#tcu

✶ "No, it's good for PR, Liv," Phee explains as she and Olivia walk down the lower bowl of the Minnesota Aurora's stadium. "Especially for rookies,"

"Bro," She whines, following Phee anyway.

The soccer game had just ended with a close win, and the players, including you, were mingling in their still sweaty clothes.

You barely even notice her walking over to you, startled by her voice interrupting you and a teammate's conversation.

"You were good out there." Spinning around, you recognize her almost immediately. Olivia Miles. Of course, you had, you attended a WNBA watch party with some friends that past week.

"Oh my god, hi," You blush, looking up at Olivia. "I wouldn't have sweated so much if I'd known you'd be here,"

"I wasn't aware we've met before," she giggles down at you, a hand on her hip as she lazily watches you.

"We haven't, but now we have, and I look a sweaty mess,"

She shrugs. "Who says I don't like sweaty messes?" Leaning in, you practically die, but then you practically die even more when she whispers in your ear, her warm breath ghosting your skin. "Maybe I think it's hot,"

Pretending to act as unaffected as you possibly can, you pull away, incredibly flustered. "I mean, you play sports too, so you have a fair share of sweat."

"True,"

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you look anywhere but at her. "So, are you guys coming out with the team tonight?"

"We are actually,"

Words barely come to you as she stares down at you, waiting for a response.

Chuckling, she raises her eyebrows in expectation. "… Are you coming too?"

"Oh my gosh, yes, sorry, I'll def be there,"

"Def?"

"Like short for definitely," You explain, practically rambling on about the way you talk. "I just tend to use words that you would normally text with in real life,"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's late when you arrive at the bar, and most of the team is already there, including the two add-ons of the night, Naphee and Olivia. Spotting the group in a corner, already chatting it up, you head over. Fuck. You notice the only spot left is next to Olivia. Yeah, she's hot and you definitely wouldn't mind going home with her tonight, but you feel a bit desperate.

Sucking it up and accepting defeat, you slide in next to her. Immeditely, the scent of cologne takes over your senses, something you hadn't noticed before. Her hair is free from a hair tie now, her glasses still on though, and she's wearing a button up shirt and some jeans. But damn, she's fine.

"Hey," She smiles, leaning to the side so you can hear her over the loud music. Around you, your team talks amongst each other, jokes are reheated, and drinks are shared, just like any other night out, but tonight it's different.

"Hi," You reply.

Scanning you up and down, a smirk plays on her mouth and oh my god, you think you're actually gonna die. That might have been the hottest thing you've ever seen. "You look pretty tonight, definitely not sweaty," Her eyes latch on yours as she studies you.

"I mean, I'm sweating non-stop with you looking at me like that,"

"Oh yeah?"

All you can do is nod as she leans in, placing a strong hand on your thigh, her fingers grazing the edge of your incredibly short dress that you picked out just for tonight.

"This is pretty short, don't you think?"

Can she tell you're turned on because what the fuck? Her hands are inching further and further up your thigh.

✶ after meeting her, your relationship escalates pretty quickly, but privately for the most part. like after your first hookup, she takes you on a date to maybe breakfast the next day, and then you officially start dating and actually get to know each other and stuff. but again, you decide to keep it super private at first, wanting to make sure you're both sure about it before you launch on social media and stuff

✶ eventually, you do decide to hard launch. i feel like she wouldn't hard launch on social media, though. i think she would have you show up to one of her games with like a shirt that says olivia miles' girlfriend or maybe her jersey to be a bit more inconspicuous, but have some sort of obvious thing that you're together. after the game in post-game interviews, she'll like come out with you and officially announce the relationship

It caught the afternoon light behind her like it had been designed specifically to make you stupid. You knew thirsting over Lorraine was wrong, not just because of the age gap that sat quietly between you, but because she was married to Ed.

It had been meant to be you and Judy going out shopping. That had been the plan all week, actually, because Judy had decided she needed a new dress for some dinner she kept being annoyingly vague about.

She’d called you twice about it, sent you pictures of outfits she hated, and insisted she needed your honest opinion because, according to her, you were better at knowing what made someone look hot without making it obvious.

So you showed up at the Warren house freshly showered, lip gloss on, bag over your shoulder, and a little too excited for an afternoon of harmless shopping with your friend. You knocked twice, expecting Judy to fling the door open with half her hair done and a dramatic complaint already waiting on her tongue.

Instead, Lorraine opened the door. For a second, your brain did the humiliating thing where it simply stopped working. She was wearing a cream cardigan over a pale blue blouse, her silver-streaked hair pinned back loosely, and she looked like every terrible thought you’d ever tried not to have. Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “Hi,” you said, and hated how breathless it sounded.

Lorraine smiled at you, soft and apologetic. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” she said, and that word nearly ruined you right there on the porch. “Judy left about twenty minutes ago.” You blinked at her. “She left?” Lorraine’s expression turned a little fond, a little amused, like she was still piecing the story together herself.

“She said something about seeing some boy,” she said, then gave a helpless little lift of her shoulders. “Or perhaps meeting him. I’m not entirely sure. She was speaking very quickly.”

You stared at her for a second, trying to hide the disappointment that dropped through you before you could catch it. It wasn’t only that Judy had bailed. It was that you’d shown up prepared to spend the afternoon pretending you weren’t distracted by Lorraine, and now Lorraine was the only one standing there.

You forced a laugh because that seemed safer than looking as disappointed as you felt. “Right,” you said, glancing down at your shoes. “That sounds like Judy.”

Lorraine’s smile softened, and you hated that she noticed anyway. Of course she noticed. Lorraine noticed lowered voices, tight smiles, damp lashes, trembling hands, and every tiny emotional crack people tried to cover up with politeness.

“Were you both going somewhere important?” she asked. “Just shopping,” you said, trying to shrug like it didn’t matter. “She wanted help picking something out, but it’s fine. I can go another day.”

You were already shifting back, already preparing to excuse yourself before you spent too long standing in front of Judy’s mother with your heart acting stupid. Then Lorraine tilted her head slightly, eyes warm in a way that made your pulse stutter.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t know much about what she was looking for, but I could come with you.” You looked up so quickly it was embarrassing. Lorraine’s smile widened just a little, as if your reaction had told her more than your words ever could.

“Only if you’d like the company,” she added. “I can’t promise I’ll be any good at it, but I’ll do my best.” There was something so sweet about the way she said it that your disappointment lifted almost instantly. It should’ve made you feel guilty, how quickly Judy’s absence became something else in your mind.

A little opening. A little accident. A little chance to spend the afternoon alone with Lorraine Warren in a way you had absolutely no business wanting.

“You’d really come?” you asked, softer than you meant to. Lorraine’s eyes held yours for a moment, calm and unreadable. “Of course,” she said. “Let me get my coat.”

You stood in the hallway while she disappeared for a moment, surrounded by the familiar warmth of the Warren house. You’d known that hallway for years because of Judy, had passed through it with overnight bags, birthday gifts, borrowed books, and half-whispered gossip you didn’t want adults overhearing.

Their home had always felt lived-in and safe, full of warm lamps, polished wood, framed photographs, and the quiet hum of a family that had folded you in without needing to say so. That was what made your feelings so awful. Lorraine wasn’t some stranger you could crush on without consequences.

She was Judy’s mother, Ed’s wife, the woman who used to ask if you girls wanted tea while you sat on Judy’s bedroom floor painting your nails. You remembered being younger and thinking she was beautiful in a distant, impossible kind of way.

Back then, admiration had felt innocent because you didn’t know what wanting could turn into. Then you got older, and suddenly Lorraine walking into a room could make your stomach dip. Suddenly her voice saying your name felt like a hand at the back of your neck. Suddenly the silver in her hair became something you thought about far too often when you were alone.

Lorraine came back wearing a camel coat over her cardigan, her handbag tucked neatly against her side. “Ready?” she asked. You nodded, probably too quickly, and followed her out to the car like your whole body hadn’t just lit up from the thought of being alone with her.

The drive into town was almost painfully polite at first. Lorraine asked about your work, your plans, whether you’d eaten lunch, all in that gentle voice that made simple questions feel intimate. You answered as normally as you could, but every time she glanced over at you, your thoughts scattered.

Her hands rested so gracefully on the steering wheel, wedding ring catching little flashes of light whenever she turned. You noticed it every time. You hated that you noticed it every time. The ring should’ve been enough to pull you back into yourself. Instead, it sat there like a warning you kept choosing not to read.

The boutique you ended up at was tucked between a florist and a jeweller, all warm lighting and gold-lettered signage. It was the sort of place Judy liked pretending she’d only gone into as a joke, even though she always ended up touching half the dresses like she was imagining a different version of herself in each one.

Lorraine held the door open for you, and you stepped inside with the horrible awareness of her right behind you. Everything smelled faintly of expensive perfume, steamed fabric, and fresh flowers from next door. The racks were arranged by colour, deep jewel tones bleeding into cream, black, navy, blush pink, and soft champagne.

There were velvet stools near the dressing rooms, gold mirrors on the walls, and little bowls of wrapped sweets by the counter. Lorraine looked around with a thoughtful little smile, like she really had meant it when she said she didn’t know much but would do her best. “This is very Judy,” she said softly. You laughed before you could stop yourself. “Painfully Judy,” you agreed.

You tried to focus on shopping properly. You really did. At first, you picked through the racks with the vague intention of finding something Judy might like, because that was what you’d come for, even if she’d abandoned you for some boy Lorraine couldn’t even properly identify.

Lorraine followed at an easy pace, touching fabrics between her fingers with a careful softness that made your mouth go dry. She’d lift a sleeve, smooth a hem, tilt her head at a colour, and ask if Judy would wear something like it. You gave answers, but half your attention kept slipping to Lorraine herself.

The silver in her hair caught the boutique lights every time she turned, making those pale strands shine against the darker softness beneath. You wanted to touch it so badly your fingers actually twitched around the hanger you were holding.

It was pathetic. You were pathetic. Lorraine looked over at you right as that thought crossed your mind, and her smile made you wonder if she’d somehow heard it.

The black dress appeared near the back of the boutique, tucked between a deep green satin slip and a burgundy velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline. It wasn’t Judy’s style, not really. It was yours, or maybe it was the version of you that existed only in your head when you were feeling brave and dangerous and a little too aware of your body.

The dress had thin straps, a square neckline, and a fitted waist that promised trouble before you even touched it. The fabric had a soft sheen to it, not quite satin, but smooth enough to catch the light whenever it moved.

The hem looked like it would fall around mid-thigh, and there was a slit on one side that seemed modest on the hanger but dangerous in your imagination. You reached for it before you could talk yourself out of it. Lorraine noticed immediately.

“That one’s lovely,” she said, and your stomach tightened around the compliment like it had been given directly to your skin. “It’s probably too much,” you said. Lorraine’s gaze moved from the dress to your face. “I don’t think so.”

You hated how easily that convinced you. One soft comment from Lorraine and suddenly you were carrying the black dress toward the dressing rooms like you hadn’t been trying to have morals five minutes ago. Lorraine took a seat on the little velvet bench outside while you slipped behind the cream curtain.

The dressing room was far too pretty for your suffering. It had a gold-framed mirror, warm lighting, a brass hook on the wall, and a small velvet stool that seemed designed for someone elegant, not someone spiralling because her friend’s married mother had liked a dress. You hung your clothes carefully even though your hands weren’t steady.

Then you pulled the black dress on slowly, fitting the straps over your shoulders and smoothing the fabric over your waist. For one terrible second, you just stared at yourself. The square neckline framed your chest without showing too much, which somehow made it worse.

The waist hugged you closely, the hem skimmed your thighs, and the slit opened when you shifted your weight. Your first thought was that Lorraine was going to notice everything.

“This one’s too tight,” you called, though you hadn’t actually decided if that was true or if you just wanted Lorraine to say something about it.

There was a pause from the other side of the curtain. Not a long one, but long enough to make your stomach twist because Lorraine’s pauses always felt deliberate. Like she was smiling to herself. Like she knew exactly what kind of reaction she was pulling out of you and wanted to see how long you’d last before you got needy about it.

“Too tight,” she repeated, voice soft and amused. “Or fitted?” You looked at yourself again, heat crawling up your neck. The dress was pretty. Annoyingly pretty.

It clung to you in a way that made standing still feel impossible, like your own reflection was teasing you. The slit shifted against your thigh every time you moved, showing just enough skin to make your pulse trip over itself.

“I don’t know,” you said, trying to sound casual and failing so badly it almost hurt. “Maybe you should look.”

The silence that followed was worse than any answer she could’ve given you. For a moment, you thought she might tell you to step out like a normal person. For a moment, you thought she might stay seated on the bench, preserving the safe and careful distance between you. She didn’t.

Instead, you heard the faint sound of Lorraine standing. Then the curtain shifted. Not all the way. Just enough for Lorraine to slip inside, careful and composed, one hand closing the fabric behind her so the two of you were hidden away from the rest of the store.

The dressing room suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too full of her perfume and your own nerves. She stood behind you in the mirror, close enough that you could see the gentle lift of her chest when she inhaled.

“Oh,” Lorraine said quietly.

That one word nearly ruined you. It was soft, barely above a breath, but there was something in it that made your knees feel unreliable. Lorraine’s gaze moved over you in the mirror with a slowness that felt almost indecent.

She looked at the straps first, then the neckline, then the way the fabric hugged your waist. Her eyes dropped to the slit at your thigh, and you swore you saw the smallest pause in her composure. It lasted less than a heartbeat.

Then her face softened into something warm, restrained, and dangerous. You felt sixteen different kinds of shame and want crash into each other at once. Ed’s face flickered through your mind like a warning you didn’t want to look at for too long. Judy’s absence felt louder than it had all afternoon.

You swallowed, fingers curling uselessly at your sides. “Bad?”

“No.” Her eyes lifted to yours in the reflection, and the softness in them had changed into something warmer. “No, sweetheart. Not bad at all.”

The pet name hit you low in the stomach. Lorraine had called you sweetheart before, countless times, usually with tea in her hands or Judy beside you on the couch. It had always sounded harmless enough to survive, soft enough to file away under things you shouldn’t overthink.

This time, it didn’t sound harmless. This time, it slid down your spine and settled somewhere hot and wanting. You hated that your body reacted so quickly. You hated that Lorraine heard the breath you tried to hold back.

Her eyes flicked to your mouth in the mirror, then back to yours like she was pretending not to notice. The wedding ring on her hand caught the dressing room light when she shifted. You saw it. She saw you see it. Neither of you said anything.

The age gap was there in the room with you, quiet but impossible to ignore. It lived in the difference between her calm and your restlessness, between her careful restraint and your obvious hunger. It lived in the way she held herself like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing, while you felt like you were one breath away from begging for something you had no right to ask for.

It lived in the fact that she had known you first as Judy’s friend, the girl who came over for films and sleepovers and borrowed books. It lived in every cup of tea she’d made you, every warm smile she’d offered from across the kitchen, every harmless little kindness you’d later turned over in your mind until it became something else.

That should’ve made you step back. That should’ve made you blush, laugh, and shove her out of the dressing room before anything could tilt too far. Instead, you stood there in a black dress with her eyes on you and wished she’d touch you. You wished it so hard it made you feel dizzy. Maybe that was the worst part.

Lorraine stepped closer, her hands hovering near your waist like she was asking permission without using words. You nodded before she even had to say anything, and the moment her palms settled over the fabric, your breath caught. She didn’t grab you. She didn’t even pull you back.

She only touched you gently, smoothing her hands over your waist as if checking the fit, but the intimacy of it made your knees feel weak. Her fingers were warm through the dress. Her thumbs rested near the curve of your stomach, slow and careful, like she was trying to convince herself this was still innocent.

It wasn’t. You knew it wasn’t, and so did she. The mirror made it worse because you had to watch yourself wanting her. You had to watch Lorraine Warren touch your waist while her silver hair brushed near her cheek and her wedding ring gleamed against black fabric.

“It suits you,” she murmured.

“You think so?”

“I think you know it does.”

Your face warmed instantly, and Lorraine’s mouth curved in the mirror like she enjoyed watching you struggle. It was unfair, how sweet she looked while saying things that made you want to melt through the floor.

Her fingers traced the seam at your side, slow and careful, following the shape of the dress over your waist and down to your hip. There was nothing accidental about it. Nothing innocent either. Her touch paused where the slit began, and the silence between you went thick enough to make every breath feel loud.

You watched her eyes lower again. She didn’t touch your bare thigh, not yet, but the possibility of it opened inside you like a bruise. Your pulse beat everywhere. You could barely remember what you were supposed to be doing in this boutique beyond surviving her hands.

“I wasn’t sure,” you whispered.

Lorraine leaned in a little, her lips near your ear now. “Were you really not sure, or did you want me in here telling you how pretty you look?”

You went completely still. Outside the dressing room, someone laughed faintly near the front of the store. A hanger scraped against a rail. The world carried on like Lorraine Warren didn’t have both hands on your waist and her mouth dangerously close to your neck.

The normality of it made the wrongness sharper. Ed could call at any second. Judy could come home later and ask how shopping went, completely unaware of what her absence had allowed to happen. A sales assistant could ask if you needed another size, and you’d have to explain why Lorraine looked so close to you.

Yet all you could focus on was the warmth of her breath near your ear. All you could think about was how badly you wanted her to say it again. You wanted her to call you pretty until the word stopped feeling soft and started feeling like a command.

“I wanted your opinion,” you said.

“Mhm.” Her thumbs brushed lightly over your stomach through the dress. “That’s a very polite way of saying it.”

You tried to turn, but Lorraine’s hands held you in place, not harshly, just firmly enough to make your pulse jump. Her eyes stayed on yours through the mirror, calm and devastating. There was something about being watched by her like this that made every part of you feel exposed. She didn’t need to undress you to make you feel bare.

She only had to look at you like she already knew what you were thinking. You wondered if she could tell how badly you wanted to lean back into her. You wondered if she could hear the guilt in your breathing.

You wondered if she felt guilty too. The thought made something tender and terrible twist inside you. It made you glance down again at her wedding ring. Lorraine’s hand stilled when she noticed.

“Lorraine,” you breathed.

Her expression softened, but her hands didn’t move away. “Do you want me to stop?”

You shook your head immediately. Too quickly. That smile again. Gentle. Knowing. A little dangerous. It made her look nothing like the careful woman who stood beside Ed with her hand resting lightly on his arm.

It made her look like someone who’d been thinking about this too. That realization should’ve terrified you. Instead, it made heat bloom under your skin so fast you had to grip the edge of the little stool to steady yourself.

Lorraine noticed that too, of course. Her fingers flexed at your waist, just enough to remind you she was still there. You felt yourself lean back before you could stop it.

“No?” she asked.

“No.”

Lorraine’s gaze dropped to your mouth in the reflection, then lower, following the line of your throat, the curve of the neckline, and the way the dress fit too perfectly over your body. When her hands slid down to your hips, your breath trembled out before you could stop it.

She heard it. Of course she did. Her fingers flexed slightly, and her voice lowered until it felt like something meant only for your skin. “I think this dress is a problem,” she murmured. You licked your lips, watching the way her eyes followed the motion.

“Because it’s too tight?” you asked. Her mouth brushed your shoulder, barely a kiss, barely anything at all. “Because I’m trying very hard to behave,” she said. Your stomach flipped so hard you nearly forgot how to breathe.

The confession landed between you with more force than any touch could have. Lorraine Warren was trying to behave. Lorraine Warren, with her soft silver hair and careful hands and gold wedding band, was standing behind you in a dressing room admitting restraint. You should’ve stepped away then.

You should’ve laughed it off, pushed the curtain open, and pretended this had only been about the dress. Instead, your eyes fluttered when her lips grazed your shoulder again. The kiss was featherlight, almost chaste, and somehow obscene because of where you were and who she was.

Her perfume clung to the warm space between you. Her ring pressed faintly against your hip through the fabric. You thought of Ed again, then pushed the thought away with a shameful little ache. You thought of Judy leaving to see some boy, and the guilt cut bright before Lorraine’s thumb stroked your hip. Want swallowed everything else.

“Are you?” you whispered.

“Trying?” Lorraine asked, her lips grazing the side of your neck now. “Yes.”

“And behaving?”

Her eyes met yours in the mirror. “Not as much as I should be.”

The words slipped under your skin and stayed there. Your whole body felt suspended on the edge of something you couldn’t name without ruining the last thread of innocence between you. Lorraine’s mouth pressed properly to your neck then, soft and warm and careful enough to make it worse.

You made a sound you didn’t mean to make. It was small, breathy, and humiliating, but Lorraine’s hands tightened at your hips like she liked it. Her silver hair brushed your cheek when she leaned closer, and the sight of it in the mirror nearly broke you.

You were gone for that hair, ruined by it, made stupid by every pale strand near her face. Your thighs pressed together before you could help it. Lorraine saw that too. Her gaze darkened so subtly that anyone else would’ve missed it, but you didn’t.

The curtain moved faintly when someone passed by outside, and both of you froze. Lorraine’s hands stayed on you. Your heart slammed against your ribs so hard it almost hurt. A sales assistant asked another customer if they needed a different size, and the voice faded toward the front of the boutique.

Lorraine must’ve felt your body tense because her expression shifted. For a moment, she looked like herself again, kind and worried and too good to be standing this close. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, and this time the word sounded like a question.

You should’ve used that as your chance to stop. Instead, you turned your face slightly, just enough for your mouth to brush hers. Lorraine inhaled like she’d been waiting longer than either of you wanted to admit.

The kiss wasn’t rough at first. It was soft, slow, and so careful that it made your chest ache. She kissed you like she was giving you every chance to pull away, every chance to remember Ed, Judy, the boutique, the curtain, and the world outside.

You remembered all of it. You remembered it and kissed her anyway. Your hand lifted to her wrist, fingers trembling around the place where her pulse beat beneath warm skin.

Lorraine’s lips parted against yours, and the sound she made was almost too quiet to hear. You felt it more than heard it. It slipped straight through you, low and devastating. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark and tender and guilty.

“We shouldn’t,” she whispered.

“I know,” you said.

The honesty made it worse. It should’ve cooled the air between you, but it didn’t. Lorraine’s forehead rested lightly against yours, and for a second, neither of you moved. You could see her wedding ring out of the corner of your eye.

You could feel her breath trembling against your mouth. You could hear your own pulse in your ears, frantic and needy and completely uninterested in morality. “Judy’s my friend,” you whispered, as if saying it out loud might save you.

Lorraine closed her eyes. “I know,” she said, and there was pain in her voice now. It made something in you soften when it should’ve made you step away. Instead, you reached up and touched the silver near her temple with shaking fingers.

That undid her more than the kiss had. Lorraine’s eyes opened, and the look she gave you was so raw that your breath caught. You’d dreamed of touching her hair more times than you wanted to admit, of threading your fingers through that soft silver, of tugging gently just to see if she’d make a sound.

Now your fingertips brushed the strands near her face, and she leaned into the touch like she couldn’t stop herself. “You have no idea what that does to me,” you whispered. The confession slipped out before you could catch it.

Lorraine’s lips parted slightly. “My hair?” she asked, voice barely steady. You laughed under your breath, embarrassed and hot all over. “I’m pathetic about it,” you said. “I know I shouldn’t be, but I am.”

Lorraine stared at you for a long moment, and then something in her restraint cracked. Her hand rose to your jaw, gentle but firm, and she kissed you again with far less caution than before. This kiss had heat in it. This kiss had want.

This kiss had all the things she’d been too graceful to say while standing in doorways, offering tea, and pretending not to notice when your eyes lingered too long. You kissed back like you’d been starving for it. Your hand slid into her hair properly this time, and the soft silver caught between your fingers.

Lorraine made the smallest sound against your mouth. It was so restrained, so controlled, so painfully her, that it sent heat rushing through you. You wanted to hear it again. You wanted to ruin that careful composure until she forgot how to wear it.

Her hand slid from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there with a tenderness that made you dizzy. The other stayed at your hip, thumb stroking near the slit of the dress. You felt the fabric shift when she touched the bare edge of your thigh.

The contact was light, almost accidental, but your whole body reacted like she’d done something filthy. Lorraine pulled back just enough to look at you. Her lips were flushed now, her composure softened at the edges, and her silver hair had slipped slightly from its neat place. You did that, you thought wildly.

You had made Lorraine Warren look undone in a boutique dressing room after she’d only come because Judy had ditched you. The thought should’ve filled you with horror. It filled you with a needy, shameful pride instead.

“You’re shaking,” Lorraine whispered.

“So are you,” you said.

For the first time, she looked almost caught. Her lashes lowered, and her mouth curved in the faintest, saddest smile. “I should go back outside,” she said. You nodded because it was the right answer.

You nodded because there were rules and vows and years of family dinners sitting between you. You nodded because Judy trusted you, because Ed loved her, because Lorraine was older and married and woven into your life in ways that made this dangerous.

But your fingers were still tangled in her hair. Her hand was still on your thigh. Her body was still warm behind yours. Neither of you moved. Then Lorraine’s thumb slipped beneath the edge of the slit, and your nod turned into a soft, helpless breath.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispered.

You couldn’t. You wanted to. You hated that you couldn’t. Your mouth opened, but nothing responsible came out. Instead, you whispered her name, and Lorraine closed her eyes like it hurt her to hear it like that. Her hand slid slowly along your bare thigh, not high enough to give you what you wanted, but high enough to make your body melt back against hers.

The mirror showed everything. Your parted lips. Her flushed cheeks. Her hand disappearing beneath the black fabric. The soft silver of her hair against your face. The gold ring on her finger. The wrongness of it only made the heat worse.

Lorraine’s mouth found your neck again, softer this time, like she was trying to apologize against your skin for every line she was about to cross. The kiss was warm and slow, her lips parting just enough to make your breath shudder where it caught in your throat. You could feel how wet you were getting, how your panties had started clinging to your pussy in a way that made every tiny shift of your hips feel humiliating.

The fabric was damp now, stuck to your pussy lips, pressing against the swollen heat of you until you could feel the slick mess your body had made for her. Lorraine’s hand moved higher beneath the dress, and the closer she got, the more your thighs trembled around the ache. She felt it before you could hide it, and the way her breath caught against your throat told you she knew exactly what she’d done to you.

Her fingers paused at the crease of your thigh, close enough to make your pussy clench around nothing. You watched her in the mirror because you couldn’t help it, watched the way her lashes lowered and her lips parted against your skin.

Lorraine looked shaken by you, and that made the shame burn hotter. She looked like she wanted to stop and like stopping would hurt her. Her thumb stroked the inside of your thigh, slow enough to be cruel. Your hips twitched forward without permission, chasing the touch like you had no pride left.

“Sweetheart,” she whispered, but it didn’t sound like a warning anymore. It sounded like she was barely holding herself together. Her fingers brushed over the front of your panties, and the first touch made your whole body jolt. It wasn’t even direct, not really, just the light drag of her fingertips over the soaked fabric clinging to your pussy.

Still, it sent a sharp pulse through you that had your mouth falling open. Lorraine’s eyes lifted to the mirror, finding your expression with devastating calm, even though her own composure was starting to fracture. You tried to breathe normally, but there was no way to hide the way your body reacted.

Your panties felt ruined, pressed tight to your swollen pussy lips, slick and warm where your clit throbbed beneath the thin fabric. Lorraine moved her fingers again, slower this time, teasing over you through your panties like she wanted to feel exactly how desperate she’d made you before giving you anything real.

Your head tipped back before you could stop it, landing against her shoulder with a soft, broken breath. The angle left your throat open for her, and she kissed you there immediately. Her mouth trembled once against your skin like the sound you made had gone straight through her.

Lorraine’s other hand slid around your waist, holding you close against her body so you couldn’t fold forward from the feeling. She kept touching you over your panties, using light pressure that made you ache more than it satisfied you. Each slow circle dragged the damp fabric against your clit, rubbing just enough to make your hips stutter, but not enough to give you relief.

Your thighs tried to close around her hand, and she stopped them with one careful knee nudged between yours. It wasn’t rough. It was worse than rough. It was controlled, gentle, and firm enough to keep you open for her while she watched you unravel in the mirror.

The black dress had ridden up around her wrist, and you could see the faint movement of her hand under the fabric, the gold ring on her finger catching the warm dressing room light.

You hated how beautiful she looked while ruining you. You hated that she looked guilty and hungry at the same time. Her gaze kept flicking between your face and the place her hand disappeared beneath your dress. “You’re so wet,” she murmured, sounding almost stunned by it. Your cheeks burned so badly you squeezed your eyes shut, but Lorraine kissed the corner of your jaw and rubbed firmer.

The pressure made your knees weaken, and she felt it instantly. Her arm tightened around you, holding you upright against her like she’d been made to catch you. “Look at me,” she whispered, her voice low and careful. You opened your eyes with effort, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

The sight nearly finished you before she’d even properly begun. Lorraine’s face was flushed, her mouth soft and parted, her silver hair slipping loose near her cheek because of your fingers. She didn’t look untouched anymore. She looked like someone slowly losing the fight with herself.

Her fingers dragged up over your clothed slit, pressing the fabric between your pussy lips, and your hips rolled helplessly into her touch. A sound escaped you, higher and needier than you wanted it to be.

Lorraine’s eyes darkened at the sound, and her lips pressed to your temple like she needed somewhere to put all that restraint. “Quiet,” she reminded you, but her own voice was shaking. “You have to stay quiet for me.”

You nodded because words felt impossible. Lorraine’s fingers slowed, then slipped lower, tracing the soaked outline of your pussy through the fabric. She wasn’t rushing, and that made it worse. She touched you like she was discovering you by feel, every movement patient enough to make your stomach twist.

Your panties clung to you so tightly that you could feel the shape of yourself beneath them, swollen and slick and aching against the ruined fabric. When Lorraine dragged one fingertip up the center of you, your whole body shivered. Her hand at your waist flexed. “Oh,” she breathed, so soft you almost missed it.

That single reaction made your eyes flutter open again. You saw her watching her own hand beneath the hem of your dress, fascinated and horrified by how much she wanted. “Lorraine,” you whispered, and the sound of her name came out ruined. She closed her eyes for half a second like it hurt her. Then her fingers hooked beneath the edge of your panties.

She didn’t pull them aside immediately. She waited there, fingertips tucked under the damp fabric, as if she needed one last chance to choose differently. The pause stretched so long your body started trembling again. You could feel the elastic against your skin, feel the cool air trying to reach the wet heat between your legs.

Lorraine’s mouth hovered over your neck, breath warm and uneven. “Tell me,” she whispered. It wasn’t a command, not really. It sounded like a plea. You swallowed, eyes fixed on the mirror, on the two of you tangled together in the small golden room.

“Please,” you breathed. Lorraine’s expression broke. Then she tugged your panties carefully to the side, the wet fabric dragging against your pussy lips before finally baring you to her hand.

The first brush of air made you tense, already too sensitive from being teased through soaked fabric. Lorraine looked down, and the reaction that crossed her face was so raw it made your stomach drop. Her lips parted. Her breathing stopped for a second. The hand at your waist tightened like she needed to steady herself as much as you did.

“Sweetheart,” she whispered, and there was awe in it now, not just guilt. Her fingers slid carefully between your pussy lips, not holding you open, just feeling how slick and swollen you were for her. You felt every bit of it, the slow slide of her fingertips, the wet heat of yourself coating her skin, the obscene softness of your pussy under her touch.

Lorraine’s gaze lifted to the mirror again, and you saw the exact moment she realized you were watching her reaction. Her cheeks flushed deeper. She looked almost embarrassed by her own hunger. Then her fingertip found your clit.

You jerked so hard her arm had to hold you tighter. Lorraine made a soft sound against your neck, half soothing, half startled by how violently you reacted. “Easy,” she whispered, though there was nothing easy about the way she touched you.

Her finger rubbed your clit in a slow, careful circle, gentle enough to make you ache and precise enough to make your knees shake. The sensation was immediate and bright, heat snapping through your body so fast your nails dug into her wrist.

You tried to swallow the moan, but it broke out of you anyway, muffled only because you turned your face against her shoulder. Lorraine’s mouth pressed to your hair.

“That’s it,” she murmured, and the praise made your hips stutter. She kept her touch steady, drawing slow circles over your clit until slick gathered against her fingers.

You could hear how wet you were, a soft obscene sound hidden beneath the rustle of fabric and your uneven breathing. Lorraine heard it too. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, like the sound alone was doing something to her. Then her fingers slid lower again.

Your head tipped back fully onto her shoulder, your throat bare, your mouth open as you fought to stay quiet. Lorraine kissed along your neck again, slower now, her lips dragging over your pulse while her fingers explored you beneath the dress.

She rubbed your clit until your hips started chasing her, then slipped down through your wetness with aching patience. Her fingertips circled your entrance slowly, gathering slick there before moving back up to your clit. It made you want to sob. It made you want to beg.

Your hips kept chasing her, small desperate movements she controlled with one firm arm around your waist. She didn’t rush inside you, didn’t force anything, only teased the entrance of your pussy until you were clenching around nothing and trembling against her.

The mirror showed the tense line of her arm beneath your dress, the slight movement of her wrist, the way your thighs shook around her hand. You looked ruined already.

Lorraine looked like she knew it and hated how much she liked it. “You’re so sensitive,” she whispered, voice breaking on the last word. Your only answer was a helpless little nod.

She adjusted her hand, and the shift made you gasp. Her finger slid lower through your wetness, dipping through the slick gathered between your pussy lips before dragging it back up to your clit. She used your own wetness to make the touch smoother, slower, dirtier.

Lorraine’s breath hitched against your ear when she felt just how soaked you were directly. “God,” she whispered, and the word sounded torn out of her. It was the first truly unguarded thing she’d said, and it wrecked you. Her composure was slipping, not all at once, but in tiny beautiful fractures.

The tremble in her fingers. The heat in her cheeks. The way her mouth kept finding your skin like she couldn’t bear not to kiss you. She rubbed you faster for a few seconds, then slowed when your thighs started to shake too violently. “I’ve got you,” she murmured again, softer this time. You hated how safe it made you feel.

A distant voice sounded somewhere outside the dressing room, and panic flashed through you. Your body stiffened, but Lorraine didn’t move away. She only turned her head slightly, listening, her hand still cupping your bare pussy beneath the dress. The voice faded toward the front of the boutique.

A hanger clicked against a rail. Someone laughed softly. The normal sounds of the store made the intimacy feel even filthier, even more impossible. Lorraine’s eyes met yours in the mirror, and for a second both of you just stared.

Her fingers were still slick against your clit. Your panties were still pulled aside, twisted damply against your thigh. Her wedding ring was still visible against your skin.

“We should stop,” she whispered, but her hand betrayed her with another slow circle. Your pussy clenched around nothing, empty and aching. Lorraine felt the movement and swallowed hard.

“You don’t want to,” you whispered before you could stop yourself. The words were reckless, needy, and far too honest. Lorraine’s gaze sharpened in the mirror. Her mouth parted, but no denial came out. That silence told you everything.

Her fingers pressed a little firmer to your clit, and your eyes rolled shut before you forced them open again. She watched you take it, watched your expression crack apart under each slow rub. “No,” she admitted finally, voice so quiet it almost disappeared. “I don’t.”

Hearing her say it made something low in your belly twist tight. You reached back blindly, your hand finding the back of her neck. Your fingers slid into her silver hair again, and Lorraine’s whole body shuddered. The sound she made into your throat was small, restrained, and desperate enough to make your pussy throb beneath her fingers.

That reaction made you bolder, even as she kept you trembling against her. You tugged lightly, barely enough to disturb the neat strands, and Lorraine let out a soft, broken breath into your neck. Her fingers faltered for the first time. The loss of rhythm made you whine, and she recovered quickly, rubbing your clit with a little more pressure as if punishing both of you for wanting too much.

“Don’t do that,” she whispered, but the words had no strength behind them. You knew she didn’t mean it. Her body pressed slightly closer to your back, and her mouth opened against your shoulder. “You like it,” you breathed.

Lorraine’s eyes lifted to yours in the mirror, darker than before. “You’re making this very difficult,” she said. Her voice had gone low and rough at the edges. You almost smiled, but then her fingers slipped lower and stole it from your mouth.

Pleasure sparked as she teased your entrance again, slow and deliberate, her fingertip circling your opening until your body clenched around the promise of her. You were so wet that there was no resistance when she finally eased one finger inside you. The stretch was slow and careful, barely enough at first, but it still made your mouth fall open against her palm when she raised her hand to cover it.

Lorraine froze for a heartbeat, breathing hard against your hair, as if feeling you around her had knocked the air out of her. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, and the tenderness in it made your eyes burn. She moved only when your hips pressed back for more.

Her finger slid deeper, slow enough to make you feel every inch, then withdrew with the same maddening patience. Your pussy clenched around her as she began to finger you gently, not fast, not rough, just steady and intimate and devastating.

The wet sound of it made Lorraine’s cheeks flush. Her mouth pressed to your temple like she needed to hide her own reaction. “You feel so good,” she breathed, and your knees almost gave.

She kept one arm locked around your waist while her fingers moved inside you. Every slow thrust made your body rock subtly against hers, your dress shifting around her wrist, your panties still pulled uselessly aside. Lorraine wasn’t trying to make it harsh or frantic.

She was taking her time with you, dragging her finger in and out of your wet pussy like she wanted to memorize the way you tightened around her. Your clit throbbed from neglect, and you whimpered into her palm when she curled her finger just enough to make your hips jerk. “I know,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I know, I’ve got you.”

Her thumb brushed your lower stomach through the dress, soothing you while her finger worked you open slowly. The tenderness of it made the wrongness feel even sharper. You could feel yourself dripping around her, slick coating her knuckle each time she eased back in.

Lorraine’s breathing grew uneven near your ear, and when you looked in the mirror, she looked ruined by the sight of you taking her hand. Then she withdrew her finger halfway and rubbed your clit with the slick she’d gathered from inside you.

The sudden switch made your whole body jolt. Lorraine’s palm stayed over your mouth, gentle but necessary, catching the broken sound that spilled out of you. Her fingers circled your clit with wet, precise pressure, and every stroke felt sharper now that she’d been inside you.

Your pussy clenched desperately around nothing, missing the slow fullness of her finger almost as soon as it was gone. Lorraine seemed to notice, because her eyes darkened in the mirror. “You want more?” she whispered against your ear. You nodded so quickly that her mouth brushed your cheek with a shaky exhale.

“Greedy girl,” she murmured, but there was no cruelty in it. Only awe. Only heat. Only the thin edge of guilt neither of you could stop standing on. She rubbed you until your hips started trembling, then slipped her finger back down and eased inside you again. This time, your body took her even more easily, wet and aching and already close.

She fingered you slowly, keeping the rhythm deep and careful while her thumb found your clit. That was what finally broke your control. The combination made pleasure bloom so hot and fast that you nearly sagged in her arms. Her finger moved inside your pussy with patient strokes, while her thumb rubbed your clit in tight, slick circles that made your vision blur.

You couldn’t even pretend to be quiet anymore. Every sound came out muffled against her hand, desperate and soft and humiliatingly needy. Lorraine held you through all of it, her face flushed in the mirror, her eyes fixed on yours like she couldn’t look away. “That’s it,” she whispered. “Just like that.”

Her thumb kept circling your clit while her finger curled inside you, slow and steady, drawing your orgasm closer with every careful movement. Your pussy clenched around her again, and she gasped against your neck like she’d felt it somewhere deep in herself. “You’re close,” she said, not asking. You nodded against her palm, tears pricking at your eyes from the intensity of it.

The praise pushed you closer than anything else could have. Your hips jerked against her hand, and Lorraine held you through it, firm enough to guide you but never rough enough to scare you. The mirror blurred because your eyes were wet now, overwhelmed by the feeling of her finger inside you, her thumb on your clit, her mouth at your neck, and her body behind yours.

Your clit throbbed beneath her touch, swollen and slick, every circle sending sparks up your spine. Your pussy clenched around her finger, tight and fluttering, and Lorraine’s breath caught each time she felt it. “There,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “That’s it, sweetheart.”

She didn’t speed up too much. She kept the rhythm steady, slow enough to make you feel every stroke, firm enough to pull you apart. Her thumb pressed a little harder, and your whole body tightened. “Come for me,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You came with your mouth covered and your body held tight against hers. It hit you in waves, sudden and bright, your thighs shaking around her hand while your pussy clenched hard around her finger. Lorraine made a soft, stunned sound into your hair as she felt it happen.

Her thumb stayed on your clit, rubbing you through the first sharp rush of it while her finger kept moving inside you in slow, shallow strokes. You whimpered into her palm, breath hot and broken, unable to stop the little sounds spilling out.

Lorraine’s eyes were fixed on the mirror, watching you fall apart with a look that was almost worshipful. She slowed only when your body started to flinch from the sensitivity. Even then, she didn’t pull away all at once.

She eased you down slowly, softer and softer, until the pleasure became tremors instead of shocks. Her mouth pressed against your temple. “There you are,” she whispered, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you.”

For a while, neither of you moved. Lorraine kept her hand over your mouth until your breathing steadied, then slowly lowered it to your chest, palm resting above your racing heart. Her other hand slipped away from your clit, and the loss made you twitch with a weak little whimper.

She withdrew her finger carefully, slow enough to make your body clench one last time around nothing. She let your panties fall back into place, though they were ruined now, damp and clinging to your swollen pussy in a way that made your face burn all over again. Lorraine smoothed the dress down with trembling fingers, trying to make you look untouched.

It was useless. Your lips were parted, your cheeks were flushed, your eyes were glassy, and your legs were still unsteady beneath you. Lorraine looked just as undone, her hair mussed where your fingers had been, her mouth swollen from kissing you, her composure cracked straight down the middle.

She stared at you in the mirror like she didn’t know whether to apologize or kiss you again. “Sweetheart,” she said, but the word broke before it became a sentence. You reached for her hand because you couldn’t bear the space opening between you, and she let you take it, even with the gold ring still shining on her finger.

You reached for Lorraine’s hand before she could retreat into herself, before she could turn guilt into distance and pretend the shaking in her fingers meant nothing. Her skin was still warm from touching you, slickness cooling along her fingers where your body had made a mess of her composure.

She looked at you through the mirror like she already knew what you were thinking, and that made it worse because Lorraine always knew. Her mouth parted as if to say your name, maybe to warn you, maybe to beg you not to make this harder than it already was. You didn’t let her find the words. You lifted her hand with both of yours, slow enough that she could stop you if she wanted to.

Her wedding ring caught the soft dressing room light, bright and unforgiving against her finger. The sight should’ve made you pull away, but instead your mouth lowered to it like temptation had finally become stronger than shame.

You sucked the finger her ring sat on between your lips, tasting yourself on her skin while your tongue slid around the gold band. Lorraine’s breath broke sharply above you, her eyes widening for one startled second before her lashes fluttered.

You circled the ring with your tongue again, deliberately, filthily, making the symbol of everything forbidden wet with your mouth. “Baby,” you whispered when you let her finger slip free, your lips still damp. “Let me taste you too.”

The word baby did something terrible to her. You saw it in the way her throat moved, in the way her careful posture faltered, in the way one hand reached for the mirror like she needed the glass to keep her standing. She was still older, still married, still Judy’s mother, still the woman you’d spent years trying not to look at for too long across kitchen counters and family rooms.

She was also standing in front of you flushed, trembling, and visibly wet because of your mouth. That truth landed heavier than any guilt could. You lowered yourself to your knees, the black dress shifting around your thighs as you sank onto the soft dressing room rug.

Lorraine whispered your name like she meant to stop you, but her voice had no authority left. It came out thin and wrecked, more plea than warning. You looked up at her from below, one hand resting on her calf, the other sliding slowly beneath the hem of her skirt.

“Say no,” you murmured. Lorraine’s fingers hovered near your cheek before settling in your hair. “I can’t,” she breathed. The honesty made your whole body pulse.

You pushed her skirt up with careful hands, not because you wanted to be gentle, but because you wanted to watch every second of her surrender. Lorraine’s thighs were warm beneath your palms, smooth and tense, trembling each time your fingers moved higher. She tried to keep her knees steady, but the effort showed in the tight set of her jaw and the uneven rise of her chest.

Her panties were pale, delicate, and damp through the center, the wet patch darkening the fabric where her arousal had soaked through. The sight made your mouth water. She looked down and saw you staring, and a blush spread from her cheeks to her throat.

“Don’t look at me like that, darling,” she whispered, but the pet name ruined the warning. “Like what?” you asked, pressing a kiss just above her knee. Lorraine swallowed hard. “Like you’ve wanted this for a long time.” Your hands tightened slightly on her thighs. “I have.”

She closed her eyes when you said it, her fingers tightening in your hair. You kissed up the inside of one thigh, then the other, taking your time because the anticipation made her shake more than touch did. Her skin tasted faintly of warmth, perfume, and salt, and you could feel the tension in her muscles every time your lips got closer.

When your mouth pressed over her through her panties, Lorraine’s hips jerked so suddenly that her hand slapped against the mirror to steady herself. The sound was too loud in the tiny space, and both of you froze.

A second passed. Then another. No one came to the curtain. Lorraine’s breathing was ragged above you, and when you licked the damp fabric, she made a small, strangled sound behind her teeth.

You kissed her clothed pussy again, slower this time, letting your tongue press against the soaked material until it clung tighter to her. “Honey,” she gasped, hand sliding over her mouth. You hummed against her, and her thighs tightened around your shoulders.

You hooked your fingers beneath the waistband of her panties and eased them down slowly. The wet fabric dragged away from her pussy with a soft, intimate pull that made Lorraine shudder. When you finally bared her, your breath caught.

She was beautiful in a way that felt almost too real to survive, soft and flushed and slick, her pussy glistening under the warm boutique light. Above it, she had a neatly trimmed bush of greying hair, darker strands threaded with silver, the same softness that made you stupid when it framed her face.

Seeing it there, intimate and mature and unmistakably hers, sent heat through you so sharp it almost hurt. Lorraine’s blush deepened when your eyes lingered. “Please,” she whispered, but you weren’t sure if she was asking you to stop looking or start touching.

You leaned in and kissed the greying hair just above her pussy, slow and reverent. Her whole body trembled. “You’re so pretty,” you murmured. “All of you.” Lorraine looked away like the praise wounded her. “You’re wicked,” she whispered, voice shaking.

You dragged your tongue through her slowly, and Lorraine nearly folded. The first taste of her was hot and slick, her arousal coating your tongue as her hips gave a helpless little twitch toward your mouth. She was already soaked, wet enough that your lips slid easily against her, wet enough that the first lick made an obscene little sound neither of you could pretend not to hear.

Lorraine’s hand flew back over her mouth, but the gasp still slipped through. You licked her again, deeper, parting her with your tongue and tasting the slick gathered at her entrance before moving back up. Her clit was swollen and sensitive when your tongue found it, and the second you circled it, her knees weakened.

You grabbed her hips to steady her, fingers digging into the fabric of her skirt and the warm skin beneath. “Easy, baby,” you whispered against her pussy. “I’ve got you.”

Hearing her own words turned back on her made her whimper. “Pretty girl,” she breathed, the pet name muffled behind her palm. You moaned at that, and the vibration made her jerk.

After that, you stopped trying to be careful with your hunger. You ate her with slow, deliberate pressure, licking from her entrance to her clit in long strokes that made her thighs shake around your head. Her taste spread over your tongue, warm and rich and unmistakably hers, and every soft sound she tried to hide made you press closer.

You circled her clit, then flattened your tongue against it, then sucked gently until her hand clenched in your hair. Lorraine’s hips moved in tiny, helpless rolls, like she was trying to stay still and failing beautifully. “That’s it,” you murmured, mouth wet against her. “Don’t fight me.”

She let out a breathless laugh that broke apart before it became a sound. “You’re impossible,” she whispered. You kissed her clit once, open-mouthed and filthy. “And you’re dripping on my tongue.” Lorraine’s head tipped back hard against the wall. “God,” she choked out, and the word sounded ruined.

You slid one hand higher, thumb brushing the damp crease of her thigh while your mouth stayed on her. Her pussy was slick against your lips, her clit pulsing each time your tongue stroked over it. The greying hair above her brushed against your nose when you pushed in closer, and the intimacy of it made your stomach twist with want.

She wasn’t polished anymore. She wasn’t distant. She wasn’t untouchable. She was shaking above you with her skirt bunched around her waist, panties caught low on one thigh, and your mouth buried between her legs.

The thought made you groan into her. Lorraine’s hips bucked softly, and the hand in your hair tightened until it stung. “Sorry,” she gasped immediately. You looked up at her, lips wet, chin slick.

“Don’t apologize, baby.” Her eyes fluttered at the sight of you. “You look sinful,” she whispered. “Good,” you said, then sucked her clit again.

That broke a sharper sound out of her. She covered her mouth with both hands this time, shoulders curling slightly as pleasure pulled through her. You held her thighs apart just enough to keep her from closing around you completely, then licked her with more focus, giving her the pressure her body kept begging for.

Her clit twitched under your tongue, swollen and slippery, and every gentle suck made her thighs tremble harder. You could tell when she was trying to hold back because her whole body went too still.

You punished that restraint by dragging your tongue down to her entrance and dipping inside her, slow and wet, tasting the slick heat of her directly. Lorraine’s knees nearly gave out. “Oh, my love,” she breathed, and the pet name sounded accidental, too intimate for the room you were in.

It made your chest ache even as your mouth stayed filthy against her. You licked inside her again, then dragged your tongue back up in one slow stroke. Her fingers slid back into your hair. This time, she didn’t apologize for pulling.

The music playing softly through the boutique speakers suddenly seemed absurdly normal. Somewhere outside, hangers clicked, a sales assistant laughed politely, and the world carried on like Lorraine Warren wasn’t being eaten out behind a cream curtain.

The danger made her wetter. You could feel it each time your tongue moved over her, slick gathering faster, her pussy warm and responsive beneath your mouth. “Someone’s going to hear you,” you whispered against her.

Lorraine looked down at you, eyes glassy and furious with want. “Then don’t make me make noise,” she said, but her voice shook too much for it to land as a challenge. You smiled against her thigh. “Can’t promise that, baby.”

Then you sealed your mouth over her clit and sucked until her hand slammed back over her mouth. Her hips jerked forward. You held her there. She tasted even wetter when you licked her through it.

Lorraine was close now, and you knew because her composure disappeared in fragments. First her breathing changed, turning shallow and uneven. Then her fingers stopped stroking your hair and simply gripped, trembling against your scalp.

Her thighs tightened, released, then tightened again around your shoulders. Her hips began to chase your mouth without permission, small needy movements that made her blush even while she kept doing them. You kept your rhythm steady, tongue circling her clit, lips closing around it whenever she started to drift too far from the edge.

“There,” you whispered, tasting her with every word. “That’s where you need it.” Lorraine’s eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t talk like that,” she pleaded. You flicked your tongue over her clit. “You like it.” She made a broken sound into her palm. “Yes.”

The admission lit you up. You gave her exactly what she’d confessed to wanting, alternating slow licks with careful suction until her body started to shake in earnest. Her pussy was soaked, slick coating your mouth, the inside of her thighs damp where your fingers held her.

You could smell her arousal now, warm and intimate, mixed with perfume and the clean fabric of her skirt. It made you dizzy. You wanted to stay there until your knees hurt, until her voice broke, until she forgot every reason she was supposed to be ashamed. “My sweet girl,” Lorraine whispered suddenly, voice wrecked.

The praise went through you hard. You moaned into her again, and she nearly came from that alone. Her hand slipped from her mouth to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your lips where she had made you messy. “Look at you,” she breathed. “You’re enjoying this too much.” You looked up at her and licked her slowly. “You taste too good not to.”

Her eyes went dark and helpless. For a second, she didn’t look guilty at all. She looked hungry, undone, and almost proud of what she’d made of you. Then you pressed your tongue flat against her clit and worked her with firm, steady strokes, and the guilt vanished from her face entirely.

Pleasure took its place. Lorraine’s mouth opened behind her hand, and her body arched toward you as quietly as she could manage. You felt her clit pulse beneath your tongue, felt her pussy clench and flutter each time you dipped lower to taste her. “Baby,” you murmured, breath hot against her. “You’re so close.”

She shook her head like denying it might give her more time. You slid both hands up to her hips and held her still. “Don’t hide from me now.” Lorraine looked down at you, silver hair loose around her face, eyes wet. “I’m trying not to fall apart,” she whispered. You kissed her clit. “Fall apart.”

That was all it took for her restraint to snap. Lorraine’s hips rolled against your mouth once, then again, more desperate than before. You matched her, tongue moving with her instead of against her, giving her the friction she couldn’t stop chasing. Her hand clamped over her mouth so hard her knuckles paled.

The other hand gripped your hair, holding you exactly where she wanted you. Her thighs shook, and her pussy got wetter against your tongue, slick and hot as she tipped over the edge. “Oh, darling,” she gasped into her palm.

“Oh, please.” You didn’t know what she was begging for, but you gave her more anyway. You sucked her clit gently and kept your tongue moving. Her body went taut above you. Her breath caught. Then she came.

Lorraine came on your tongue in a trembling, silent rush that almost didn’t stay silent. Her whole body seized, thighs tightening around your head as pleasure rolled through her. You held her hips and kept your mouth on her, licking softly as her clit pulsed against your tongue. She tasted stronger when she came, slick and warm, her pussy fluttering helplessly while she tried not to cry out.

A broken sound escaped behind her hand anyway, small and desperate and gorgeous. You swallowed what she gave you, staying close, letting her ride out every wave against your mouth. Her fingers tightened in your hair, then loosened, then tightened again like she couldn’t decide whether to pull you closer or save herself from the sensitivity.

You softened your tongue when she started to flinch. Then you kissed her there once, slow and obscene, just to feel the last tremor move through her.

Lorraine whispered your name like she was confessing something. You rested your cheek against her thigh, lips wet and swollen. “There you go, baby,” you murmured. “I knew you’d sound pretty.”

For a long moment, she couldn’t answer. She leaned against the dressing room wall with one hand over her mouth, chest heaving beneath her blouse, skirt still bunched high in your hands.

Her silver hair had come loose now, soft strands stuck to her flushed cheek, and she looked so beautifully undone that your throat tightened. You kissed the inside of her thigh, then the other, gentler now. Lorraine shuddered each time your mouth touched her skin.

“Don’t tease me,” she whispered, though there was still a tremble of pleasure in her voice. “I’m not,” you said. “I’m being sweet.” Her laugh came out breathless and broken. “You’re being wicked.” You looked up at her from your knees, mouth still shining with her.

“You liked wicked.” Lorraine’s eyes dropped to your lips, and the look on her face made your stomach clench. “Yes,” she admitted softly. “I did.”

You fixed her with the same care she’d used on you, pulling her panties back into place and smoothing her skirt down over her trembling thighs. The fabric covered her again, but nothing about her looked untouched.

Her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed, her hair mussed from your hands, and her gaze kept dropping to your mouth like she couldn’t help herself. You rose slowly, legs unsteady from kneeling, and Lorraine reached for you before you were fully upright.

Her hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks with a tenderness that almost made the filth of it hurt. She looked at you for one long, ruined second. Then she kissed you. The moment she tasted herself on your tongue, her breath hitched hard against your mouth.

“Baby,” you whispered into the kiss, and she made a soft, helpless sound that went straight through you. Her hand slid to the back of your neck. “My darling girl,” she breathed, kissing you again. “What have you done to me?”

Lorraine kissed you like she meant to stop and couldn’t quite remember how.

For one last second, the dressing room stayed too warm, too small, too full of everything neither of you could take back. Her hands were still on your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks with that unbearable tenderness that made the guilt feel sharper than the wanting.

You could taste her on your mouth, could feel the faint tremble in her fingers, could see in her eyes that she knew exactly what had happened and exactly how impossible it would be to pretend it hadn’t. The soft music outside the curtain kept playing, gentle and absurd, like the world had the nerve to stay normal.

Then Lorraine pulled back first. Not far. Just enough to breathe. “We need to make ourselves decent,” she whispered, and the little crack in her voice made your stomach twist.

You nodded, even though your lips were swollen, your knees were weak, and your entire body still felt warm from her. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Probably.”

Lorraine gave you a look that was almost scolding, but it fell apart before it reached her mouth. The corner of her lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite forgiveness either. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“You’re failing.”

You bit your lip, and her eyes dropped to your mouth like it was instinct. For one dangerous second, you thought she might kiss you again. She looked like she wanted to. Her hand even lifted, fingers brushing the edge of your jaw before she caught herself and let it fall.

The two of you separated with the kind of carefulness that made it obvious something had happened. Lorraine turned slightly toward the mirror, smoothing her skirt down with shaky hands, fixing the hem, straightening the soft cardigan that had slipped off one shoulder.

Her hair was the worst giveaway. The neat silver-streaked pieces had come loose around her face, softer and messier than before, and you had to physically stop yourself from reaching for them again.

Lorraine caught you staring in the mirror. Her cheeks flushed. “Don’t,” she said softly.

You swallowed. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking very loudly.”

That made you laugh under your breath, quick and nervous, and for a moment the tension cracked into something dangerously sweet. Lorraine looked at you then, really looked at you, and the softness in her expression almost hurt. She reached out and brushed her thumb beneath your lower lip, wiping away a smudge you hadn’t even noticed.

“There,” she murmured. “Better.”

Your breath caught.

The simple touch felt worse than everything else because it was so gentle. So domestic. So Lorraine. You stood still while she fixed you, letting her smooth the front of the black dress, tug the straps into place, and brush invisible creases from the fabric like she hadn’t just ruined you in it. Her hands lingered at your waist for half a second too long before she pulled them away.

“You’re still buying it,” she said.

You blinked. “The dress?”

“Yes.” Lorraine’s mouth curved faintly. “After all that, I’d say it’s earned its place.”

Your face went hot so fast it nearly made you dizzy. “Lorraine.”

“What?” she asked, too innocent, too calm, except for the flush still sitting high on her cheeks. “It suits you.”

The way she said it made the dressing room feel warm all over again. You turned toward the mirror, trying to look at yourself like a normal person trying on clothes and not someone who’d just had Lorraine Warren’s hands and mouth all over you.

The dress still fit beautifully, which felt almost rude. The black fabric hugged your waist and skimmed your thighs like it knew exactly what it had witnessed. The slit sat perfectly against your leg, subtle until you moved, then just daring enough to make your stomach flip.

Lorraine stood behind you, quieter now.

Her reflection watched yours, and the look in her eyes softened into something complicated. Want was still there, unmistakable and low-burning, but so was guilt. So was fear. So was that awful tenderness that made everything feel less like a mistake and more like a door neither of you had meant to open.

“You look beautiful,” she said.This time, there was no teasing in it. You looked down, suddenly shy in a way that felt ridiculous after everything. “Thank you.”

Lorraine’s hand twitched at her side, like she wanted to touch you again and knew she shouldn’t. Instead, she stepped back and reached for the curtain. Before she opened it, she paused.

“Are you all right?” The question landed softly, but it still made your chest tighten.

You nodded. “Yeah. Are you?”

Lorraine didn’t answer immediately. Her fingers rested against the curtain, her wedding ring catching the light again. You saw her look at it. You saw the guilt pass over her face like a shadow.

Then she looked back at you. “I don’t know,” she admitted. Your throat tightened.

That was worse than a lie. A lie would’ve been easier. A lie would’ve let you both pretend this was simple, that she was fine, that you were fine, that the whole thing could be folded away like a receipt and forgotten in a handbag.

Instead, Lorraine was honest. You stepped closer, careful this time. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes softened at once. “No, don’t do that.”

“But Ed…”

“I know.”

“And Judy…”

“I know,” she said again, quieter. The silence that followed felt heavy enough to touch.

Then Lorraine reached for you anyway, just for a second, fingers brushing yours by your side. Not holding. Not quite. Just enough contact to make your heart ache.

“We’ll talk about it,” she whispered. “Not here.”

You nodded, because here was a dressing room with a curtain and soft music and a sales assistant who could ask if everything was okay at any moment. Here was where everything had happened too quickly. Here was where the mirror still knew too much.

“Okay,” you said.

Lorraine gave herself one last look in the mirror, smoothing her hair down as best as she could. It didn’t fully work. The silver strands still looked softer than before, slightly mussed where your fingers had been, and the sight made your mouth go dry all over again. She noticed, because of course she did.

“Behave,” she murmured. You blinked up at her. “You first.” For one glorious second, Lorraine looked genuinely scandalized. Then she shook her head, breathless and fond despite herself. “You’re terrible.”

“You brought me shopping.”

“Judy abandoned you.”

“And you volunteered.”

“That,” Lorraine said, opening the curtain just a little, “is beginning to feel like a very dangerous habit.”

You stepped out first, trying to look normal, which felt impossible when your legs still didn’t completely trust you. The boutique looked exactly the same as before. Warm lights. Pretty dresses. Soft music. A woman near the front considering a pair of earrings.

A sales assistant folding tissue paper behind the counter. No one looked at you like they knew. No one glanced twice at Lorraine as she followed you out, composed enough to pass if someone wasn’t paying close attention.

Unfortunately, you were always paying close attention to Lorraine.

You could see the tiny cracks. The way she touched her hair again. The way she avoided your eyes for three whole seconds before looking back anyway. The way her lips were still a little too pink from kissing you. The way her breathing wasn’t quite steady when you handed her your own clothes over the curtain so you could change back.

Changing out of the black dress felt strangely intimate too. You missed it the second it slipped down your body.

When you pulled your own clothes back on, your panties still felt damp, and your face burned at the reminder. You folded the dress over your arm carefully, smoothing the fabric with both hands like it was something precious and guilty. When you stepped out again, Lorraine was waiting by the little bench, her coat folded over one arm.

Her gaze dropped to the dress. Then to you. “You’re sure?” she asked.

You nodded. “I’m sure.” Her mouth softened. “Good.”

At the counter, the sales assistant smiled brightly and asked if you’d found everything okay. You nearly choked on the laugh that tried to crawl up your throat. Lorraine, somehow, remained calm, which felt deeply unfair considering she was the reason your pulse still hadn’t settled.

“Yes,” Lorraine answered smoothly, before you could embarrass yourself. “The dress was perfect.”

Your eyes snapped to her. She didn’t look at you. Coward.

The sales assistant wrapped the black dress in tissue paper, then slid it into a glossy paper bag with ribbon handles. You paid for it yourself, mostly because you needed something normal to do with your hands.

Lorraine stood beside you the entire time, close enough that her sleeve brushed yours once, then again, each touch small enough to be accidental and deliberate enough to make you dizzy.

When the receipt printed, the assistant tucked it neatly into the bag.

“Special occasion?” she asked.

You froze. Lorraine’s hand brushed the small of your back. “Something like that,” you managed. Lorraine’s fingers pressed once, gentle and warning, but you could feel the faint tremor in them.

Outside, the air hit cooler than expected. You stepped onto the pavement with the bag hanging from your wrist and the black dress hidden away like evidence. Lorraine walked beside you, quiet for a few steps, her coat pulled around her, silver hair glowing softly in the afternoon light.

Neither of you said anything at first. The boutique door closed behind you with a soft chime. You glanced down at the bag. Then at Lorraine.

“I really do like the dress,” you said. Lorraine kept looking ahead, but her mouth curved. “I gathered that.” You nudged her gently with your shoulder. “You liked it too.”

This time, she did look at you. Her eyes were warm, guilty, and still a little dark around the edges. “Yes,” she said softly. “I did.”

The answer sat between you all the way back to the car. Not loud. Not solved. Not safe. Just there, tucked into the space beside the shopping bag and the silence neither of you knew how to fill. Lorraine unlocked the car, opened the passenger door for you without thinking, then seemed to realize the intimacy of it a second too late.

You slid into the seat, clutching the bag in your lap. Lorraine lingered by the open door. For a moment, she only looked at you, silver hair loose around her face, sunlight catching on the ring you had tasted.

Then she leaned down slightly, voice low enough that only you could hear. “Put that dress somewhere safe when you get home.” Your fingers tightened around the handles. “Why?”

Lorraine’s eyes flicked to your mouth. “Because I have a terrible feeling I’m going to want to see it again.”

© CUMKISSED ♡ | EST. JUNE 2026 ˎˊ˗ all original content found here belongs to me. canon material belongs to its respective owners. don't repost it, don't feed it to ai, don't translate it, don't archive it elsewhere, and definitely don't pretend you wrote it. ♡

today, you said yes because you needed the hours. because saying no would’ve meant staying home alone with memories you were trying not to replay. the apartment would’ve been too quiet, the kind of quiet that presses in. your cat, juno, would’ve curled against your thigh like she always does when she senses you spiraling, her purring a reminder that something still needs you.

the oculus wing is quieter than the rest of the hospital—brighter, sterile in a way that feels intentional. you swipe in, adjust your badge, skim the schedule, and then you see her.

not your patient. but your ex.

she looks the way she always has—comfortable in herself, unadorned. practical shoes, neutral slacks, a button-down worn soft at the edges. no makeup, no obvious effort either way. she moves easily through the space, clipboard tucked under her arm, talking with a physician like she belongs here. your chest tightens anyway.

she works here now—operations, coordination, something administrative that keeps her moving between departments. close enough to medicine to feel important, close enough to power to feel familiar. she hasn’t noticed you yet, too focused on the exam room down the hall. you follow her line of sight—and that’s when you see olivia.

she’s sitting on the exam table, shoulders loose but alert, glasses perched comfortably on her nose. long limbs folded in like she’s learned how to make herself smaller in places she can’t control.

there’s a faint bruise near her cheekbone, yellowed at the edges, healing. you swallow. you’ve seen her on tv—confident, loud in her talent, untouchable. here, she just looks human.

your ex finally notices you. surprise flickers across her face—quick, guilty, unmistakable. “hey,” she says.

“hey,” you reply, already pulling professionalism over yourself like armor. “didn’t know you were working today.”

“i wasn’t supposed to,” you say evenly. “i’m covering.” something passes over her expression—maybe regret, maybe inconvenience.

“she’s your patient,” your ex adds, nodding toward the room. “olivia miles. took a hit during practice. some visual disturbances.”

you nod. “i’ve got it.”

you don’t look back—inside the exam room, olivia looks up when you enter, her eyes sharpening immediately—curious, assessing.

“hey,” you say gently. “i’m your nurse today. i’ll be doing your initial eye assessment.”

she smiles, small but warm. “hi. nice to meet you.”

her voice is steadier than you expect. you guide her through the tests—light response, tracking, acuity—notice the way her jaw tightens when the light lingers too long, the way she breathes through discomfort instead of naming it.

“tell me if it’s too much,” you say. she huffs a soft laugh. “i’m used to pushing through.” you glance at her. “that doesn’t mean you should.”

something quiet settles between you at that. when you hand her the chart, she hesitates. “can i take these off?”

“yeah. take your time.” she removes her glasses carefully, sets them down. without them, she looks softer, more open. you catch yourself staring.

“you wear glasses too?” she asks, nodding toward the pair tucked into your scrub pocket.

“contacts most days,” you admit. “but these shifts are long.”

she smiles. “i fought mine forever. thought they’d slow me down.”

“and now?”

“now,” she says, quieter, “i kind of like seeing clearly.” your heart stutters. you finish everything—documenting, explaining next steps, making sure she understands. she listens closely, trusts you without question. when you step out to coordinate imaging, your ex stops you.

“you’re good,” she says. “really good.” you don’t look at her. “i do my job.” she hesitates. “i didn’t know you’d be here.” you finally meet her eyes. “i didn’t know you were cheating either.” silence.

you walk away before she can respond. later, olivia’s cleared—no serious damage. rest, follow-up, adjusted lenses for strain. you return to discharge her, and she studies you like she’s memorizing something.

“you okay?” she asks. you smile, practiced. “yeah. just a long day.” she slips her glasses back on, stands. “can i ask you something?”

“sure.”

“this might be weird,” she says, shifting slightly, “but would you want to get coffee sometime?” you think of juno waiting at home, of makeup laid out on your bathroom counter for days you feel like yourself again, of how your heart feels lighter than it has in months.

“i’d like that,” you say. her smile is slow, hopeful—clear. and as you watch her leave, you realize you didn’t come here because of betrayal. you came here to remember what it feels like to be seen.

you don’t expect the feeling to follow you home—but it does.

it lingers through the drive back, through the familiar streets, through the quiet click of your apartment door locking behind you. juno greets you immediately, tail flicking once before she weaves around your ankles like she’s counting you, making sure you came back in one piece.

“hi, mama,” you murmur, toeing off your shoes.

she chirps, unimpressed but relieved, and trots toward the kitchen. you move on autopilot—feeding her, washing your hands, staring at your reflection just a little too long. bare-faced, tired, soft around the edges. you think about the makeup waiting on the counter, untouched. you think about glasses resting carefully in someone else’s hands.

coffee turns into dinner turns into you on the couch with juno tucked against your side, her weight grounding you. your phone buzzes.

unknown number.

"hey, it’s olivia. hope this isn’t too late." your thumb hesitates before you reply. "it’s not. i was just getting home."

three dots appear. disappear. then: "good. i was worried i crossed a line today." you smile despite yourself. you didn’t. there’s a pause, then: "would you want to get that coffee tomorrow? no pressure."

you glance down at juno, who looks back up at you like she already knows. tomorrow works.

the café is small and warm, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat. olivia’s already there when you arrive, glasses on, hoodie soft with wear. she looks up and smiles like she’s been waiting longer than she lets on.

conversation comes easy. easier than it should. you talk about nothing and everything—her recovery, your rotations, the weird intimacy of being tired for different reasons. she listens when you speak, really listens, like she’s filing pieces of you away.

when she walks you to your car, the air’s cooler than either of you expected.

“thanks,” she says quietly. “for today. for…yesterday.” you nod. she hesitates, then smiles again. “maybe i’ll take you up on that.”

it’s raining the night she comes over.

not planned—just one of those moments where conversation stretches too long, where time slips. she texts from her car, asking if she can wait it out. you say yes before you overthink it.

inside your apartment, juno freezes the moment olivia steps in. tail low. eyes sharp. “uh,” olivia says softly, crouching a little. “hi.” juno does not move. “she’s protective,” you explain. “especially of me.”

olivia nods like she understands completely. “that’s okay. i can wait.”

she doesn’t push. doesn’t reach. just sits on the floor, legs crossed, hands resting on her knees while you make tea. you watch from the kitchen as juno circles her once. twice. suspicious.

then, without warning, juno hops into olivia’s lap.

just…settles—you stare. olivia goes completely still. “oh.” juno purrs. your laugh slips out before you can stop it. “she never does that.” olivia looks up at you, wide-eyed. “is this good or bad?” “very good,” you say softly.

later, it’s late. too late to drive. the rain hasn’t stopped. olivia stays.

nothing dramatic happens. no rush. no crossing lines. just shared space. quiet conversation. the sound of rain against the windows. juno curled between you like a seal of approval.

when olivia finally falls asleep on the far side of the bed, glasses placed carefully on your nightstand, you stare at the ceiling and breathe.

this feels different—safe, yet so seen. and you think, maybe healing doesn’t always announce itself. maybe sometimes it just looks like a cat choosing who’s worthy—and a woman who waits until you’re ready to let her closer.

it doesn’t turn into a thing right away—that’s what surprises you most.

olivia doesn’t suddenly take up space in your life all at once. she arrives quietly, in pieces. a text asking how your shift went. a coffee dropped off outside your building because she “was already nearby.” an extra mug left in your sink because she forgot it there the night before.

juno notices before you do.

she starts waiting by the door more often. not every night—just the nights olivia comes over. she sits there like she’s expecting something familiar, tail wrapped neatly around her paws, eyes half-lidded but alert.

“she knows,” olivia says once, smiling as juno weaves between her legs like she’s already memorized them. you shrug, but your chest feels warm. “she doesn’t like many people.” olivia looks at juno, then back at you. “i’m honored.”

some nights are quiet. you cook while olivia sits at the counter, glasses pushed up as she talks about practice, about learning how to slow down when her body tells her to. you talk about work, about patients you don’t name, about the way eyes tell the truth even when mouths don’t.

after dinner, you end up on the couch. not touching at first. then knees brushing. then shoulders leaning, just enough to feel each other breathe.

juno always finds her place between you.

other nights, you don’t talk much at all. you watch something half-forgotten on tv, volume low, rain tapping against the windows. olivia stretches out on the floor sometimes, back against the couch, juno perched on her stomach like it’s where she belongs.

“she’s heavy,” olivia murmurs once. juno purrs louder—you smile into your mug. there’s no pressure. no expectation. olivia never assumes she’s staying over. she always asks. you always say yes, eventually.

the bed becomes shared space in the softest way—separate sides, careful distance, a quiet understanding. sometimes you wake up before her and watch the rise and fall of her chest, the glasses folded neatly on your nightstand like they’ve been there forever.

once, she wakes up first and you find her in the kitchen, barefoot, making coffee like she knows where everything is.

“hope that’s okay,” she says. it is. weeks pass like that. small moments stacking gently. trust building without announcement.

one night, after a particularly long shift, you come home exhausted in a way that sinks deep. olivia’s already there, juno curled beside her. she looks up when you drop your bag, reads your face instantly.

“come here,” she says softly.

you sit. she opens her arms. you hesitate only a second before leaning in. it’s not dramatic. no fireworks. just relief. she holds you like she’s not afraid you’ll pull away. like she’s content to stay exactly there, breathing you in, letting the moment be enough. juno hops into your lap, completing the picture like she planned it all along.

later, when olivia leaves for the night, she pauses at the door.

“i like this,” she says, careful. honest. “whatever this is.” you nod. “yeah..me too.” she smiles, warm and unguarded, and leaves you standing there with juno brushing against your ankles and a quiet certainty settling into your bones.

this isn’t loud love—it’s steady, it’s nights like this. it’s being chosen slowly—and choosing back. you don’t usually go to games.not like this. not sitting close enough to hear sneakers squeak against the floor, close enough to feel the bass of the crowd in your chest. but olivia asked, casual about it, like it wouldn’t mean anything either way.

it means something.

you sit a few rows back, juno’s hair still clinging to your coat, makeup done lightly for the first time in a while—not for anyone else, just because you wanted to feel like yourself again. you catch your reflection in your phone screen and barely recognize how…easy you look.

the arena is loud. alive. olivia moves differently out here. sharper. brighter. when she glances toward the stands during warmups, her eyes find you immediately.

she smiles. not the practiced one. the real one. you feel it in your ribs. someone shifts beside you. your ex. you hadn’t noticed her sit down. she looks the same as ever—neat, contained, observant. hospital badge tucked into her pocket like a habit she hasn’t broken yet.

she follows your gaze to the court. to olivia. then back to you. you feel it before she says anything—the way her attention lingers longer than it should.

“you look good,” she says finally. not flirtatious. surprised. you blink, then shrug lightly. “thanks.” she studies you like she’s trying to place something. “you’re…different.”

you don’t answer. you don’t need to. the game starts. olivia plays like she’s everywhere at once. every time she sinks a shot, your chest lifts like it’s yours too. you clap without thinking. shout once. laugh when you catch yourself.

your ex watches all of it. at halftime, olivia jogs toward the tunnel, sweat-damp curls pushed back, glasses long gone. she slows when she reaches you, breathless but smiling.

“you came,” she says. “i said i would.” “yeah,” she replies softly. “but still.” your ex stands. gives olivia a polite nod. “good game.” olivia returns it easily, then looks back at you. “walk with me?”

you hesitate only long enough to grab your coat. the hallway is quieter. muffled cheers bleed through concrete walls. olivia leans back against one, hands on her hips, breathing slowing.

“i’m glad you’re here,” she says. you nod. “me too.” she looks at you—really looks. eyes warm. unguarded. “you’re glowing,” she adds, like it surprises her too. you laugh softly. “so i’ve been told.”

there’s a pause. not awkward. full. olivia steps closer, not crowding you. just enough that you can feel her warmth, smell clean cotton and sweat and something familiar now. “can i—” she starts, then stops. smiles. “i don’t want to rush anything.”

you tilt your head. “we’re not rushing.” something settles between you. a quiet understanding. the kiss happens because it’s already there.

because you lean in at the same time. because her hand finds your wrist like it’s been waiting. because when your lips meet, it’s gentle and sure and unhurried—like you both know this isn’t the beginning of something fragile, but something steady.

when you pull back, her forehead rests against yours. “wow,” she breathes. you smile. “yeah.” down the hall, your ex stands frozen, having seen just enough. she doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t speak.

she just watches you laugh softly at something olivia says, watches the way your shoulders are relaxed, the way your light isn’t dimmed around someone else.

and for the first time, she understands. this isn’t something she lost. it’s something you grew into. olivia squeezes your hand once before jogging back to the court, glancing over her shoulder with a grin that says she’s taking this with her.