#hallow!asks

The locker room smells like sweat and liniment, voices bouncing off tile and metal as cleats clatter and jerseys are pulled overhead. Natalie’s half-dressed, tugging at the laces of her boots when Mari tosses a towel at her head.

“Yo, Nat. You coming out hot or half-dead today?”

She flips Mari off without looking up. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about not whiffing another pass.”

Van’s laughing from across the row when the locker door swings open.

And you step in.

Just like that—Queen Bee in her cheer skirt and game day hoodie, ponytail high and lip gloss catching the light. The entire room dips into a stunned silence. The cheer captain never steps in here. Especially not before a game.

“Hey,” you smile, not bothering to glance at the rest of the girls, eyes locked right on Nat.

She stiffens. “Uh—hey?”

“I just wanted to wish you luck.”

Natalie clears her throat, hoping to god no one notices how she’s fumbling with her shin guards now. “Yeah, cool. Thanks. You could’ve just… texted.”

You tilt your head, all teasing warmth, stepping a little closer. “I could’ve.”

Before she can backpedal or stammer her way out of it, you lean in and press a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth—gentle, easy, practiced.

The room explodes.

“WHAT. THE ACTUAL. HELL.” Van screeches.

Taissa’s jaw drops, a full second before she laughs, loud and stunned. “You’re kidding me. You’re kidding me.”

Mari looks between the two of you like she’s just had a religious awakening. “Are you guys—Is this real?!”

You just flash them a wink and head back toward the door. “Kick their asses, babe.”

The door clicks shut behind you.

And Nat is bright red.

“Don’t,” she mutters, already hiding her face in her locker.

“You kissed her,” Van wheezes. “You’ve been hooking up with the cheer captain. For how long? Weeks? Months?”

“Since homecoming,” Natalie mumbles, still not facing them.

Shauna slaps a hand over her mouth, wide-eyed. “You dog.”

Van launches a towel at her. “You dirty little secret-keeping punk.”

“Can we not?” Nat groans. “Can we just… put our cleats on and go?”

The bar buzzes with noise — rowdy laughter, clinking bottles, the low hum of country music vibrating through the scuffed floorboards. The air is heavy with the scent of whiskey, fried food, and the kind of grease that sticks to your skin.

You’re tucked into the corner booth, warm and settled, Vi’s arm draped casually over the back of your chair. Her thumb traces slow, lazy circles into your shoulder while she sips her beer, all loose-limbed and comfortable.

Then Cole leans in. Smirking. Cocky. About three drinks past his limit and twice as bold as he ought to be. His eyes are glassy, his grin wide and sloppy.

“Bet your pretty little wife wouldn’t last five seconds on that bull.”

Your brows lift, surprise flickering across your face. Your lips part, but before you can get a single word out, Vi cuts in — sharp, clean.

“Ain’t her job to impress drunks.”

Cole chuckles, easy and loud. “I’m just sayin’ — she’s sweet, Vi. Nothin’ wrong with bein’ soft. But she wouldn’t hold on long.”

You glance between them, Vi already shaking her head, jaw set. Her easy calm is gone now, replaced by something low and bristling.

“Don’t even think about it, sugar,” she warns, voice taut with worry.

“That thing throws men twice your size clean off.”

But you’re already standing, that quiet little smile curling at the corner of your lips. Your dress swishes around your knees as you push your chair back, and Vi’s hand slips away from your shoulder like it doesn't want to let go.

“I’ll be careful,” you promise, sweet and soft and stubborn. “Just wanna try.”

Vi groans under her breath. “Lord help me.”

You cross the bar with your head high, the crowd parting around you. The mechanical bull looms in the center like a challenge, a dare with steel bones. You climb up with more grace than sense, settle into the seat like you belong there, and nod politely to the man at the controls.

Vi doesn’t sit. She stands rooted by the booth, hands braced on her hips, watching with her heart in her throat. Her eyes never leave you.

The bull lurches.

And you hold on.

One hand raised high, dress fluttering wild around your legs. The machine bucks hard beneath you, twisting, jerking — but you don’t flinch. You laugh, bright and reckless, like the whole world is yours and gravity’s just a suggestion. You grip with your legs, spine steady, smile wide.

The bar goes quiet, then erupts — whistles, cheers.

And still, you ride.

When the bull finally slows, easing into a stop, the whole place is roaring. People are on their feet, shouting, clapping, stunned.

Vi just stares. Her mouth parts, her breath catches — and then she grins, wide and smug and proud enough to knock someone over.

Cole whistles low. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Vi turns toward him slow, that grin sharpened into something dangerous.

“That’s my wife,” she says, voice cool as ice and sharp as a switchblade. “And if I were you, I’d think twice before callin’ her soft again.”

You hop down, cheeks flushed, heart still racing — and Vi’s already there, closing the space between you like she’s been holding her breath.

Her hands find your waist, fingers curling in tight, voice low in your ear.

Your phone lights up like it’s trying to scream at you — like it’s trying to make you feel all the things you’ve been trying to ignore.

You didn’t mean to ignore her. God, you didn’t. It’s just… college is loud. Your classes blur into late nights, and the friends you’ve made — new faces, new habits — they’ve filled up the spaces that used to belong to her.

You tell yourself it’s temporary. That she’ll understand.

But then you see it — the last message she sent.

And it stops you cold.

You’re standing in the middle of your dorm room, one leg halfway out of your jeans, caught in that stupid little in-between moment where everything suddenly shifts.

Your heart stutters. Your throat tightens.

“I think we should break up.”

It’s not even dramatic. No punctuation, no begging, no anger. Just seven words that crack through your ribs and echo somewhere deep inside you.

And just like that — she’s gone.

present. 

“It’ll be fun! Now come on.”

Philippa’s nails dig into your upper arm with zero remorse, her perfectly manicured grip tugging you forward like you’re a wayward child instead of a grown adult. You stumble after her, the too-tight dress cinching at your waist with every reluctant step, and you’re already regretting every life choice that led to this moment.

Your eyes flick toward the front doors — and sure enough, those guys are there. The ones who hit on you back in second year, still leaning like they own the place, still wearing that smug, basement-party confidence. You quickly avert your gaze.

A massive banner hangs above the entrance to the gym, proudly declaring “Year of 11” in uneven, mismatched lettering. The edges are frayed, and someone clearly went to war with a hot glue gun and kraft glitter. It’s nostalgic, maybe — but mostly, it just feels sad.

You sigh, long and heavy, and let Philippa pull you deeper into the gym.

The place is decked out in balloons and shimmery streamers, with glittery nonsense taped half-heartedly to the walls. Someone put in effort, sure, but it still reeks of prom night — too sweet, too staged, too familiar.

And suddenly, it hits you like a memory pressed between ribs.

Prom.

Your prom. The one you spent with her.

The decorations are different, but the feeling? That ache in your chest — it hasn’t changed at all.

It’s been a while since Philippa fluttered off to go play social butterfly — weaving through old classmates with her usual glass-in-hand charm — and you’ve had one too many margaritas served without a salted rim to keep pretending you’re having a good time.

The buzz in your head, the ache in your feet, the way the past clings to your skin like glitter — it’s too much.

So you do what you used to do, back in the day. You flee to the girls’ bathroom like it’s a bunker. A safe haven.

Nothing’s changed much in here.

The walls are still painted that uninspired pale yellow, a color that’s tried and failed to be cheerful. One of the mirrors hangs at a crooked angle, just like it always has, warping reflections in that vaguely unsettling way. They’ve replaced the stall doors, though — sleeker now, but the navy blue wood doesn’t match the rest of the space. It stands out, awkward and out of place. Kind of like you.

You’re bracing yourself against one of the sinks, trying to breathe, when her voice slices through the silence.

“I didn’t think you’d show.”

It hits you like ice — sharp and clean, sliding straight down your spine.

Your heart stutters.

You lift your gaze slowly, like the moment might shift if you move too fast. And there she is, reflected in the mirror — fogged slightly at the corners, but unmistakable.

Violet.

She looks different. And somehow exactly the same.

Her hair is still that impossible pink, like spun candy and rebellion. Her eyes — pale blue and unrelenting — lock with yours in the glass like they never stopped looking.

But there’s a new sharpness to her.

A constellation of piercings gleam beneath the bathroom’s dull fluorescent lights. There’s ink now — a tattoo that kisses her cheekbone and curls along her neck. And still, she’s her. Just... more.

Your breath catches.

You turn to face her, slow and deliberate, the chill of the ceramic sink pressing into your back as if to keep you grounded.

“Violet,” you whisper.

Her name tastes like nostalgia and regret.

And she smiles — not wide, not sweet, but real. You hear the quiet hum of satisfaction in her throat.

“God,” she breathes, voice rough with emotion and something almost dangerous, “how I’ve missed hearing you say my name.”

She approaches slowly — like you’re something sacred.

But it’s there. In her eyes. The hunger.

That raw, aching kind of want, the kind that’s been left to fester in silence for too long. It’s not just lust, not just old feelings. It’s you.

“Vi…”

Her name falls from your lips again, barely audible, but it’s enough.

Her hands find your waist, fingers warm and firm through the thin fabric of your dress, and the contact pulls a sigh from deep within you. It’s instinctual — your body remembering hers.

The corner of her mouth curls, slow and sly, as she leans in, breath brushing soft against your ear.

“Did you wear this just for me?”

The way she says it — like a secret, like a promise — makes your breath hitch. A soft sound escapes you, involuntary and aching, and she hums in satisfaction, like that little noise is all the answer she needs.

One hand trails lower, fingers curving to grip you like she remembers every inch — and wants to relearn it all from scratch.

Your hands clutch the edge of the sink, knuckles white.

She guides you, gently but surely turning you to bend forward over the sink, your ass protruding towards her front. Her touch is reverent, possessive, familiar — a contradiction you’ve never been able to escape.

“Such a pretty thing,” she murmurs, one hand anchoring you by the shoulder, the other groping your ass with a strong grip.

She draws the fabric of your dress up with a slowness that speaks volumes — not just lust, but memory. She palms your ass again but this time her hands trails lower. Her middle finger trails slowly over your already damp and clothed pussy.

“Missed you. Missed this,” she breathes, lips ghosting along the shell of your ear, and you can’t help the quiet, broken sound that escapes your throat in response. “Missed this pussy.” She rasps into your ear.

Then without warning she pushes the strip of cloth from your sticky folds and pushes one finger into your heat. A strangled gasp leaves you as your head lowers onto the cold ceramic. “Look at that - so wet for me.” She whispers more to herself than anything else.

“Vi-oh christ-fuck.” You choke out as she sets a brutal pace. The heel of her palm slams against your bum as she fucks her finger into you. Vi doesn’t waste time to sling the other hand between your legs as well. Her thumb comes to draw circles over your clit with a grumble.

“Ah! shit-” You gasp and Vi chuckles behind you, the sound comes out low and husky as she keeps going. “That’s it, baby. Knew you still had it in you.” She mumbles. Her lips connect with the sensitive spot behind your ear as she drills two fingers into your sobbing cunt.

You’re a gasping, whining mess in her arms and slowly but surely you feel the hot white heat coil in your belly. One of your hands comes to grip at her arm with a chokes gasp.

“Vi-oh god-I’m gonna.”

Vi just grins against your neck, her hot breath against your skin making your pulse spike again.

“Then come for me - come on my fingers, baby.” She murmurs like the smug bastard she is and picks up her pace once more. Her fingers drive into your dripping cunt unrelentingly and before you can babble another incoherent thing, the heat snaps.

Vi slaps a hand over your mouth, a raspy laugh tumbling from her lips as your eyes roll back, your muffled cry of pleasure vibrating against her palm.

“Atta girl,” she breathes into your ear, voice low and wrecked and possessive.

When she pulls back, your chest is heaving, your head spinning — and she’s standing there like she just won a war.

You’re panting as she holds you up, your knees shaking as she lets her fingers slip from your pussy.

You catch the flick of her tongue as she licks her fingers clean, slow and deliberate, like you’re dessert and she’s not done savoring you.

Then she leans in, her breath warm against your flushed cheek, lips ghosting the skin like a secret she’s letting you in on.

Smoke curls from the cigarette tucked between your lips, rising into the dusky air like a signal — a quiet call for anyone still listening.

And someone does.

Your gaze snags on her — your little brother’s best friend. Natalie Scatorccio. Though she’d probably claw your eyes out if you called her that. Just “Nat.” Always Nat.

She’s sharp edges and loud silence, bleach-blonde hair mussed into a careless halo, dark eyeliner smudged like war paint. She looks like she stepped out of a Guns N’ Roses poster and landed straight into varsity drama.

You tilt your head, exhaling smoke as you watch her cut through the chaos, trailing behind her team.

“Nat.”

It isn’t loud, but it’s enough. Your voice threads through the noise, aimed just for her.

Her eyes — green, unreadable — flick to yours. You’re not sure if it’s surprise you catch there, or irritation. Probably both.

She makes her way over, slow, deliberate. You stay right where you are, perched on the hood of your car, fingers curled loosely around your cigarette like you’ve got all the time in the world.

“What’re you doing here?” she asks, her tone prickly and closed-off, like she’s already preparing for a fight.

But it doesn’t rattle you. Nat’s always been a little firecracker.

“Kevyn sent me.” Your voice is low, just for her. You take another drag before adding, “Asked me to drive you home.”

It takes her a second to respond. Nat crosses her arms over her chest like a defiant child, chin tilted upward in that stubborn way of hers — but all it does is tug a quiet smirk onto your lips.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she mutters, scowling. The frown creases her features, but instead of making her look intimidating, it only softens her into something almost... endearing.

“Shut up and get in the car.”

There’s amusement in your voice, laced with something gentler — something like fondness.

You’ve always had a platonic thing going with Nat, this banter, this push-and-pull. But lately — especially after that night, the one where her father had your brother pinned against the wall, fingers tight around his neck — something inside you shifted.

Protective instincts you didn’t even know you had rose like a tide, and now, Nat’s become one of those people you keep an eye on. Whether she likes it or not.

She scoffs, rolls her eyes like she’s got a whole monologue prepared in her head, but instead of delivering it, she yanks open the passenger side door and climbs in with a huff.

Your smirk lingers as you flick the cigarette to the ground, grind it beneath your boot, and slide into the driver’s seat.

The engine hums to life, smooth and familiar, and you ease the car out of the parking lot.

“How was the—”

“He didn’t send you,” Nat cuts in, her voice flat. A statement, not a question.

You don’t answer right away. There’s no point in pretending.

“No, he didn’t.”

Your voice drops, quieter now, the kind of quiet meant only for her.

Nat shifts beside you, just enough for you to catch the way her brow pulls tight, like she’s trying to understand something that doesn’t make sense — like the idea that someone might go out of their way for her just... because.

“You don’t have to do this.”

You glance at her, one hand still steady on the wheel, and she looks almost small in the passenger seat. Angry, confused, vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to be.

“I want to.”

That shuts her up.

You don’t even have to look at her to know she’s frozen — caught off guard in the thick silence that settles between you.

You swear you hear the slightest hitch in her breath, so soft it nearly gets lost beneath the low hum of the tires on pavement.

“Thank you.”

It’s barely above a whisper — softer than you’ve ever heard her, like the words cost her something just to say. But they’re there, trembling at the edges, threaded with vulnerability she doesn’t often let anyone see.

You don’t look at her. Don’t need to.

Instead, you lift your hand from the gear shift, steady and casual, and hold it out — palm up, fingers slightly curled, your eyes fixed on the road ahead like this is the most natural thing in the world.

For a heartbeat, nothing happens.

Then, slowly, her hand finds yours.

Her fingers slip between yours, a little tentative at first, but they stay.

“Always,” you say, quiet but sure.

The sun hangs low over the field, casting everything in syrupy gold. Sweat clings to your back, your cleats are caked in dirt, and your legs ache in that satisfying, almost-earned way.

Practice is done, the girls are scattering, and the world feels lazy and loud — laughter bouncing off chain-link fences, water bottles being chugged like holy grails.

You tug your hair loose from its ponytail as you make your way across the grass, jersey sticking to your skin. You're already rolling your eyes before she even spots you — because there Laura Lee is, standing by the bleachers, all bright-eyed and glowing like someone cracked a stained-glass window and poured it into her.

She clutches her little Bible like it’s a limited-edition accessory and not the reason you haven’t made a single morally sound decision in years.

She waves. “Hey! That was such a good practice. Did you feel that energy at the end? That was totally God moving through us.”

You snort as you keep walking. “More like Coach nearly bursting a blood vessel.”

“But seriously,” she insists, jogging to catch up. “You can pretend all you want, but I know He’s got a plan for you. I can feel it.”

You hum, noncommittal, already locking eyes with Nat across the parking lot. She’s leaning against the fence like a teenage cliché — cigarette dangling from her lips, black eyeliner smudged in a way that makes you want to ruin her even more.

One boot on the bottom rail, hoodie zipped halfway, cocky smirk ready and waiting.

Your mouth curls as you toss a look back at Laura.

“Yeah, well… don’t wait up,” you say, loud enough for her and the departing team to hear. “I’m about to go commit six of the seven deadly sins in Nat’s backseat.”

Laura Lee audibly gasps like you just backhanded a priest.

“Y/N!” she squeaks, scandalized. “You can’t just—! That’s so—”

“What, biblically incorrect?” you grin, breezing past her.

Nat’s laughing by the time you reach her, shaking her head like she can’t believe you exist but she’s real glad you do.

She stubs out the cigarette and yanks you in by your collar, eyes glittering.

“You’re seriously gonna send your sister into cardiac arrest one day.”

“I consider it character building,” you murmur, sliding your fingers under the hem of her hoodie.

She leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You’re such a bad influence.”

“God’s favorite, baby,” you whisper, smiling as Laura’s horrified voice calls out behind you.

The room is quiet—comfortably so, in that particular way only Abby can manage. Manny's out with one of his friends, probably drowning themselves in cheap tequila and calling it strategic numbing, which leaves the dorm peacefully still, just the two of you wrapped up in each other.

Abby’s arm is draped protectively around your waist, her hand resting over your breast like it belongs there—like it’s the only place it ever wants to be.

You wouldn’t dream of complaining. Her breath grazes the back of your neck, slow and steady, and the press of her knee between your thighs does nothing to soothe the growing heat pooling low in your belly.

What finally pulls Abby from her doze is the quiet sound that escapes you—a soft, needy little whimper, laced with desperation. She doesn’t need to open her eyes to know what’s happening.

She feels the way your heartbeat stutters against her arm, pounding like it’s trying to escape your ribcage.

Then, her hand begins to move.

Fingers slide from your chest to your stomach, teasing the hem of your shirt before slipping beneath it. They trace warm patterns over your skin, deliberate and slow, before gliding lower, until she’s pressing her palm against the heat of your clothed core.

A soft, shaky moan slips past your lips.

Abby breathes a quiet laugh against your skin, her lips brushing your shoulder.

“There she is,” she murmurs, voice husky with affection and mischief. Her fingers start to move, slow and certain, caressing over your clothed pussy like she has all the time in the world.

“Abby…” you whisper, voice shaky as her fingers trace slow, deliberate circles over your clothed core. The pressure is maddening—precise, patient, and pulsing with promise.

She presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the back of your neck, her breath damp and warm against your skin.

“I got you, baby,” she murmurs, her voice low and raspy, like gravel smoothed by silk. “Just let it happen.”

The way she says it, all hushed and certain, sends a fresh wave of heat rushing through you.

“Please,” you breathe, barely audible, but Abby hears it like a call to arms. She doesn’t hesitate.

With a slow, fluid motion, she shifts behind you, sliding out of her cocoon of warmth. Her thighs slot on either side of yours, bracketing you, and in the dim light you can just make out the soft definition of her face as she leans over you. Her arms brace on either side of your head, her presence overwhelming in the best way.

And then, without another word, she lowers herself and kisses you.

It’s deep—wet, consuming. Tongues tangle, teeth graze, and you lose yourself in the heat of her mouth.

One of your hands flies up to grip her waist, grounding yourself in the solid curve of her body. A low, raw sound leaves her throat when your hips buck up, brushing against hers in a burst of friction that makes your breath catch.

“Fuck… baby, hold up.” She pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. Her hands come up to cradle your face, thumbs gentle on your cheeks. Her breath is shallow, just like yours, and you search her eyes through the haze.

“What?” you whisper, lips still brushing hers.

She swallows, steadying herself.

“We’ll go slow,” she promises, voice softer now. “I want to make this good for you. Really good.”

You nod—dazed, breathless, overwhelmed—and she exhales like that tiny confirmation settled something inside her.

Then her voice drops again, a little more hesitant this time.

“Are you sure you want this… with me?” Her thumb brushes lightly over your cheek, featherlight and reverent.

Your answer is immediate, unwavering. “I wouldn’t want anyone else to have my first time.”

Whatever tension lingered in her shoulders melts in that instant. And before she can say anything else, you lift your head and kiss her like it’s the only thing that makes sense.

She moans softly against your mouth, one hand sliding to cradle the back of your head.

You curl your fingers into the fabric of her shirt, pulling her closer, as her hips press down and your bodies align in a way that makes your toes curl.

Then, as tongue brushes tongue and low soft whimpers leave you, Abby slides her hand down your belly and past the waistband of your sweatpants - her hand cups your cunt and a soft breath leaves you.

Abby breaks the kiss to watch you, her eyes stay focused on your face, tracing every twitch and gasp.

“You say stop and I'll stop.” She whispers it like a vow and all you manage is a nod.

Abby doesn’t look away as her middle finger slowly brushes over you folds, a low groan leaves her. “Jesus, you’re dripping. All for me, huh?” Your voice fails you as her finger slowly but surely intrudes your already aching cunt. A gasp rips from your throat as she pushes it in all the way, knuckle deep.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. You’re doing so good, baby.” Abby whispers gently and cups one of your breasts with the other hand. Then, she starts moving - her finger glides in and out of your glistening cunt and the other toys ever so gently with your tit - her thumb brushes over your nipple.

You’re reduced to jerking hips, desperate moans and fingers clawing at Abby’s arms. She watches you like she’s seeing something holy. “God, you’re so beautiful.” She mumbles as she keeps her pace. Then, she brushes her thumb over your clit with every thrust and your toes curl with the inevitable heat curling tight in your lower belly.

“Abby, Abby…I’m gonna.” You manage to croak through gasps and moans and Abby hums softly, picking up her pace.

“Poor baby…s’ too much?” She pinches your nipple gently and draws yet another whimper from you.

“Please..fuck..I’m gonna..” You croak as your hips jerk with the sheer overwhelming pleasure.

“Then come for me, sweet girl.” She mumbles as presses a wet hot kiss to your jaw, her finger moves a tad faster and you could swear that you’re seeing stars. It doesn’t take long for your body to jerk, your voice to break off when a throaty moan leaves you - Abby doesn’t lose up though. She keeps going, relentlessly.

“Atta girl…that’s it.” She whispers into your ear as you ride your high out.

You’re all crammed into Dina’s apartment—some shitty couch, a couple floor cushions, an overturned laundry basket being used as a table.

Music low, drinks half-finished, someone’s passed out in the corner with a blanket that definitely smells like weed and regret.

And Ellie? Ellie’s on the floor, back against your knees, launching into the most insane rant you’ve ever heard.

“…I’m just saying,” she says, hand flailing with a cheeto between her fingers, “If birds wanted to be evil, they totally could. Like, they’ve got flight and hollow bones and talons. You ever seen a goose, man? Those things are demonic.”

The room is silent for half a beat.

“Anyway,” she adds, like she’s just delivered a TED Talk, “that’s why I never trust anything with wings and an attitude.”

Jesse blinks slowly. “Dude, what the fuck?”

But you?

You’re grinning. Fingers carding through Ellie’s hair absently, like you love hearing her unhinged theories about avian world domination. You lean down a little and whisper near her ear, “so… if I wore wings, would you be scared of me?”

Ellie’s neck goes red in an instant. “What—no—wait—maybe? I mean, not in a bad way! Like, in a cool, terrifying, kinda hot way—”

“Jesus Christ,” Jesse mutters. “She’s in love.”

“She’s doomed,” Dina adds, sipping from her beer.

But Ellie’s barely listening—because she’s twisted halfway around to look up at you, and you’re still smiling at her, still stroking her hair, still looking at her like she’s the smartest, funniest person alive.

And she’s melting.

“You’re, like…” she breathes, squinting. “Really pretty.”

You blink, caught off guard for half a second.

“…Thanks, babe.”

“No, like. Really. It’s a problem. You’re smiling at me and I forget how words work. And my brain just goes: pretty. smile. girlfriend. And then there’s just static up here.”

She taps her forehead with two fingers, completely serious.

And you just laugh—soft and sweet—and lean down to press a kiss to her temple.

The room erupts.

“OH MY GOD,” Jesse groans, falling back on the couch like he’s been shot. “How the hell did Ellie pull her?”

“I feel like I’m watching a golden retriever date a goddess,” Dina mutters. “It’s disturbing.”

Ellie turns scarlet, burying her face in your thigh. “Don’t listen to them,” she mumbles. “They’re just jealous.”

You smile down at her, hand curling under her chin to tilt her up again.

“I think you’re perfect.”

Ellie malfunctions. Fully. Stares at you with big, round eyes like you just offered to marry her on the spot.

She mouths perfect? like she’s never heard the word before.

And all you do is nod.

Because you mean it.

Ellie’s still staring up at you, stunned, her face half-buried in your thigh. Everyone else has moved on to another round of some dumb card game Jesse’s pitching, but she’s still stock-still.

You called her perfect.

Her. Ellie “accidentally-walked-into-the-wrong-classroom-and-sat-there-for-40-minutes” Williams. Ellie who once used a sock to hold her blunt ‘cause she lost her lighter and burned her thumb last time. Perfect.

“You good, babe?” you murmur, hand gently brushing her cheek.

She blinks. “Yeah. Yeah, no, I’m chill. Totally chill. Just, y’know, experiencing a full emotional reboot. It’s fine.”

You giggle and press another kiss to the top of her head, and she whines softly into your leg like she can’t handle the affection.

Eventually, someone mentions it’s past one, and the room starts to empty out. You tug Ellie up by her hoodie strings, and she stands like she’s been resurrected, slinging her bag over her shoulder and mumbling something about “walking you back.”

Outside, it’s cool and quiet. The kind of early campus stillness where every window glows soft yellow and the street lamps flicker like they’re just as tired as the students.

You lace your fingers through hers, and she tenses for half a second before relaxing—then squeezing back.

She glances sideways at you. “So. Uh. I meant to ask. That thing you said back there—was that, like, real? Or were you just saying it ‘cause I said your smile makes my brain explode?”

You stop walking and tug her back a little, fingers still locked. “You mean the perfect thing?”

Her whole face goes red again. “That’s the one.”

You shrug, playful. “Guess you’ll have to get used to hearing it.”

She stares. “You’re gonna kill me. You’re actually gonna kill me. Death by girlfriend compliment. Local lesbian found deceased on sorority row sidewalk.”

You grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” she says immediately, too fast, too much. And then realizes, slapping a hand over her mouth.

“Oh my god, ignore that, that was—that slipped out, I didn’t mean to—well I did, but I didn’t mean to say it, not like that, I was gonna wait ‘til, like, Valentine’s Day or a meteor shower or something cool—”

You stop her with a kiss. Gentle. Quick. Just enough to make her forget what planet she’s on.

When you pull back, she’s blinking, dazed. “…was that a good kiss or a ‘shut up, loser’ kiss?”

You smile. “Both.”

She huffs. “Rude.”

But you’re smiling at her with that look again—the one that says she’s yours, chaos and all—and she leans in close, bumping her forehead to yours.

“I meant it,” she mumbles. “Even if it was an accidental I-love-you. I do.”

You tilt your head, whisper back, “Me too.”

Ellie practically floats the rest of the way to your dorm. You part with another kiss, and she’s halfway down the hall before she turns around, walking backward and beaming.

“You still think I’m perfect?”

You laugh. “I think you’re mine.”

And that’s all it takes. Ellie bolts out of sight before you see the way she pumps her fist in the air, quietly muttering, “holy shit, holy shit, I have the best girlfriend on earth.”

She’s standing in the middle of her room. Hoodie still half-on, phone gripped like it’s both her lifeline and her greatest threat.

Her cat’s staring up at her from the bed, judgmental as hell.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she mutters, flopping onto the mattress. “You didn’t see her. She said I’m hers. I had no choice but to fall apart.”

The cat blinks.

Ellie’s phone buzzes.

[You]: made it back okay? [You]: you looked like you were floating

She groans, punches her pillow a little, and then types back:

[Ellie]: i was not floating [Ellie]: i am very grounded. like a normal person. a grounded, non-floating person who is extremely chill and not thinking about your lips at all.

Immediate regret.

She throws the phone face down on the bed.

The cat meows. “I panicked, okay?”

Buzz.

[You]: you’re so dumb. i’m smiling so hard it hurts [You]: love you, loser. goodnight.

Ellie clutches her phone to her chest and lets out a long, dreamy “fuck.”

You barely register the shift in the air before it happens.

A guy—some washed-up varsity asshole reeking of cheap beer and bad decisions—sidles up behind you just as you’re reaching for a soda. His laugh is a wet, slurred thing in your ear as he leans in too close.

“Hey, cheerleader," he drawls, breath hot against your skin. "Bet you taste as sweet as you look.”

Your stomach turns. You wrinkle your nose and sidestep, voice flat. “Yeah, no thanks.”

But he doesn't listen.

A hand clamps around your waist—too rough, too familiar—fingers digging into your side like he owns a piece of you.

And then—he’s gone.

It happens so fast you almost miss it: a blur of ripped black denim and smeared eyeliner, and then Natalie’s slamming him into the fridge hard enough to make the magnets jump.

“Get your fucking hands off her!” she roars, voice slicing through the thumping bass like a blade.

The whole party seems to stutter around you. Heads snap toward the kitchen. The music falters, then cuts out entirely, leaving a ragged silence that hums against your skin.

The guy tries to shove her off—stupid move. Natalie just snarls and drives her fist into his shirtfront, cocking her arm like she’s ready to break his jaw next.

Shauna’s already moving, grabbing for Natalie’s swinging arm, and you dive in too, wedging yourself between them, hands firm on Nat’s shoulders.

“Natalie!” you hiss, dragging her back. “Nat, it’s fine! I'm fine!”

But she’s not hearing you—her eyes are blown wide with fury, chest heaving like she’s still mid-hunt.

It takes both you and Shauna hauling her backwards, bracing against her thrashing, before she finally stumbles a step away from him.

The guy’s on the floor now, scrambling back, eyes blown wide with something that finally, finally looks like fear.

Natalie’s still shaking, still burning, as she spits, low and deadly, “Touch her again, and I’ll fucking gut you.”

Silence crashes down hard.

You turn her toward you, cupping her face between your palms, forcing her to see you—to feel you. “Hey,” you breathe. “I’m okay. Baby. I’m right here.”

For a moment, she’s still wired, muscles locked tight. Then—slowly—she softens under your hands, enough to clutch at your waist like she’s anchoring herself to you, grounding herself in something real.

“He touched you,” she grits out, like it’s the only thing that matters.

“I know,” you whisper, leaning in close. “But you got me, Nat. You always do.”

A beat passes, thick and heavy.

Then her forehead drops against yours, and her voice—rough and raw—slips out like a vow.

“No one touches what’s mine.” You can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips, even as your heart hammers in your chest.