking for an ally in the sea of chaos that Ava always seemed to create.

“Another motivational poster initiative?” you asked quietly one afternoon, glancing at the second-grade teacher across the room during a PTA meeting. “What's next, a dance competition to inspire better test scores?”

Melissa turned her head slightly, pretending to adjust the papers in front of her. “Careful, rookie,”she whispered loud enough for you to hear. “Your sister might actually pick up that idea and run with it.”

You suppressed a laugh, her green eyes sparkling with amusement as she caught your reaction. It felt like a game that only the two of you were playing, a quiet rebellion against the absurdity of the daily grind that seemed to infect that building.

The first time you really had a conversation alone with her was after school one day. You were staying late to reorganize your classroom, frustrated with the mess your students had managed to create. Melissa walked in, probably looking for something—likely her stapler, which seemed to disappear weekly.

“You’re still here, Y/N?” she asked, leaning against the door with her arms crossed.

“Apparently, my fourth graders are aspiring tornadoes,” you replied, holding up a crumpled worksheet you found shoved inside a desk. “This is my life now.”

The older woman laughed, walking in. “Fourth grade, huh? You’ve got the sweet spot. Too old to be clingy, too young to be chatty.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think that's the sweet spot? Yesterday, a kid tried to trade homework for a pack of gum.”

Her laughter came easily this time, and the sound sent a shiver down your spine. “Okay, fair enough. But at least they’re creative. My second-graders think spelling their names correctly deserves a gold star.”

You smiled. “I’d trade you any day.”

Melissa tilted her head, her gaze lingering just a moment longer. “Careful what you wish for, rookie. You might not survive a day with my kids.”

The friendship between you two grew slowly, like a secret entrusted to the wind. There wasn’t a specific moment when you realized she had become an essential part of your life—it was like the golden light streaming through the blinds in the morning, coming without warning but filling everything with warmth.

At first, the older woman was just the stubborn colleague who always knew how to have the last word. You argued more than you talked, each of you determined to prove your point, until one day, laughter won. It was during yet another endless school meeting, when you made a whispered joke about the broken coffee machine, and Melissa, without even trying to hide it, let out a laugh—a rough, authentic sound, as if it had come from a place she didn’t open up to often. From there, everything changed.

The green eyed woman started stopping by your classroom after hours, sometimes just to complain about the school’s awful coffee, other times to share some hallway gossip. You found a rhythm in your interactions, a silent dance of teasing and camaraderie. And then, without realizing it, you became her safe place.

The first time she really spoke about herself was on a gray day, the smell of rain still hanging in the air. You were sitting in the parking lot, on the concrete steps, sharing a cigarette she pulled from her pocket as if offering a secret. The smoke rose between you two, creating an ephemeral veil that made everything feel more intimate.

“Ma used to say cigarettes were for weak men,” Melissa said, with a half-smile that was bitter. “But after Joseph left home, well... Weak or not, here I am.”

It was the first time she mentioned the divorce. The word hung in the air, heavy and inevitable. She didn’t cry. The second-grade teacher was never one for easy tears. But the way her shoulders dropped slightly revealed the weight she carried. She talked about the marriage, how Joe’s laughter had become rarer, until the silent house became unbearable. She spoke of the muffled arguments behind closed doors and the nights when sleep wouldn’t come, even after another cigarette smoked to the filter.

“Teresa?” your coworker continued, taking a deep drag. “Oh, she loved being right. She said if I’d listened to my famiglia, I wouldn’t have ended up like this.”

There was bitterness in her voice, but also a kind of acceptance. You didn’t interrupt. You just listened. And that’s how she went on, unraveling the knots of her own story—the childhood surrounded by traditions that allowed no room for deviation, the prayers murmured in Italian in the kitchen, the smell of tomato sauce that always seemed to linger in the air. The older Schemmenti grew up with Catholic faith as a tight cord around her chest, learning far too early to confuse guilt with devotion.

“Not that I go to church much anymore,” she confessed, blowing out the smoke with a sigh. “But sometimes, I light a candle. I think candles understand us more than priests.”

And then, as if needing to lift the weight of the moment, Melissa laughed. That half-smile laugh you’d come to know so well.

“Oh, and there’s another faith I take seriously. The firefighters from South Philly. Those arms? Those pants? My Holy Mother.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you say this... from personal experience?”

Melissa leaned back on the step, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, narrowing her eyes as if she was about to share a forbidden secret. “Listen, I’ve had sex with a lot of beautiful women in my life, but this firefighter… Madonna mia. She looked like Halle Berry.”

She made an exaggerated gesture with her hands, as if she had to draw the perfection.

“Yeah?”

“Mmm. Dark skin, soft as hell, you know? Like silk. Short curly hair, and those eyes…” Melissa sighed, tilting her head as if reliving the scene. “Brown, deep, like dark honey under the light. And the body?” She laughed, shaking her head. “The definition of hot. Strong arms, thighs that could crush a man without effort, and that posture of someone who knows she can carry you if she wants.”

She took a deep drag and released the smoke slowly, a lazy smile on her lips.

“She was in uniform that night, straight off her shift. The tight tank top, the pants low on her hips… Jesus Christ. I saw that woman and thought: ‘If I die in a fire, I hope I get to ride on that strap first.”

You couldn’t help but feel a hint of jealousy, and your cheeks warmed with her words.

The redhead laughed again, mischievous, and shot you a suggestive look. “And let me tell you... She knew how to use those hands for much more than just holding a hose.”

You laughed with her, the kind of laugh that understood. Because that's how Melissa was, intense, contradictory, absurdly alive. She spoke with the same passion about family traumas and about her most mundane pleasures. And when she mentioned her unwavering love for Real Housewives, gesturing with fervor to defend her favorite cast members, you realized how much you loved that about her.

She was never someone easily surprised. But when the name Chappell Roan first came up in casual conversation, something in her expression changed. She was sitting on the couch, a beer in hand and a slight look of disdain, until Pink Pony Club echoed from the TV. Suddenly, the way she adjusted herself, how her gaze focused on the screen, how her fingers gripped the bottle just a little tighter, made it clear: here was a genuine passion.

Being her friend was like holding a lit match. She burned with anger, with desire, with sharp humor and still, you couldn't pull away. Because, even with all the ashes, she was warmth. She was presence. And now, she was your one of your best friends.

The flirting between you started unnamed, with no declared intention, like a fire born from discreet sparks. At first, it was just the lingering glances that were too long to be casual, a touch of fingers that lasted a second longer than necessary when passing papers to each other.

But then came the provocations. The biting comments disguised as jokes, the way the redhead smiled crookedly after making some sharp remark, just to see if you'd react in kind. And you did.

You challenged each other in small things, exchanged veiled insinuations in the middle of common conversations, until the air between you became thick, heavy with something unspoken but undeniably present. And when she leaned against your shoulder while laughing, or when her voice dropped to a lower, almost conspiratorial tone, your whole body seemed to recognize what your mind was still pretending not to know: you were dangerously close to crossing a line.

The first time she kissed you, it was as if gravity had shifted, as if the world’s axis tilted just to remind you that, until that moment, you hadn't known what it truly meant to be alive.

Willard R Abbott was empty at that hour, the hallways bathed in pale light flickering from the old lamps, humming in a near-complicit silence. You and Melissa had been there for a while, discussing something trivial — maybe a detail about the fundraiser, but at that moment, none of the words seemed to matter. Everything dissolved when you noticed the way she looked at you, her green eyes less intense than usual, softer, as if she hesitated to hide something that was already beyond control.

Then, without warning, without space for you to anticipate, her lips touched yours. It was a moment of heat and dizziness, a contained hurricane in the narrow space between your two bodies. Your situationship pulled away too quickly, and in the startled gleam of her gaze, there was surprise, there was fear — but, above all, there was an undeniable desire to not undo what had just happened. And you felt the same. No regrets. No doubts.

The first time you both gave in to desire after the kiss, it was as if the whole world disappeared, as if everything around you became a blur, irrelevant in the face of the intensity of what was happening. There was no rush. Nothing seemed urgent. On the contrary, each second was lived with an unsettling calm, as if the universe knew that this moment was unique.

You were at her place, on a warm summer night. The air was thick, scented with earth and streetlights filtering through the window, casting a soft glow. The atmosphere was tense, laden with a silent expectation that filled the space between you. The leather couch in the corner of the room seemed to be the only safe place in that moment, as words began to fade, replaced by ragged breathing and gazes loaded with desire.

She touched your face with a softness that contrasted with the intensity of the moment. Your bodies were so close that the fine line between friendship and something more seemed to disappear. She was the one to break the silence first, her hands searching for yours, and when your fingers intertwined, it was as if the rest of the world stopped spinning.

The kiss was different this time, deeper, more urgent, as if all the promises made in that previous exchange of lips now needed to be fulfilled. Melissa Schemmenti’s taste was stronger, more urgent. Something between the cigarette and the perfume she wore, and you lost yourself in it, in that kiss that seemed to consume both of you. Her hands traveled across your body, exploring carefully and yet with the certainty of someone who knew what they wanted.

The moment was hot, unhurried, but also without shame. When your bodies finally fused together, there was something unusual in the way you felt with her, as if, in that act, you were more exposed than just physically. She, with her gentle touches, seemed to know exactly where to touch, how to make you feel desired, and you, in turn, knew how to give yourself up without fear. The sex wasn't just physical, it was a silent conversation between the two of you, a dialogue without words, where everything was said through gestures and sighs.

The encounters between you, now, were casual, but always tinged with a palpable tension, as if you were getting to know each other in every gesture, in every look. There was no commitment — at least, not on the surface. They appeared out of nowhere, a phone call to grab coffee, a trip to the movies, or even a nighttime walk through Center City Philadelphia. Each of these encounters felt like a small escape from reality, a space where the rules of the outside world didn't apply.

Weeks passed, but the weight of that secret only seemed to grow. Every exchange of glances with Melissa was a careful dance, a game of disguises where the smallest slip could expose what you were trying to hide. You found yourself caught in the details — the way she moistens her lips before speaking, the way her fingers nervously drummed against the wood of the table when she was lost in thought. Everything about her was an invitation to daydream. And still, fear loomed over you both like a storm waiting to strike.

Ava Coleman wasn’t stupid. Your sister had a nearly cruel talent for sniffing out secrets. She would throw jabs disguised as jokes, each comment laced with suspicion.

“You and Schemmenti have been... coincidentally spending a lot of time together, don't you think?”she once said, with a sly smile, as if she were just having fun.

You giggled, a fragile and empty sound. But the truth was, every word of hers pierced your chest. The fear of being discovered clung to your skin, like a second layer of guilt.

That Wednesday, the restlessness was unbearable. The empty classroom seemed smaller with each step you took, the creaking of the old floorboards accompanying your impatience. Your situationship hadn’t sought you out all day. No furtive glances in the hallways, no hidden touches. The emptiness of her absence was almost physical.

You knew you shouldn't expect anything. You understood the weight she carried, the walls she’d built to protect herself. But it was hard. Hard to hold back the desire for more from her, more stolen moments, more honesty. You wanted her in her entirety, not just in the shadows.

When you finally saw her, the twilight had already tinged the sky with copper hues. She came out of the building with quick steps, her head down, as if the very air around her was a risk. You called out to her.

“Babe,” you sighed heavily.

She didn’t respond. She didn't slow her pace, didn't look back. And that indifference, even if perhaps feigned, cut deep.

Later, back at your small apartment complex, silence became your only companion. The cold light from your laptop screen illuminated your face as you tried to correct papers. But the students’s words were just disconnected scribbles. Your mind was far away, trapped in the memory of Melissa Schemmenti. The sound of her laugh echoed in the most secret corners of your memory, along with the sensation of her touch on your skin.

You wondered what she was doing at that moment. If she was thinking of you too. Or if, perhaps, she was trying to forget.

A message. It was the least you could do. Something simple, discreet, without revealing the turmoil inside you.

You: I hope you’re doing well.

The response didn’t come. The screen remained dark and silent, as if the universe itself conspired to prolong your anxiety.

Each minute without a reply was a blow. The emptiness screamed louder than any word. You hated yourself for it. For depending so much on her. For wanting something you weren’t sure you could have.

When the phone finally vibrated, the subtle sound reverberated through the apartment. Your heart skipped, as if that small tremor was a whisper of hope. Your hands trembled as you picked up the device, the reflection of the illuminated screen dancing in your eyes.

And there it was. A message.

Red: Can we talk? Tomorrow after work? At your place? Jacob is bringing that Elijah over and I don’t wanna hear him on my roof again.

With trembling fingers, you typed out a response.

Of course. See you then.

You set the phone aside, leaned back on the couch, and closed your eyes. Tomorrow. You would talk tomorrow. Maybe then, you’d finally figure out where this was going, or if it was even going anywhere.

But this wasn’t easy for Melissa either.

Behind the sharp words and crooked smiles, Melissa Ann Catarina Schemmenti hid a soul accustomed to control. She was the kind of woman who balanced the chaos of a second-grade classroom with the finesse of someone who knew exactly how to tame storms. The friend who always had a quick response, ready to defend those she loved. The woman who never let others see when she was trembling inside. But with you, everything felt different. You were the anomaly, the exception.

She wasn’t proud of the way she'd avoided you today. How her steps quickened the moment she spotted you in the hallway, how she sought refuge by the vending machine, pretending to study the options just to make sure you were gone. Every glance dodged, every hurried step away only made the ache in her chest grow stronger. Running wasn't her style. But there she was — running from what she wanted most.

And the worst part? It was you. Ava Coleman's younger sister. Ava, who thrived in chaos as though it were an endless source of energy. The principal who turned every conversation into a grand performance and every secret into a scandal fit for a soap opera. Melissa couldn't even begin to imagine the storm that would follow if her boss ever found out about the two of you. It would be an inferno of unimaginable proportions.

Still, every time the green eyed woman tried to convince you to end it — to stop before it was too late — something held her back. Because you weren't just her boss’s sister. You were you. She hated how much she thought about you. The sound of your laughter lingered in her mind long after you'd left. The way your eyes held hers, as if you could see the very things she tried so hard to hide. She hated the insatiable urge to tell you everything, to tear down the walls she'd built over the years. But what if you saw too much? What if you uncovered the parts of her that no one else knew and decided she wasn't worth staying for?

The fear was always there, lurking beneath the surface. Fear of not being enough. Fear of being too much. Fear of opening the door and finding only emptiness on the other side. Uncertainty was unfamiliar ground for her, and you were a whirlwind, daring her to lose herself in the eye of the storm.

The Sicilian had never been friends with uncertainty. She liked things as they were: organized, predictable, manageable. She sought solidity, a clear structure amid the chaos. But you? You were fire in its purest form — untamed, insatiable. A spark that set everything ablaze and made her forget how dangerous it was to get too close. And yet, she did. Every time. Because there was nothing about you that could be ignored.

No, this wasn't easy for her. Not even close.

When Melissa crossed the threshold of her home, a heavy sigh escaped her lips. The air inside was still, as if the very walls could sense the weight she carried. Her bag slipped from her shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud. But even without its small burden, the true weight remained, stubborn and unrelenting. She needed to talk, to unload the turmoil that swirled within her. And who else, besides Jacob, could listen without judgment?

He was the only one who could know. The only one who could understood.

Barbara? No. The memory of last time still stung. That CPR class had been a cruel reminder that keeping secrets from her best friend was like betraying a part of herself. But now, Melissa felt she had no other choice. This was too big, too absurd. How could she explain something so irrational without sounding like a woman lost in her own feelings?

The living room was cloaked in a soft, dim glow, with only the bluish light of the television pulsing against the walls. One Punch Man played in the background, as it often did during Jacob’s quiet evenings. He was there, sunk into the worn plastic-covered couch, eyes lazily scanning his phone. Probably reading another history article. The comfort of old words seemed to be his way of escaping the world.

The redhead woman envied him for a fleeting moment. He could lose himself in the noise, let the endless stream of information carry him away. But her? She never knew how to do that. Even in silence, her mind never found peace.

“Hey, man,” she greeted her roommate, trying to sound casual, even though her heart was pounding.

Jacob looked up from his smartphone, raising an eyebrow. “Mel. Didn’t see you at the lounge today. Long day?”

“You have no idea,” she muttered, sliding onto the plastic couch beside him. She rubbed her temples, trying to calm her racing thoughts.

“So... I’m guessing it’s not just the usual school stress you’re dealing with?” the young boy asked, his voice gentle but laced with concern. He had a way of reading his work mom, seeing right through the tough exterior she worked so hard to maintain. And for some reason, she trusted him with things she couldn’t trust anyone else with.

She chuckled bitterly. “You could say that.”

Jacob turned his body to face her fully, setting his phone down and giving her his undivided attention. Melissa could feel the weight of his stare, like he was waiting for her to spill everything.

“I’m seeing someone,” she said quietly, biting her nails.

He blinked in surprise. “Wait. Who? Another firefighter or the guy from the hot tub?”

Melissa let out a frustrated breath, sinking into the couch. “No! We don’t talk about those mistakes on this house! Y/N.”

Jacob’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re... seeing Y/N. The same who is the fourth grade teacher and Ava’s sister? The one you’ve been saying is a rookie for the past year?” He let out a small laugh, clearly trying to process what she’d just said. “This is... something else, Mel Mel. You sure about this? I didn’t know you were into women!”

The green eyed woman rubbed her hands over her face. “I am bisexual, you prick. And for the record, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. It’s just...everything’s different when I’m with her. But it’s complicated. We can’t tell no one, J. If anyone finds out, it’ll be a disaster. Coleman will kill me. And I don’t know what to do with all of this. It feels like I’m walking on a damn tightrope.”

“I never saw you so scared about a relationship,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “It looks like you are about to crack.”

Melissa rolled her eyes, trying to sound confident, though she wasn’t sure she believed it herself.

“I’m not gonna crack. But it’s just... I don’t know. It feels like one wrong move, and everything could blow up. She’s younger. I can’t—”

“I get it,” Jacob interrupted, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I get it, Mel. But just... don’t lose yourself in it, okay? Don’t let it become something you regret. Whatever happens, just promise me you’ll think it through. And if you need to talk, you know where I am.”

She looked at him, her heart heavy with gratitude. “Thanks, J. Really.”

“Anytime,” he said with a wink, picking his phone back up as he added. “Just try not to get caught, alright?”

“I’m working on it.”

Touching his golden curls, the thirty year old prompted. “So, does Barb know?”

“No.”