duda

The weight of her gaze feels like another opponent entirely, separate from Ambessa's ruthless instruction. You tell yourself it's determination that keeps you standing, keeps you coming back day after day to this dance of dominance and submission. But there's something else, something in the way Caitlyn's breath catches when Ambessa's fingers ghost over that perfectly formed bruise on her collarbone—the one you gave her yesterday. Something in the way Ambessa's eyes darken when she notices you noticing.

You leave it. You cannot think of it.

Yet it follows you from the training grounds, through the winding corridors where shadows pool like old bruises. Back to the quarters you share with her, where even the air feels thick with unspoken things. It follows you. 

Caitlyn's presence fills every corner of the space you're forced to call home, from the precise way she arranges her rifle components to the lingering scent of gunpowder and leather that clings to her sheets. You are aware of that incessant staring, of the way her eyes rove over your naked chest; your small breasts are cupped dutifully in your hands as you unwrap yourself with a harsh breath.

Teacup tits, she'd called them when she’d once had you pinned against the wooden floor. It had been a day without mats; a day of endless testing. She had leaned in close, teeth gleaming like jewels as she held your stomach down with her hips. She had been sitting on you, and you had floundered then froze at the comments. You didn’t know she could be so brazen, so dirty-mouthed. This follows you too.

You've learned to move around her—around each other—in careful orbit. You are like twin moons, two violent girls with cheeks pressed against each other in the night, caught in some larger gravity - Ambessa's gravity - never touching but always aware. Always watching. 

The way she strips her gloves off finger by finger after training makes your teeth clench. You tell yourself it's irritation, not fascination when she unwinds the bindings from her own chest with methodical precision. Tell yourself you don't notice how the morning's wounds are already blooming across her shoulders, masterpieces in indigo and blue that match the ones Ambessa left on you last week—it doesn’t make it less true.

And Ambessa—sometimes you catch Ambessa watching too. The way her eyes linger on Caitlyn's throat, on the marks her own hands left there. It sparks something warm and dangerous in your gut - not envy, you insist. Never envy. Just hunger, the same hunger that drives you to push harder, to prove yourself worthy of Ambessa's attention, maybe both of your intentions. To prove you're stronger than whatever weakness Caitlyn stirs in you with her endless watching.

But later the envy cannot help but be itself, and you retch into your hands and sink from the vibrations of your anger. You do not trust her. You’ve seen her with that girl, the reckless pink-haired one, and she knows that you’ve seen her. But you are keeping this secret for reasons you don’t understand.

And in the dead of night, when sleep eludes you, you hear Caitlyn's breathing change rhythm across the room. You wonder if she lies awake thinking of the way Ambessa's fingers traced that lesion on her hip today, the one that matched the shape of your knuckles perfectly. Wonder if she knows you're awake too, caught in this web of wanting that none of you dare name. 

🕸

She is desperate for you, in a way that you do not understand. It is easier when she is quiet about it. 

There is an evening where she is loud—where everything is loud—and it rattles you. There is an incessant buzzing, maybe cicadas, and in the beginning, you are enjoying it because it reminds you of home and the way your feet fall into wet earth in the heart of the warm season. But then slowly, you begin to lose your mind and the buzzing is in your teeth and you now feel slightly detached from the world and your body is nothing but heat and you are almost lapping at the screen between the open dormitory window and the world and—

You crawl out of bed. You wear nothing but a sleep shirt two sizes too big, the chest open so that your sweat-laden skin gleams like a body of water. It belongs to Ambessa but it was your father's first until she swallowed your homeland and stole you away. You took it back and she said nothing. Maybe she was impressed with the voracity with which you bit and scratched her in the dark, massive cave of her bedroom.

So, yes, you crawl out of bed. You are swamped in ivory fabric and you drag your feet as you roam the halls. There is movement and it scares you, but you muzzle your mouth with your hand so that your scream dies between your teeth. It's only another guard. You keep moving.

Now, you are in the kitchen. You rummage through spaces until your fingers alight on the thick sphere of a pomegranate. You yank and now it is yours; hard and red in your hands. You turn, and she's there.

Caitlyn moves like water in the dark, all fluid grace even in her own sleep clothes. Her eyes catch the moonlight streaming through the high windows, turning them to pale fire. You clutch the pomegranate tighter, your nails breaking the skin. Juice runs down your wrist.

"Let me," she says, and she's closer now, close enough that you can see the light sheen of sweat on her collarbones. It satisfies you that she is warm too, that she is touchable. Her fingers brush yours as she takes the fruit, and you let her only because you're transfixed by the way she reaches for the small cheese knife on the counter, the way she tests its edge with her thumb. You hope for blood but there is none.

You don't remember moving, but suddenly you're against each other, a dance of hands and breath and barely-contained violence. She pushes, you pull. You spin her toward the table, but she turns it, uses your momentum to send you both sprawling across its surface. Your back cracks against the stone like a bone. Her face crumples momentarily at the sound of your pain, but then she is herself again. The pomegranate rolls away, forgotten until it isn't.

She lands on top of you when you hit the floor, pinning you with her hips. The knife glints in her hand, but she just smiles, that same smile from the training mat, the one that makes your stomach clench with disgust and desi—no. She reaches for the pomegranate, and you watch, breathless, as she begins to peel it with delicate precision.

"I'll show you how," she murmurs, and then she's leaning down, pressing her mouth to yours with bruising force. Her teeth catch your lip, and you taste copper, sharp, and sweet like pomegranate juice. When she pulls back, your blood is dark on her mouth, and she licks it away like it's nothing, like this is nothing, continuing to peel the fruit with steady hands.

You buck your hips and she sets the knife down, next to your wrists where your veins gather and bulge like snakes. She holds you down with her core, and you can feel the heat between her legs. There is a moment where you freeze, and she smiles with delight. You buck again and she slams you back down, using a hand around your throat to keep you beneath her like a lamb. Her other hand comes up—the knife, you think in fear—and loiters against herself. Then it moves down, quick and smooth, to raise her slip of a nightgown and bare her creamy thighs. She shifts so that she is atop your stomach, and pushes the shirt up until it’s beneath your breasts. 

She isn’t wearing undergarments, or maybe she is. Maybe they are just thin. Either way, you can feel her against the skin of your belly, warm and weeping. You still aren’t moving, but you are slicking in return. You want to bite her, dig until she releases some sort of sound. 

Then there is a sound - a sharp intake of breath - and you both turn. 

Ambessa stands in the doorway, her expression unreadable in the darkness. For a moment, she watches, her head tilted like she's solving a puzzle. You look back at Caitlyn—who seems unrepentant about her half-nakedness. You put it together, the idea that they have seen one another like this before. The envy is riotous. You ache to kiss Caitlyn again if only to vomit in her mouth. 

It’s as if she knows and so she leans in, holds the side of your head as she feeds you pomegranate seeds from the cavern of her own mouth. Eventually, she is no longer feeding, only taking. She presses harder and harder until you let out a yelp of discomfort. It feels, if you aren’t mistaken, like a claim. 

Ambessa gazes at the two of you for a moment longer, then she turns away. Her footsteps echo down the hall, leaving you with the taste of blood and fruit and Caitlyn's smile against your mouth. 

You regain your strength; you throw her off. 

🕸

You don't sleep. 

Your body vibrates with fury, with want, with the phantom press of her against your stomach. The dawn breaks grey and sullen through the window, and when you dress for training, you notice Caitlyn watching you again. But it's different now - you see the tremor in her hands, the way she swallows when you bend to lace your boots.

The training grounds are empty. No Ambessa. The message is as clear as a blade against the skin, and you want to scream. Instead, you strip and step into the shower block, letting scalding water pound against your shoulders. You hear the door open, close. Her footsteps on the tile.

"Don't," you say, but your voice lacks conviction. You're too tired to maintain the walls between you.

"You think she's punishing us." Caitlyn's voice is closer now. You hear fabric hitting the floor. "She's not. She's giving us space."

You turn, ready to snarl, but the sight of her stops you. She's different in daylight - less predator, more girl. There are shadows under her eyes that match your own. Water beads on her collarbone where last night's sweat had gleamed.

“Get away from me.” She doesn’t. You try again. “Space for what?” 

The question comes out raw.

She steps under the spray with you, and you don't stop her. You watch the way the water falls over her, the spread of the moisture against her staunch skin. She is so angular, so prismatic. You feel as if the world refracts off of her. The water is running cold, so her breasts are erect and straining toward you. You think of drinking from them, more the effort of it, of the space between them where your mouth would fit.

"For this," she says but doesn't touch you. "For whatever this is. I'm tired of watching you pretend you don't feel it too."

"You don't know what I feel."

“I think you are a lonely creature.”

The heat between you evaporates like ash against the wind. Your mouth twists, and she steps toward you. She understands she has misrepresented herself and her intentions. You feel a familiar prickling. Tears. 

“Is this how you see me? A cowardly animal?” Your voice is flat, and she balks with her hands flexing nervously against her thighs.

“No. No. I only meant—if anything we are both animals. We have been trained as such at least.”

“You aren’t making this better for yourself,” you say, turning away. “And you don’t know me in any way.”

"I know you taste like pomegranates." 

You turn back to look at her, incredulous. “I had just eaten one, you little fool.”

“I know you let me kiss you before you threw me off.” Her smile is small, almost sad. “I know you've been keeping my secret about Vi.”

The name hits like a slap. You rise to the bait. 

"Why her?"

"Why Ambessa?"

You have no answer for that. The water runs between you, and for once, you let yourself really look at her. At the desperation in her eyes, the way she’s holding herself like she's afraid you'll bolt. Maybe you've both been hungry for the same thing all along.

Still, it eats at you. This odd way she is pretending to be meek and mild. She is soft in the same ways you are, with the same dips in her hips and calluses along her palm. You think of the panther-like movements of her muscles as she readies a shot. 

Something gathers underneath your tongue, and suddenly you are wailing. Loud and long. You rush at her, but she is waiting for you. She dips, and rams into your stomach as she flips you onto the tile. Though she is fighting back, she’s careful with you. Your head is cupped by her limber fingers as she sends you down. 

You kick and catch your foot on her side. With a gasp, she’s down too, but a hand still manages to grip at the fine bones of your ankle and yank. It hurts, and you make a terrible noise. She releases you as if you’ve burned her, and you twist to get out from underneath her. 

You’re on your belly now, flopping like a fish, but she makes you stay. She wrestles you up so that your back is bent as you press against her chest. You feel her fingers crawl like spider legs down your chest. She fondles, gropes, your tits. She is starved and erratic, pinching your nipples until they are standing on their own. 

Your skin is slippery with soap, so Caitlyn digs her nails in for grip. Then the action stops and her hand descends into the apex of your thighs. You try to jerk, try to send her off but she knows this now. She is understanding. That’s even worse.

She holds you, exactly as you need, and gets two fingers inside of your cunt. She curves them, tries to pull you inside out. You let out another noise, but it is less terrible. She works at you until you cannot remember language, only a deep animalistic noise of ‘uh uh uh’, a rhythm. Her thumb swipes against your clit and you’re there, the pleasure like a blinding fire.

You still try to leave her; you try to crawl. She rolls you over and bullies herself in between your legs until she can place her cheek along your heaving stomach. You begin to cry. You’re unsure why, but maybe Caitlyn knows because she only strokes your inner thigh to soothe you. She looks up at you, hair black with water.

“It can be like this, always. You only need to—”

You shove her and scramble back until you’re sitting on your own. She still watches you, cheek to the tile now.

“No conditions,” she says, reworking her words. “Only us.”

You close your eyes and see pink. You open them and think of your general.

“There will always be her.”

Neither of you knows which woman you’re speaking of.

A COIN’S SECOND SIDE. — AMBESSA.

Sleep does not come that night either. You only try because when there is no session to distract it, your body aches for a bed.

You lie awake, counting the beats between Caitlyn's breaths across the room, replaying the way her cheek pressed against your belly, her lips ghosting over skin as she spoke. The way she looked at you like you were something both precious and perilous, desired and dangerous all at once. Your body still aches from her attention.

A sound draws you from your thoughts - the soft click of your dormitory door. Through barely-opened eyes, you watch Caitlyn rise like a phantom, pulling on a robe. She doesn't look back as she slips out. 

Your feet are moving before your mind catches up.

You follow her through corridors you know by heart, the same path you took for that damned pomegranate. But she goes deeper, down halls you've never dared explore. When she stops at a familiar door—Ambessa's door—your heart clenches.

They speak in whispers you can't quite catch, but you see the way Ambessa's hand cups Caitlyn's face, the way Caitlyn leans into it like a cat being stroked. Your stomach twists violently. But then:

"She's ready," Caitlyn says, just loud enough, still soft. "She just doesn't know it yet."

Ambessa's laugh is low, rich like honey. "Oh, little one. She's been ready since I took her. We're just waiting for her to admit it."

You don't stay to hear more. But in the morning, when the summons comes—delivered by a guard who won't meet your eyes—you know they were expecting this too. They've been moving you like a piece on a board, and only now do you see the game.

You go anyway. You always do.

You press your lips together to avoid commenting on the way they stand separately like this will erase what you overheard yesterday. Ambessa stands at the center of the room, her presence devouring the light. It bends around her, as though the universe itself cannot decide whether to confront or flee her. Caitlyn is there too, poised and watchful, her gaze darting toward you and away again.

You look at her with an apathy you designed to get you through burning cities and crumbling countries. You wear your mother’s jewelry today: a septum ring with delicate chains of gold stretching across your cheeks, glinting over your ears. Ambessa’s eyes catch on it, a flicker of distaste passing over her face. Your fingers twitch, but you don’t remove it.

Caitlyn moves toward you, her steps tentative. You step back, forcing her to stop and speak first. Always assume power. This is what they have taught you.

“Do you find it fun,” you ask, head tilting, “to be careless with me?”

Caitlyn halts, her expression caught between guilt and something softer. Regret, maybe. This may be your delusion. Ambessa remains impassive, her gaze fixed on you with an unsettling intensity.

“Little one,” she begins, the shared nickname making you flinch. “You should be grateful. I’ve only eased you into a better space. This insipid competition for my attention is draining. I need my best soldiers to remain the best, to work with one another fluently.”

“You’ve been awful to me,” you say, your voice directed at Ambessa but your eyes locked on Caitlyn.

The mask you wear shifts, and you let your anger surface. 

“Do not call me her name. I’m nothing like her.”

Ambessa’s expression betrays a flicker of disagreement, but she inclines her head, a mockery of deference. “As you wish, little one. What do you think, Cait? Do you agree?”

The nickname hits like a physical blow. Ambessa smiles wickedly. Cait. You used to call her that, back when you were little girls, not yet twisted. You saw her as some kind of beautiful flower, one that had learned to tremble tall amongst the trees.

“You could have spoken to me,” you say finally, your voice sharper now. “You didn’t need this...elaborate scheme of seduction.”

“Love is a good enforcer,” Ambessa says, her tone rich with amusement.

“You wouldn’t know love if it spat in your face,” you snap.

The room freezes. Caitlyn stiffens, but Ambessa’s expression darkens, her presence swelling like a storm. You meet her gaze, unflinching.

“Get out,” she says, her voice quiet but deadly.

Caitlyn hesitates, her body angling toward you as though to shield you. Her hands twitch, almost childlike in their uncertainty. “She’s only angry. Let me—”

“Get out,” Ambessa repeats, her tone slicing through the air.

Caitlyn turns to you, desperation softening her features. “Listen to me,” she murmurs, stepping closer. “I meant it. All of it. With you. I only—”

You think of the evening before. Your throat works until you have something to say; your hand moves before you can think, shoving her back. The memory of her warmth lingers on your palm like a curse. You try to lose it. 

“Get out,” you whisper. 

She stumbles, her expression crumpling into something fragile. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay cold, and distant. Caitlyn hesitates for a heartbeat longer, but then she turns to leave. 

“You always try so hard to be good,” you push out. 

She pauses, remains facing away from you.

“I meant it,” she says again. “With you.”

She goes, the door clicking shut behind her.

Ambessa doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. The silence between you is a battlefield, and you know you are primed to lose.

“Do you want to have me to yourself, or do you only wish to be my favorite?”

The question surprises you. However, you shouldn’t be surprised by anything Ambessa does. Her voice is calm, and measured, but it holds a challenge. There waits a quiet dare for you to step into the space she’s carved out for you.  

Your throat tightens, words lodging there like a trap. You hate the way your body reacts to her—the warmth that spreads under your skin, the treacherous pull of her presence. It disgusts you. It thrills you. You feel weak.

“I don’t want either,” you say, though the answer feels thin. A lie.  

Ambessa’s mouth curves into something sharp, more predator than a smile. “Liar.”  

Your hands clench at your sides. “I refuse to play this game, least of all with you.”  

“Oh, but you are, little one.” She takes a step closer, the sound of her boots deliberate, echoing in the cavernous space between you. “You’ve been playing since the day you first looked at me with that fire in your eyes. When I took you away.”

She clarifies as if you can’t quite recall. It grates at your nerves.

“You hate me, and yet you can’t help but ache for me. Do you think I haven’t noticed?”  

Your pulse quickens, the air between you crackling with tension. You hold her gaze, refusing to look away, even as heat rises in your cheeks.  

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, but the words lack conviction.  

Ambessa tilts her head, her gaze dragging over you in a way that feels invasive, consuming. “I don’t need to flatter myself. I see you. At first, I thought you might take after me in a way meant to replace your mother.”

She reaches forward, fingers the cold along the ridge of your cheekbones. 

“I see the way you tremble when I’m near, the way your apathy tastes so much like desire,” she continues.

She steps closer, and you step back instinctively, your spine meeting the cold stone wall behind you. You hate how small you feel under her gaze, how she makes the air around you feel heavier, suffocating.  

“You’ve used me,” you bite out, your voice shaking but firm. “You’ve used Caitlyn, too. You pit us against each other like we’re pawns on your board. Is that all we are to you?”  

Ambessa’s expression doesn’t falter, but something flickers in her eyes, something unreadable. “You’re more than that, but useful as pawns when it’s needed. Both of you. But you’re still mine.”  

Her hand moves, slow and deliberate, until her fingers brush your jaw. The touch is barely there, a whisper against your skin, but it sets every nerve alight.  

“You hate it so much when we touch you,” she says softly, her voice a low rumble. “But it’s that hate that keeps you sharp. That’s why I keep you close. Why we—I— can’t let you go.”  

You want to pull away, to spit something venomous, to remind her that you’re not some plaything for her amusement. But you don’t move. You don’t speak. You can’t.  

“Caitlyn wants your approval,” Ambessa continues, her thumb grazing the corner of your mouth now. “She craves it. But you... you want something deeper, don’t you? Something darker.”  

You flinch.

“I want nothing from you.”  

Ambessa leans in, her breath warm against your ear. “Then why are you still here?”  

“Because you summoned me.”  

“Because you wanted to come,” she counters, her voice soft but unyielding.  

You try to defend yourself, but she’s moved past this now. Instead, her hands come to the bend of your hips and lift you with an easy effort that makes your legs widen around the bulk of her body. With quick steps she moves you to the chaise just off to the side of the room, sitting you on top of it. The world is blurring; she is moving too quickly for you to dispute.

Ambessa’s hands are firm as she strips you bare and traces the shape of you. Like Caitlyn—or maybe Caitlyn, like her—she cups a tit in her large hand and squeezes. This version of it is more painful, different from its softer sister movement in the shower. 

She leans forward, opens her mouth, and swallows that loose circle of fat. You arch into the heat of her lips, moan low and reedy as she suckles at your nipple. Her teeth trap bits of skin between them, marking you purposefully. She pulls off and takes your other breast inside of her again to be teased and tainted by her bruises.

You rock gently, chasing the feeling. This time when Ambessa’s mouth leaves you, she presses your tits together and appraises them. 

“She said this was one of her favorite parts of you.” When she finds your confused gaze, Ambessa smiles. “Cait.”

You tense at that, and she chuckles. The sound infuriates you. Still, you do nothing as she sinks lower, her breath approaching the swollen pearl of your clit. Without a word she latches on to you, lapping idly at you as if you aren’t already dripping down her chin. She holds you as your body stutters, pleasure arcing through you like thousands of arrows. 

Ambessa is measured in this too. She sucks your folds into her mouth, laps at you carefully as she grips your ass. She makes you ride her, clit bumping against her strong nose as you follow her instruction. She draws back from you once, only to spread you apart and spit crudely into your cunt. She watches it travel down your slit, slicking you with her saliva, then she spits again and pushes it in with a finger.

Before she continues she glances at you and gives you another order.

“Say her name.”

You say nothing, mind racing. She slaps your ass, hard.

“Say her name. As you used to.”

You understand now. Again, you ride her tongue but when your mouth opens it is not her name that you say.

“Cait,” you moan, legs falling open even wider.

Ambessa adjusts you, slings your legs over her wide shoulders as she consumes you. She shakes her head, burying herself in your cunt as she leads you over the edge. Over and over, she laps at you until you’re panting hard like you would when sparring. This is sparring in another form.

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper. “Oh, fuck. Fuuuuck, Cait. Please.”

“Mmhmm,” Ambessa hums over your clit, and that’s the end of it for you.

You let out a sharp, shrill scream and attempt to bow over yourself with the strength of your orgasms. Ambessa refuses to let you, forcing you back and keeping your legs spread so that she can watch your cunt flutter wildly as you cum. 

“There you go,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” you answer, dazed and nonsensical.

Your pussy spasms, pink and oozing juices like a wound. Your thighs strain with the stretch of remaining open. You think of the shower floor.

“Caitlyn,” you gaps. You can’t stop pulsing. “Yes. Fuck, Cait.”

There’s a thud outside, against the door as if someone has fallen.

Ambessa removes her hands. The silence stretches between you, taut and electric. Finally, you find your voice, though it’s hoarse and trembling. 

“If you think I’ll ever belong to you, you’re wrong.”  

Ambessa’s smile returns, wicked and knowing. 

“You are brave, but you already do, little one. You just haven’t admitted it yet. What do you think we speak of waiting for?”

The absence of her touch feels colder than it should. She steps back, giving you space, but her gaze remains heavy on you, a reminder that you are never truly free of her.  

“Go,” she says, her tone dismissive. “Think about what you want. And when you’re ready to admit it, you know where to find me.”  

You don’t wait for her to say more. You rise and make to leave, hands grappling over your clothes. You feel discombobulated like a puppet with its strings cut. You only manage to slide your shirt back over your head and it dusts the tops of your thighs.

Ambessa only watches your struggle. You hate her. You want her. You don’t know where one feeling ends and the other begins.  

You tug the door open and step back as Caitlyn spills back against the floor, hand still between her thighs and shining with her own pleasure. Her chest is heaving, her skin pink with the rush of lust and physical exertion. Her legs splay beneath her like a doll’s. 

She pulls her fingers out with a wet ‘schleck’ and tucks them into her mouth, cheeks hollowing as she looks up at you—unashamed. You say nothing, only bend down and tug her fingers from her mouth. You put them in your own.

THE COIN, FACE DOWN. — CAITBESSA.

The dormitory is devoid of you. Caitlyn is unsurprised.  

You are unused to being touched. You don’t know how to be wanted. 

Still, she worries. More accurately, she spirals. The ache of your absence gnaws at her in the quiet moments, like a phantom limb she can’t stop reaching for. She doesn’t know where you’ve gone. 

Ambessa is losing herself too, albeit in a different way. Caitlyn wonders if she has ever truly lost something before.  

The world continues to turn. They train, a familiar ritual that feels increasingly hollow. Their strikes are sharper now, their parries more reckless. Ambessa’s movements carry an edge Caitlyn hasn’t seen before, a fury barely leashed. She fights like she’s trying to exorcise something, and Caitlyn is often the target of that rage.  

A blow to her stomach knocks the wind out of her. A strike to her face nearly cracks her jaw. Caitlyn knows better than to show weakness, so she grits her teeth and pushes back, delivering her own brutality in return. She delivers as well as she receives. 

She kicks Ambessa in the mouth once, the impact jarring up the toned meat of her leg. The older woman’s lip splits, blood dripping down her chin, but she doesn’t flinch. In response, Ambessa hurls Caitlyn into the corner of the room. She skids across the mat, hitting the wall with enough force to rattle her bones.

Ambessa isn’t looking at her, stays crouched on the mat with her hand pressed to her mouth. Caitlyn struggles upward, sliding to rest against the wall. The fight had been nothing more than an outlet, and Caitlyn, nothing more than a tool.  Caitlyn struggles to her feet, leaning heavily against the wall. The guards in the room avoid looking at them, the air too charged, too dangerous. 

Something simmers in Caitlyn’s stomach, a volatile mixture of anger, frustration, and something softer she doesn’t want to name. She refuses to puncture it, afraid of what might spill out. She is already suffering enough, diseased with the spores of her affection for you. 

And Ambessa.  

The thought churns in her mind, dark and poisonous. Ambessa has become an obsession she doesn’t want to admit to, a shadow that looms too large since that moment in the room. Caitlyn hates her, resents her, envies her. She knows what you taste like, what you’d like. She too has been inside you. Caitlyn now has nothing; they are disgustingly equal.

 But beneath it all, she respects her. And that’s what makes it worse.  

When Caitlyn finally speaks, her voice is strained, biting. “Do you always break your toys this quickly, or am I just special?”  

Ambessa’s gaze finally lifts, sharp and cutting. She wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand and smiles, a malignant curve that doesn’t reach her eyes.  

“Special?” she echoes, rising to her full height. “You think too highly of yourself, Cait. You’re simply better than most.”  

The nickname grates, a reminder of the intimacy they share now—unwanted, unavoidable, tangled in you. Caitlyn clenches her fists. “Don’t call me that.”  

Ambessa takes a step closer, her presence suffocating, magnetic. “You’ve been insufferable since she left,” she says, voice low and dangerous. “Do you think I don’t see it? You miss her like a dog misses its master.”  

“And you don’t?” Caitlyn fires back, the words cutting deeper than she intended.  

Ambessa’s expression darkens, and for a moment, Caitlyn wonders if she’s gone too far. But then the older woman smirks, cruel and knowing. 

“I miss her,” Ambessa admits, her tone a blade. “But not like you do. You ache for her because she is a twin to your pain, a foil to my approval. I ache for her because she belongs to me.”  

The words twist in Caitlyn’s chest, sharp and unbearable. “She doesn’t belong to anyone,” she snaps.  

Ambessa chuckles a low, bitter sound. “You’re wrong. [Name] belongs to both of us, and that’s why you hate me.”

Caitlyn’s breath catches, and she doesn’t deny it.  

Without you, they writhe like snakes, their weight pulling them into collision after collision. The mouth of the snake swallows the tail. The hatred between them is palpable, a toxic undercurrent that fuels their every interaction. And yet, when the nights grow long and the ache of your absence becomes unbearable, they find themselves drawn together.  

It’s not love, not even close. It’s desperation, a way to drown the pit you’ve left behind. Their intimacy is suffocating, a visceral reminder of everything they can’t have. 

When Caitlyn’s nails dig into Ambessa’s back, it’s not out of affection but frustration. When Ambessa’s teeth scrape Caitlyn’s collarbone, it’s not passion but punishment. They use each other because they can’t have you. After all, the emptiness you left is too much to bear alone.  

It’s never enough, no matter how fierce. Because they don’t want each other.

They want you.

Still, they try.

🕸

Again, the shower. 

They’re slightly cruel to one another. It fuels the high. 

Caitlyn snaps back to the moment as Ambessa needles a nail into the mottled skin beneath her shoulder blade, where a bruise sits thick and spreading. She hisses in pain, tits pressing further against Ambessa’s own. There are three thick fingers in her pussy and they fuck her in the way she needs. 

Despite the embarrassment, she lets her head fall onto Ambessa’s wide shoulders as she chases her orgasm. Her cunt is like water, dribbling down Ambessa’s wrist as she carves Caitlyn out. Again, a nail presses into the bruise. 

The motion is harsher this time around and Caitlyn cries out, throwing her head back so that her hair brushes the middle of her spine. Ambessa continues to toy with this patch of marred skin, teeth clamping on the wide skin of Caitlyn’s neck as the younger woman twists and shudders around her. 

“Good fucking girl,” Ambessa mutters, fucking her faster.

Caitlyn bounces to meet her, slamming herself down until her belly tightens and roars. Ambessa lifts her further, suctions her mouth around one of her perky tits, and digs deeper into the pink tight nature of her. Caitlyn roots a hand in her hair and slides the other down her body to collect pieces of that foamy, white ring catering around Ambessa’s hand.

Slick with herself, she rubs tight, quick circles around Ambessa’s clit. The older woman’s cunt is large, folds heavy and leaking. Caitlyn feels her tremble and she moves faster, breath coming fast as the spray of the water slides down the crack of her ass.

With a muffled grunt, Ambessa cums. As she does, she bites deeply into the meager flesh of Caitlyn’s collarbone. Caitlyn whites out, eyes rolling back briefly so that she’s swaying and focusing on a blurred ceiling. Their orgasms warp and connect; they refuse to stop touching one another as if it will keep reality at bay.

The comedown is almost irritating, and in a frenzy, Caitlyn clutches Ambessa to her chest. This does nothing. 

She kisses Ambessa feverishly, practically mauling her, because the echo of your cunt is on her lips. Ambessa holds her, returns the kiss, then breaks it. 

“No matter how hard we try, she is not here.”

Caitlyn closes her eyes and her face pinches in pain.

“And where is she? Gone, and you are doing nothing to find her.” 

This close, Caitlyn can see Ambessa’s face twitch and melt into something revealing. Something rocks through her at the sight and she detangles their bodies.

“You cannot find her.”

The statement is accusatory, so much so that Ambessa surrenders and turns away. She shuts off the water; Caitlyn remains shivering. 

THE COIN, POCKETED. — YOU.

Your mouth tastes like metal and smoke. The streets of Zaun pulse beneath your feet, virulent and alive, and you can barely remember how many days it's been since you left them. Since you left her. Them.

You've gotten yourself into trouble - the kind Ambessa would have prevented, the kind Caitlyn would have shot through. Blood trickles down your side from where the knife caught you, and your vision swims with chemical fumes and exhaustion. You don't know where you're going anymore, just that you're going.

The world tilts sideways. You stumble and catch yourself against a wall slick with condensation. A familiar laugh echoes from somewhere above - it stops your heart, then starts it again too fast. You know that laugh.

When you look up, they're there on one of the suspended walkways - Caitlyn and that pink-haired girl, Vi. They haven't seen you yet. Vi has her hand on Caitlyn's waist, casual, proprietary. Something in you breaks and mends and breaks again.

Then Caitlyn turns her head, and her eyes find yours like they always have. The world stops. You try to run—you always try to run—but your legs give out. You thud to the ground. Mind heavy. Heart heavy. 

You hate her more than anything else in the world. You wish that was true.

You hear the clatter of boots on metal as she descends, and then she's there, gathering you up as if she hadn’t been entangled a moment before. She hooks a hand into your hair, and claws you into looking at her as she squeezes your face hard. Something inside of you understands that the action isn’t intentional, not this time.

She bends, hair falling from her hurried bun, and swallows you—grime and all. Her kiss tastes devastating and strains with relief, and you're too weak to fight it anymore. You push back, this time into her, and force her to hold you. She squeezes you tighter, moaning almost obscenely as she relapses and languishes in your feel, in your taste. 

Here is her sweet girl. Her sweet fucking girl. 

“Cait,” you moan.

She pulls away and strokes your baby hairs away from your forehead as you let out a feeble, wounded noise.

"Vi," she says, not looking away from your face, "help me. I need to get her back to Ambessa."

"This is your runaway?" Vi's voice is rough, knowing. "The one you've been tearing yourself up over?"

Caitlyn's hands tighten on your arms. "It's important for the mission that we-"

"Save it, Cupcake." Vi's laugh is different now, sadder. "I know what love looks like on you."

That training, that beloved animal comes back in full force, and Caitlyn looks up from beneath her lashes. Her face contorts and it’s the strangest she’s ever seemed to Vi. She reaches up, hooks a hand around Vi’s jaw, and drags her down. 

“Get it together, Violet. This is not your moment.”

Vi blinks at her, equal parts disturbed and titulated. Caitlyn lets her go, places that same hand on the peek of skin between the hem of your shirt and your linen pants. Why would you ever wear linen when running away? She looks back up again, traces Vi’s expression—analyzes it.

“I can love you both. I’ve done it before.”

Vi's laugh catches in her throat. You watch through half-lidded eyes as something passes between them— understanding, maybe. Or resignation. Your blood is making patterns on the ground.

"Fine," Vi says, and then she's lifting you like you weigh nothing, careful of your wound. "But if this gets me killed, I'm haunting you both."

“If she dies because of our procrastinating, I’ll do something worse than haunting,” Caitlyn snaps.

Caitlyn's hand doesn't leave your skin as you move through the undercity. You drift in and out of consciousness, catching fragments: Vi muttering about shortcuts, Caitlyn's fingers pressing against your pulse, the way they work together like they've done this before. They probably have.

"Stay with me," Caitlyn keeps saying, and you're not sure if she means now or forever. Maybe both. 

You think of Ambessa waiting, of how her hands will feel on your skin again, of how she'll look at you like you're something wild she's finally caught. You think of Caitlyn's desperation in the shower, that fucking shower and it’s cold water—of her mouth against your stomach. Of how they both break you apart and put you back together wrong.

"She's burning up," Vi says somewhere above you. Her voice sounds almost gentle.

"We're close." Caitlyn's voice shakes. "The extraction point is-"

"I know where it is." A pause. "You really love her that much?"

"More than is safe."

You want to tell her that nothing about any of you has ever been safe. Instead, you let the darkness drag you into its arms.

When you wake, you're in Ambessa's chambers. The sheets smell like her - lime and mango and earth. Caitlyn is curled against your side, her breath evening out against your neck. And there, in the doorway, Ambessa stands watching you both with hunger in her eyes.

"Welcome home, little one," she says, and steps inside.

THE COIN, MELTED INTO GOLD — CAITLYN & YOU & AMBESSA & YOU &.

Ambessa moves like smoke in the water. 

The room holds its breath as she approaches, and you feel Caitlyn's arm tighten across your middle—not protective, possessive. They don't look at each other. They never do. Their hunger is only for you.

"Did you think you could run from us?" Ambessa's voice is silk over steel, very careful in the moment. She sits on the edge of the bed, and the mattress dips with her weight. Her hand finds your ankle, thumb pressing into the hollow where your pulse beats rabbit-quick. "From me?"

You try to answer, but Caitlyn's mouth is suddenly on your neck, wet and wanting. She bites down, marking you, claiming you and Ambessa's grip tightens in response. They're going to tear you apart.

You realize, distantly, that you want them to.

"She's hurt," Caitlyn murmurs against your skin, but her teeth don't gentle. "We should-"

"We should punish her," Ambessa cuts in, and your body betrays you with a shiver. Her hand slides higher, past your knee. It makes you realize that you’re in nothing but a simple pair of baby blue cotton panties and a skimpy bra. Your tits spill out at the bottom. "Shouldn't we?"

Caitlyn makes a sound like drowning. Her fingers find the hem of your shirt and ghost over the bandaged wound at your side. "Yes," she breathes, and you feel yourself sinking, sinking. "But she's ours to punish."

"Ours," Ambessa agrees, and the word feels jagged.

You're losing yourself in them. A thought floats up through your hazy mind: that they refuse to acknowledge each other even as they work in tandem to break you down, to unmake you piece by piece. Their synchronized destruction should be beautiful to watch if you can remember how to open your eyes.

"Look at me," Ambessa commands and your body obeys before your mind can catch up. Her hand cups your jaw, thumb pressing against your lower lip. "She trembles so prettily for us, doesn't she?"

Caitlyn's answer is to drag her nails down your spine, making you arch into the touch. The pain blooms like ink in water, spreading out until you can't tell where it ends and pleasure begins. You're caught between them - Ambessa's unyielding strength and Caitlyn's desperate need - and you're not sure you want to escape.

"Tell us why you ran," Caitlyn whispers, but it's not really a question. Her fingers trace the edges of your bandages again, a reminder of what your foolish escape attempt cost you. "Tell us what you thought you'd find out there.”

"Freedom," you manage to gasp, and Ambessa's laugh is dark honey, sticky-sweet, and dangerous.

"Oh, little one." Her grip tightens, not quite painful. Not yet. "You're only free when I allow it."

She speaks only of herself, but you know the notion pertains to both of them. You know they're right. You've always known and it leaves something bitter in your mouth.  That's why you ran - not to escape them, but to make them chase you. To prove they would. To ensure they'd punish you when they caught you.

And now they have.

"Please," you breathe, though you're not sure what you're begging for. More? Mercy? Neither?

"Please what?" Caitlyn's voice has gone rough with her aching. Her teeth find your shoulder again, and you shudder. "Use your words."

But Ambessa's hand is sliding into your hair now, pulling your head back to expose your throat. "No," she says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. "I don't think she gets to speak anymore tonight. I think she’ll bore me with her useless whining.”

The whimper that escapes you makes them both pause, just for a moment. Just long enough for you to feel their satisfaction ripple through the air like heat waves. You might die this way, you’re realizing. They may build you up one final time, only to slit your throat at the time of climax.

Ambessa is practically stone with her tempered fury, and Caitlyn is antsy with her need. You never realized how much you riled them in the same manner they did you. Ambessa goes on to say more, filling the silence with something sick and cruel but Caitlyn has had enough now. 

She lurches up, rolls you over so that she sits atop just like the night she first kissed you. The night where it all burst. There’s a moment where she has a hand on your chest, pushing down as if resuscitating you. You don’t understand it until you look down and see the way the pressure makes your breasts surge and spurt from underneath your bra. She pushes again and again and again until you’re taking halting, broken sips of air. Over and over, your tits spill until she grows crazed and snaps the fabric off of you.

Ambessa only watches, though you notice her thighs spreading. She looks soft, her hair unbraided and haloing her face. She wears nothing but a silk yellow robe which displays her figure lovingly. Your cunt grows warm, tender.

Catilyn taps your cheek, brings you back to her. You can’t remember if the button-down she wears is yours or Ambessa’s. Maybe both. You wince at her weight on your stomach and she moves up and over your face. 

There’s no time to prepare for the way she comes down on you, her groan thunderous as her pussy settles on your parted mouth. You fall into line, give her what she wants.

Still, you are to be punished, so she sits for a long while. Just smothers you. Occasionally she grinds, filling your nose with her musk. You can feel her soft curls around your lips, and you arch up as if to crawl inside of her skin. This gets her to move, a slow rocking that amps up as you settle into making out with her pouring pussy. 

You kiss her here, over and over, dragging your tongue into the affair until she’s riding you. Your tongue slips in and Caitlyn quivers with a whimper as she rides your face harder. You bring a hand up to hold her, to prevent her from slipping but she smacks it away. 

“No,” she pants. “No—oh, fuck me. Holy shiiiit.” She bounces liberally, selfishly. “No touching.”

Caitlyn leans forward, supporting herself as she fucks down on you with fervor. You’re so distracted with getting her to fill your throat with her pleasure that you mistakenly lose focus on where Ambessa is. Which is why the press of her cunt against your own absolutely blindsides you.

She’s climbed atop the bed during the desperate coupling between you and Caitlyn, removing your panties so that your pussy winks at her voraciously. True to her nature she decides to take, to conquer you. You grip Caitlyn tightly, so tightly that she squeals and cums at the pain. 

You forget to let go, buck wildly as she creams over your nose and chin. It settles on you like sugar; she takes a long finger and dips it in—soft and sweet. You suckle at the pad of it, taking the digit into your mouth and moaning around it as Ambessa slides your cunts together. 

You can’t tell if you are one body or three or three-in-one. You feel enmeshed in the both of them. Your blood is theirs; your cunt is theirs. Maybe it is less togetherness and more possession. Ambessa groans deeply as you gush against her, the squelch both loud and quiet. Caitlyn is now off to this side—this you know. She has her other fingers playing with herself, shifts down to let them puncture her. 

She shoves another finger into your mouth and you gag, let her hit the back of your throat. Drool is coalescing and running over them. The sight makes Ambessa open you further, and hold you down as she slides your clits together over and over—harder and harder.

Your babbling makes the both of them smile, dark curves tinged with their sadistic pleasure. Again, the possession. Ambessa shoves Caitlyn aside and crawls over you to hook her thicker digits into your mouth. She drags you, your head lolling, as she reaches down and rubs your clit.

You scream, silent with your mouth open wide as you cum. This is not enough. It is never enough. She is back on you, like a lioness on a gazelle. Her pussy swallows yours, and Ambessa forgets you as she leads herself to that approaching golden horizon.

When she crests, she falls on you and you do nothing but accept her weight. You lay there, do this for what feels like years, until Caitlyn weasels behind you. Then you do it again.

🕸

You wake with a start, disoriented by the weight pinning you to the bed. Caitlyn's arm drapes loosely over your waist, her fingers curled like she’d been holding you even in sleep. Ambessa’s warmth radiates from behind you, her breath slow and even. The sheets smell of sweat and sandalwood, of something heady and unnamed.

The sheet clings to your skin almost oppressively, a reminder of last night’s twist of limbs and pleasure. You slide out from between them, careful not to disturb their slumber. Ambessa stirs slightly, her arm shifting, and you hesitate. Caitlyn murmurs something unintelligible, and you freeze. When neither of them wakes, you slip free.

You take Caitlyn’s robe from the chair by the bed, pulling it around your shoulders. The fabric is sheer, nearly useless, but it smells of her. You step onto the balcony, and the cool morning air kisses your skin. The horizon is painted in hues of gold and rose, the sun stretching its fingers across the sky.

You lean against the railing, the chill of the metal biting into your palms. The fortress sprawls below and blends into the distant city, a patchwork of shadows and light. For a moment, it feels like you’re the only person in the world. But the ache in your chest reminds you that isn’t true. 

You are loved. You are wanted. And it terrifies you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest. The robe clings to you, and the light hits your body in a way that feels exposing, even with no one watching.

A soft sound pulls your attention, and Caitlyn steps out onto the balcony, her hair a tumble of dark waves over her shoulders. She’s still half-asleep, her bare feet silent on the stone. When she sits beside you, the space between you feels both unbearable and necessary.

"Couldn't sleep, baby?" she murmurs, her voice rasping in the quiet.

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the horizon. You ignore the goosebumps that rise at the pet name.

 "I don’t know what to do with so much love," you say finally, your voice trembling. "From you. From her. It’s… too much."

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reaches out, her fingers brushing your forearm. You flinch, and she pulls back, pain flickering across her face. 

"Baby," she says softly, and the word lands like a stone in your chest. "I will undo this. I will make your living easier."

You exhale sharply, the sound halfway to a laugh.  “Will I always have to share you?” you ask. 

You don’t look at her. 

Caitlyn hesitates, then glances toward the bed where Ambessa shifts, her hand moving as if searching for you in her sleep. You glance over instinctively, the motion so natural it betrays you.

“I could ask you the same,” she says finally. Her tone is steady, but there’s a thread of something deeper woven through it—something sharp and sad. Your gaze flickers to her, then back to the bed behind you. Ambessa shifts again, her brow furrowing, and you instinctively turn to her. The action is so ingrained, that you don’t realize what you’ve done until Caitlyn speaks again.

“She pulls at you,” Caitlyn says, not unkindly. “I see it.”

You want to deny it, but the words stick in your throat. Instead, you say, “And you don’t?”

Her lips curve into a wry smile. “I pull at you too. But she’s… something else.”

You swallow hard, the weight of her words settling over you. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, neither of you speaks. The city stirs below, oblivious to the ache of your small world.

INTERLUDE: THE LIONESS, WITH THE COIN IN HER MOUTH. 

Ambessa lies still in the bed, her breathing measured and even, but her mind sharp and alert. She hears the murmur of voices from the balcony, the quiet cadence of Caitlyn's voice mingling with yours, a soft harmony in the cool morning air. 

Her eyes remain closed, yet her thoughts stray to the image of you wrapped in Caitlyn’s robe, the rosy light of dawn casting faint halos around your figures. She imagines the tension in your body as Caitlyn reaches for you, the way you’d shift, hesitant, but never pulling away entirely. It’s a dynamic Ambessa understands all too well: the push and pull, the magnetic sway you hold over both of them.

You’re the thread that binds, fragile yet unbreakable. It’s maddening. It’s beautiful.  

Ambessa shifts slightly, her fingers brushing the cool sheets where you once lay. The absence is temporary—she knows this. But the way you linger in her mind is something she can’t easily reconcile. She has always been a woman of precision, of control. Yet you are beginning to undo her in ways she cannot name, cannot stop, that she believed herself too old for.

Through the door left ajar, your voice carries faintly. When you and Caitlyn return, Ambessa will let you come to her. For now, she waits, her lips curving faintly, as if in a private, unspoken promise.  

“You’ll come back to me,” she murmurs under her breath, a whisper carried only by the stillness of the room.  

And outside, the sun climbs higher, gilding the world in its light.

RE: THE COIN, MELTED INTO GOLD — CAITLYN & YOU & AMBESSA & YOU &.

Caitlyn leans back, her eyes tracing your face. "We grew up together," she begins, her voice softer now. "Trained together. They taught us to kill, to win, to survive. But you…" She pauses, swallowing hard. "You were always my half. I can’t promise much, but when the pendulum swings, I will choose you to save. Every time."

Her words settle heavy in the space between you. You lean your head against her shoulder, letting the warmth of her presence ease the sharp edges of your doubt.

Caitlyn tilts her head, resting her cheek against your hair. "You’re half of me," she murmurs.

From inside, Ambessa’s voice calls softly, "Come back to bed."

Caitlyn shifts, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, then your nose, and finally your lips. It’s a lingering kiss, tender and unhurried as if she’s trying to pour every unsaid word into you.

"You’re my girl," she whispers against your mouth. "I love you, baby."

The declarations are so soft you almost think you’ve imagined them. But the look in her eyes tells you otherwise.

Ambessa calls again, her voice low and expectant. Caitlyn straightens, her hand falling away from yours. She glances at the door, then back at you. She stands, offering her hand to you. 

"Come," she says simply.

You hesitate, the ache in your chest a living thing. But you take her hand.

The sun exposes as it further moves toward its high point, casting the balcony in streaky light, but you feel no warmth. Only the quiet weight of something you can’t name, pressing into the spaces between your ribs.

And behind you, the world goes on turning.

“Come,” Caitlyn says again, her tone gentle but firm.

You go.

© hcneymooners.

⚚ wives taglist: @s-4pphics @cupidsribbns @satellitespinner

•|||——————————————————————||•

The hum of the classroom buzzes in your ears as your English teacher, Mr. Kline, starts scribbling names on the chalkboard in his typical fashion. His voice drones on in the background, rattling off the seating chart for the day. You’re just hoping he doesn’t pair you with someone who’ll be a nightmare to work with. You’re already tired from the first few hours of class, and the last thing you need is a partner who’ll drag you down or make the whole process unbearable.

Then it happens. Mr. Kline announces the changes. You glance down at your notebook, trying to tune out his voice, but your ears catch one name that makes you freeze: Sevika.

Your stomach drops. Fuck. Not her.

You glance up, catching a glimpse of her towering frame at the back of the room. Her usual scowl is firmly in place as she slouches in her seat, arms crossed. You already know what everyone else is thinking: “Ogre,” the nickname they’ve given her because of her size and tough-as-nails persona. She doesn’t care, though. She doesn’t care about anyone’s opinion—hell, she doesn’t even care about school most of the time. She’s a hockey player, a badass, a walking legend in this place. And you? You’re just… you.

Kind-hearted, thoughtful, the girl who spends way too much time trying to help everyone, even the assholes who don’t deserve it. You’re not used to having your name whispered in the same breath as Sevika’s. She’s the kind of girl you’d avoid if you had any common sense. But for some damn reason, fate decided you’d be seated next to her for the rest of the semester.

You take a deep breath and adjust your glasses, preparing for whatever the hell this is going to be. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think. Maybe she’s not as much of a dick as people say. Maybe you’ll be able to do your part and survive this project without being dragged into some awkward confrontation.

The bell rings, and Mr. Kline directs you to your new seats. As you walk to the back of the room, you see Sevika staring out the window, her elbow resting lazily on the desk. She’s in her usual getup—an oversized hoodie, ripped jeans, and the varsity jacket that makes her look even more like the queen of this place. Her short, choppy hair barely moves as she turns her head, her sharp grey eyes narrowing at you like a predator sizing up its next meal.

You clear your throat and approach the desk, trying to act like you’ve got this whole “partnering with Sevika” thing under control.

“Hey, Sevika,” you say, offering her a tentative smile. “Looks like we’re working together.”

She doesn’t immediately respond. Her gaze flickers to you for a brief moment, but it’s not a warm welcome. It’s the kind of look someone gives when they’re trying to decide whether or not they should punch you in the face.

“Yeah, whatever,” she mutters, returning her attention to the window.

Well, that’s a great start. You swallow and sit down next to her, fumbling with your notebook as you try to hide the awkward tension building between you. The thing is, you can’t blame her. You’ve heard all the stories. Sevika doesn’t have time for people who don’t know how to handle themselves. You’re pretty sure she considers kindness a weakness, and right now, you’re about as far from “tough” as you can get.

For the first few minutes, there’s silence. Complete and utter silence. You can hear the quiet shuffle of papers from the rest of the class, the occasional hum of the air conditioning, and the ticking of the clock on the wall. But Sevika doesn’t even seem to notice. Her pencil moves across her notebook in slow, deliberate strokes, and you catch glimpses of what she’s drawing—something abstract, chaotic, maybe even a little disturbing.

The longer you sit next to her, the more you start to feel like an intruder in her personal space. You’re trying to ignore the way she’s slowly making you feel more and more self-conscious, like you’re just a bug she’s tolerating. But you can’t help it. She’s intimidating. She’s tough, and you’re not. She doesn’t need anyone, especially not you.

And yet, despite the obvious discomfort radiating from Sevika, you can’t help but try. You want to make this work. You want to get along with her, even if everyone else is too scared to even look her in the eye.

“So… what do you think about this project?” You ask, offering the faintest of smiles as you open your textbook and flip to the assignment. “I think we’re supposed to write about—”

“Don’t care,” she interrupts with a grunt, rolling her eyes. She pushes the notebook aside and leans back in her chair, one leg stretched out in front of her as she rests her hands behind her head. “I’m just here so I don’t get detention, so don’t expect me to do much.”

Your mouth dries as you nod. Of course, you didn’t expect her to be a team player.

Mr. Kline announces the start of the project and asks everyone to get into pairs. Everyone groans, except for you. You’re used to working alone, but this time, you’re stuck with Sevika, and you know there’s no way out. You glance at her, hoping she might offer some small inkling of interest in the project, but no. She’s busy staring at the ceiling, barely giving a damn.

You sigh, pushing your hair out of your face as you try to think of a way to get her to participate.

“Sevika, do you want to divide the work or just wing it?” you ask, leaning a bit closer to her in an attempt to get her attention.

She snorts, not even looking at you. “Does it look like I give a shit about school projects?”

You can’t help but laugh nervously. “I guess I’ll do the writing, then. You can handle the research part?”

Sevika gives you a blank stare. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just don’t make me do anything that requires moving.”

You nod, already feeling like this is going to be the longest hour of your life.

Throughout the class, Sevika barely pays attention, her pencil still moving across the pages of her notebook, probably doodling whatever mess is bouncing around in her head. You take careful notes, trying to focus on the project while pretending it doesn’t bother you that she’s completely zoning out.

When it’s time to head to the library after class, you gather your things. “Ready to go?” you ask.

She grunts but doesn’t respond. Instead, she stands up, stretching her arms above her head and then walks out the door without another word. You scramble to catch up with her, trying to hide how out of place you feel next to her.

You follow her to the library, where Sevika flops down into a chair at one of the tables in the back. You pull out your laptop and begin to work, trying to make progress on the project despite the looming silence hanging between you two.

After a while, you can’t help but look up at her. She’s still doodling, her eyes focused intensely on the page. The aggressive scowl that usually defines her expression has softened just a little, and you almost wonder if there’s a glimpse of vulnerability behind the tough exterior.

You clear your throat. “You ever think about what you want to do after high school?” you ask, trying to break the silence.

Sevika doesn’t look up from her notebook. “Not really.” She shrugs. “I’ll probably just keep playing hockey. Doesn’t matter.”

You want to push more, to get her to open up just a little, but you don’t. You know better than to push someone like Sevika, especially when she’s clearly not interested in chatting. Instead, you focus on the project in front of you, determined to make this work, no matter how difficult she might be.

And even though the air between you two is thick with tension, you know one thing for sure: this semester is going to be a hell of a ride.

•||——————————————————————||•

The mornings are always cold, especially this time of year. The chill seeps through your jacket, biting at your skin as you head toward the school’s entrance. It’s early, the kind of time when most students are dragging themselves out of bed, scrambling to get their things together, or—like Sevika—already halfway through a grueling morning workout. You’ve seen her in the gym before, that intimidating presence of hers dominating the place as if the weights themselves trembled in her grip. It’s no surprise that she’s known as a beast on the ice, but somehow that intimidating side of her feels like a mask she wears to shield herself from everyone else.

Today, though, you’re not thinking about her as “the girl with a scowl that could cut glass.” No, you’re thinking about her as someone who’s obviously been burning the candle at both ends. You saw the signs yesterday: her eyelids heavy with fatigue, her movements slower than usual as she shuffled to class after practice. She barely participated in the project work, her pencil moving through her notebook in lazy, almost uninterested strokes. That wasn’t Sevika. Or maybe it was. Maybe, under all that tough exterior, there was something more to her that no one ever bothered to look for.

And so, with a sense of quiet determination, you stop by the café on your way into school. The coffee shop is crowded with early risers, but you manage to snag a large black coffee and a bagel. It’s not much, but you know it’s the kind of thing that could make someone’s day a little less miserable. It’s something you would’ve appreciated, so why wouldn’t Sevika?

You make your way to your usual seat in the back of the English class, hoping to catch her before she sinks into her usual routine of silence and indifference. You know she’s already in her seat when you walk in—the space next to her looking more like a battlefield than anything else. As usual, she’s hunched in her chair, hoodie pulled over her head, earbuds tucked in so tightly you doubt she hears a thing.

Sevika’s like a damn fortress, and you’re not sure if you’re trying to break through or just knock at the door.

“Hey, Sev,” you say, your voice a bit louder than usual, in case she’s zoned out again. “Got you something.”

She looks up from her notebook, those sharp grey eyes narrowing at you for a beat, as if trying to read your motives. When her gaze falls to the coffee cup in your hand, her expression softens—just a fraction, but enough to notice. It’s almost as if she’s surprised.

“Yeah?” She grunts, her voice still a bit rough from too many late nights. “What’s this, some kind of pity offering?”

You shrug, not wanting to make it weird. “Nah, just figured you could use a pick-me-up.” You set the coffee down in front of her with a quiet clink, watching as her fingers hover over the handle for a moment before she takes it. Her usual stoic expression doesn’t falter, but there’s something in her eyes—a flicker of something deeper.

“Thanks,” she mutters, clearly not used to someone offering her something without expecting anything in return. You don’t wait for her to respond beyond that. You take your seat and start unpacking your things, giving her space.

The first few minutes are quiet, just like always. You crack open your notebook, getting ready to dive into the classwork, but something feels different today. There’s an odd tension between you two, like she’s trying to figure you out in a way that she hasn’t before. Every so often, you catch her glancing at you over the rim of the coffee cup, her lips twitching as if she’s trying not to say something sarcastic or dismissive.

You decide to try again. This time, you don’t just talk at her. You actually listen to her.

“Anything interesting in that sketch of yours?” you ask, nodding toward the open notebook on her desk. “Looks like you’re working on something pretty intense.”

Sevika’s eyes flick to her notebook, where a few jagged lines are scrawled across the page. The artwork isn’t exactly graceful—nothing like the stuff you’d find in a gallery—but there’s something undeniably captivating about the way she draws. It’s raw. It’s chaotic. You can practically feel the frustration that bleeds out of every line.

She hesitates before shrugging. “It’s just a thing. Nothing special.”

The next morning is the same: cold and gray, but this time, you have an extra coffee in hand—two this time, just in case. You stop by the café on your way into school again, and this time, you don’t hesitate. You pick out the same large black coffee and bagel, and you add one more for her. You know it’s a bit forward, maybe even a little weird, but after yesterday, you figure you might as well keep trying. If anything, it’ll be a small act of kindness in a place that doesn’t exactly hand out second chances.

When you arrive in class, you spot Sevika already sitting at the back, just like usual. She doesn’t even look up when you walk in, so you make your way over to her desk. You set the coffee in front of her, waiting for her to acknowledge it. When she finally looks up, she catches sight of the second cup and raises an eyebrow.

“Why the hell are you always trying to bribe me?” she asks, clearly suspicious, but there’s no bite to her words.

You offer her a playful smile. “Just thought you might need it.”

Sevika snorts. “I’m not a charity case, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” You sit down next to her again, pulling out your own coffee. “But I’ve seen you running on empty lately, and I’m just trying to help.”

She looks at the coffee for a long second before finally taking it. She doesn’t say anything at first, just stares into the dark liquid like she’s trying to figure out what you want in return.

But then, just as she takes a sip, she mutters something that surprises you.

“Thanks… I guess.”

It’s a small thing, but it’s enough to make you smile. You might not have cracked the armor completely, but you can feel the first few cracks beginning to form. And that’s enough for now.

You might not know what it is about her that makes you want to keep pushing, keep trying to get through the walls she’s built around herself. But something about Sevika, hidden beneath all that sharpness and coldness, pulls you in. And you’re not about to give up on her, no matter how tough she tries to act.

•||——————————————————————||•

The first time Sevika offers to carry your books, it doesn’t seem like much at first. You’re leaving your biology class, walking down the hallway toward your next class when, out of nowhere, she steps up beside you.

“Here,” she says, her voice gruff but not unfriendly as she grabs the stack of books from your hands.

“Wait, what—?” you start, trying to hold onto the books, but she’s already too quick for you, pulling them out of your grasp with surprising ease. Her fingers brush yours, and for just a moment, the sensation is strange—unexpected, even though she’s always been a physical presence in your life, in every sense of the word.

Sevika’s eyes flick to yours for a brief moment, watching the confusion play out on your face. A smirk creeps up on her lips, but it’s less mocking and more playful, like she’s enjoying seeing you thrown off balance.

“Don’t get used to it,” she says, her tone teasing but with that sharp edge of hers still there. “I’m just doing you a solid, no big deal.”

You stare at her, unsure how to respond. She’s still the same Sevika—the girl who keeps everyone at arm’s length with her scowl, her tattoos, her armor of indifference. Yet, there’s a shift. She’s not as prickly today. There’s something different, something softer behind the usual harshness, but it’s hard to pin down exactly what it is.

You try to brush it off. “Thanks, I guess.” It’s an awkward response, but you can’t help it. The whole situation feels foreign—Sevika, helping you, even in her roundabout, no-nonsense way.

As you walk side by side, the silence feels comfortable, more natural than it’s ever been between the two of you. The usual tension, the kind that hangs thick in the air between people who don’t quite know each other but feel like they should, isn’t there. Instead, it’s just the sound of footsteps echoing through the empty hallways, punctuated by the soft rustle of Sevika’s hoodie as she moves.

Once you reach your next class, she hands your books back to you without saying much, her usual scowl returning. “Don’t make it weird,” she mutters, turning to walk off, her footsteps heavy and purposeful.

You don’t make it weird, but it sticks with you. The whole interaction lingers in the back of your mind, not in a bad way, but more like a question you don’t quite know the answer to yet. Why did she do that? Was it just a passing moment, or was there something more?

The next day, it happens again.

You’re at your locker, shoving your history book into your bag when you feel a presence at your side. You don’t even need to look up to know who it is—Sevika’s aura fills the space, a palpable thing that both commands attention and makes everyone else unconsciously take a step back.

You let her carry your books again, not because you need the help, but because, for some reason, it doesn’t feel like an imposition. It feels… well, it feels nice. There’s a quiet understanding growing between you two, something that wasn’t there a week ago. It’s unspoken, but it’s there.

The days blur together in a mix of English class, hallway interactions, and little moments like this—moments where Sevika’s sarcasm feels less biting, her teasing more playful than sharp. And as the days go on, you start noticing the changes in her even more.

One morning, you’re walking into class, the usual coffee in hand, when you see her leaning against the wall near the door. She’s not talking to anyone, just standing there, arms crossed, looking like she’s waiting for someone.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you should approach. But then, with the casual confidence that’s so uniquely Sevika, she uncrosses her arms and nods toward you, that little tilt of her head that somehow speaks louder than words.

“Got something for me?” she asks, that playful edge to her voice as her grey eyes flick down to the coffee cup in your hand.

Without thinking, you hold it out to her. “Of course.”

“Guess I don’t need to thank you this time,” she says, taking the coffee from your hands with a teasing glint in her eyes.

You chuckle, leaning against the wall next to her. “You don’t have to, but it’d be nice.”

Her gaze flicks to you for just a second, a raised eyebrow the only acknowledgment of your words before she takes a sip from the coffee, her eyes narrowing slightly in appreciation. It’s not a thank you, but it’s close enough.

The bell rings, signaling the start of class, and the two of you walk in together, an unspoken understanding hanging between you. You’re no longer just the “nice kid” and the “badass hockey player”—you’re something else, something undefined, something more.

And that’s the thing about Sevika: she’s not the kind of person you can pin down. Every time you think you have her figured out, she surprises you.

By now, you’ve gotten used to the little rituals. She walks with you to class, books in hand, always a step behind you but close enough that you can hear her breathing. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to make you feel like you’ve made a little crack in her armor, even if she refuses to admit it.

Her teasing has become a part of the routine, too. It’s like she can’t help herself, always needling you, always making fun of your “perky” attitude or the way you get lost in your books. But you’ve noticed the shift—it’s not cruel anymore. It’s playful, like she’s teasing a friend, not someone she can’t stand.

One day, as you’re both walking to class, she surprises you again.

“I’ve been thinking,” she mutters, her voice quieter than usual. “You’re not so bad.”

You stop in your tracks, eyes wide in surprise. Did Sevika just… compliment you?

She catches your gaze and immediately rolls her eyes, the smirk returning to her lips. “I said, you’re not so bad, not that I like you or anything. Get over it.”

You smile, your heart skipping a beat. “Sure, Sevika. Whatever you say.”

The bell rings again, and you both make your way into class, but this time, it feels different. The tension between you two has shifted into something new, something more comfortable, and you both know it.

And every day, as you continue bringing her coffee, as she continues to walk with you to class, you both get a little closer, each moment chipping away at the walls she’s spent years building. Slowly, but surely, you’re getting to the person behind the tough exterior. And no matter how much she pretends it doesn’t matter, you can see it now—Sevika’s beginning to care.

•||——————————————————————||•

The afternoon is just starting to drag. You’re standing by your locker, shoving your history book into your bag with the kind of lethargy that only comes with the final bell of the day still being two classes away. You’re exhausted, not just from the day’s classes, but from the constant grind of high school itself. Your classmates, the ones who still don’t get you, don’t seem to understand that not everyone is out to make the most noise or throw the hardest punches. Some people—like you—just want to get through it all, helping where they can, smiling when they don’t feel like it, and quietly hoping things will get easier. But today is proving that’s not going to be the case.

As you turn to leave the hallway, a group of guys from your gym class snicker behind you. They’re a regular fixture of assholery in your life, always making their rounds to see who they can mess with. Today, it’s your turn.

“You know,” one of them says loud enough for you to hear, “somebody should really tell you to stop being so fucking soft. Like, seriously. You’re not gonna make it in this school with that wimpy attitude.”

You turn back slowly, hoping that if you ignore them, they’ll just keep walking like everyone else. But it doesn’t work. They crowd around you, blocking the hallway, sneering and laughing like they own the space.

“Look at this,” another one mocks, his voice dripping with exaggerated sweetness, “such a fucking goodie two-shoes. Maybe we should give you a medal for being so ‘nice.’ Too bad no one here actually gives a shit about that.”

Your fists clench, but you don’t say anything. They don’t deserve your energy, but it doesn’t stop the anger from bubbling up. It’s the same thing every time—words, insults, the relentless poking at who you are, how you try to be decent. It’s always this way, isn’t it? They want you to crack. To snap. To show weakness so they can laugh at it. But you won’t give them the satisfaction.

Just when you think they’re about to escalate, you hear it.

A voice. Low, commanding.

“Hey,” Sevika says, cutting through the tension like a knife.

You don’t even have time to look at her before you hear the unmistakable sound of a body slamming into metal. One of the guys lets out a strangled gasp as he’s shoved violently into a locker. The group steps back instinctively, surprised by the sudden force. The guy who got shoved stumbles to his feet, a wild, startled look in his eyes.

Sevika’s not even looking at him directly. She’s focused on the others, her jaw set, her lips curling slightly into a scowl.

“I don’t give a shit if you think you’re funny,” she says, her voice cold as ice, “but if you ever talk to her like that again, you won’t be able to walk the rest of the day. Got it?”

The group is frozen for a moment, a strange mix of fear and confusion on their faces. They’re not used to someone standing up to them like this—especially not Sevika. After all, she’s the star hockey player, the tough girl who runs the school with her stare alone. The group stammers out apologies, the bravado slipping from them as quickly as it appeared. They scatter, not wanting to risk getting into her bad books.

You stand there, blinking in disbelief. Sevika, the girl who’s always kept her distance, the one who’s never given you anything other than playful insults and sarcastic remarks, just fucking stood up for you.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and your mouth is suddenly dry.

Sevika turns to you, her shoulders relaxed now, but there’s still that fire in her eyes.

“You okay?” she asks, and her tone is softer, more genuine than you’ve ever heard it before.

You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady. “I… yeah. I’m fine.”

She looks at you for a moment, eyes scanning you for any sign of weakness, but there’s none. She doesn’t apologize. She never does. But the way her lips tighten slightly, the way her brows furrow just a little—it’s enough. She’s not expecting you to say anything. She doesn’t even seem to know what to do with herself now that she’s done this. She’s Sevika, and she’s not used to letting people get close enough to care.

You can’t help but smile a little, a warmth spreading through you despite the rush of adrenaline still pounding in your chest. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, turning away and heading down the hallway. “Just… don’t be such a soft target next time.”

You watch her walk away, your thoughts racing. Sevika had always been this untouchable figure—at least, to you. You were just the quiet, well-meaning kid in the back of the class who didn’t stand out. But now… now, things were changing. You didn’t know how or why, but you felt it.

Later, in English class, the usual noise of the room fades as you take your seat next to Sevika. She’s quiet today, almost too quiet, like she’s avoiding looking at you. You don’t push it. Not yet. But when the teacher starts droning on about something you’re not really paying attention to, you feel the familiar shift in the air.

Sevika leans over slightly, her face unreadable. The classroom is loud, with people chatting and fiddling with their phones, but for a moment, it’s just the two of you.

“You know,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper, “you’re the only person I actually like being around.”

It hits you like a punch to the gut. You freeze, blinking at her in shock. Did she just…?

She glances at you, her eyes fleetingly meeting yours before quickly looking away, like she’s regretting saying anything at all. She lets out a frustrated huff and slouches in her seat, rubbing her forehead like she’s embarrassed. “Don’t get all weird about it,” she mutters. “I’m not trying to—”

You can’t help it. You’re flustered, but at the same time, your heart swells. You’re not even sure what to say, so you just laugh softly, trying to play it cool. “I’m not. I just… I didn’t expect that.”

She shoots you a side-eye, her usual scowl pulling at her lips. “Yeah, well, I don’t usually say shit like that.”

You can’t help but smile, even though you feel a little like a fool. “You’re not so bad either, you know that?”

Sevika huffs, but there’s a small, almost imperceptible softening in her expression. “Whatever. Let’s just get through this class, alright?”

And just like that, things feel a little different. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable anymore. It’s familiar, like you both know something now—something unspoken, but undeniable.

And as the bell rings, signaling the end of class, you both pack up your things, side by side, in a way that feels completely natural.

•||——————————————————————||•

You were pretty sure that when Sevika agreed to go out with you, she didn’t quite know what she was getting herself into. Hell, you didn’t either. You didn’t expect this—this unspoken connection that had grown between the two of you, or the idea that the girl who used to shove people against lockers and made it clear she didn’t give a shit about anyone might actually want to spend time with you outside of school. Yet, here you were, standing at the entrance of a small café after school, anxiously looking at the clock and waiting for Sevika to show up.

The awkwardness hit you like a freight train as soon as you heard the familiar heavy footsteps of her boots on the concrete. She came to a stop in front of you, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, a slight scowl on her lips. The look in her eyes was a mix of challenge and something else—something more vulnerable that she refused to acknowledge. She’d agreed to this date begrudgingly, and you weren’t sure if she was regretting it yet, but you sure as hell didn’t want her to.

“You’re late,” you say, trying to keep things light, hiding your nerves behind a teasing smile. You’ve never been good with first dates—not even close—but if you were going to do this, you were going to do it with your usual charm.

Sevika raises an eyebrow and gives you a look that’s almost as if she’s about to retort with something snarky, but she just shrugs, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t gonna rush for you, y’know. Not that you’d care.”

You blink, a little caught off guard by the lack of bite in her voice. She’s usually so sharp, so defensive. It’s almost… sweet. No, you’re imagining it. You must be.

“Fine,” you laugh. “Come on, let’s go inside before we both freeze our asses off.”

Sevika hesitates for a moment but then steps past you, pushing open the door with the same carelessness she’d shown with every decision in her life. She doesn’t look back, but you can feel the silent invitation to follow her. You take a deep breath and follow her into the cozy café, the smell of fresh coffee and warm pastries filling your senses.

“Not what I expected,” Sevika mutters as she looks around, her eyes scanning the room like she’s assessing every angle. “This place seems… soft.”

“Soft?” You raise an eyebrow. “It’s a café, Sevika. Not a fucking boxing ring.”

She scoffs at your response, though there’s a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Don’t get too comfortable. I don’t do cozy.”

“Well, I do,” you say, taking a seat at a small table by the window. You feel the tension in your shoulders slowly start to ease as you glance out at the street, watching cars pass by. “But I get it. Not everyone likes this sort of thing.”

Sevika slouches into the chair opposite you, not exactly relaxing but not standing either. She glances around, eyes darting over the simple décor with an almost bemused expression. She’s so out of her element, and you can’t help but admire the way she wears it like armor, pretending she’s cool with everything, even when she’s not.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence feels like a heavy weight, but it’s not uncomfortable—at least, not for you. You wait for Sevika to break it, because you know she will. It’s the way she is. She always has something to say, even if it’s just to fill the silence with sarcasm.

“So, this is your idea of a date, huh?” she finally asks, voice low but amused.

You shrug, leaning back in your chair. “I’m a simple person. Not every date has to be some grand, expensive thing.”

Sevika tilts her head, scrutinizing you like she’s trying to figure out your intentions. “Yeah, well, don’t expect me to do this every weekend.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” you tease, a grin spreading across your face. “I’m just happy you showed up. Not many people would take me seriously when I said I wanted coffee instead of some fancy dinner.”

There’s a long pause before she nods. “Guess I’m not like most people.”

No, she’s not. Sevika has a way of doing things that doesn’t make sense to anyone else—she’s rough around the edges, unapologetically herself, and honestly, you admire that. She’s everything you aren’t, and maybe that’s why you’re so drawn to her. She’s not afraid to be the person everyone else fears. But right now, sitting across from you, she’s just Sevika. No tough-girl persona. No hockey star. Just a girl trying to figure things out like anyone else.

You place your order—coffee, naturally, with a slice of cheesecake because why the hell not? You know Sevika will roll her eyes when you ask for dessert, but it doesn’t stop you from making your choice. As you wait for your order to arrive, you both settle into a strange kind of rhythm—her occasional snort of laughter at something you say, the way she subtly relaxes the more you talk, as though she’s actually enjoying this time with you.

The conversation is clumsy at first, filled with small talk and awkward pauses, but slowly, like a puzzle slowly coming together, you both start finding your flow. You joke about your terrible math grades, and she complains about the bullshit demands of hockey practice, the tension of being the best player but also constantly fighting to prove she’s more than just her image. You listen, and she listens to you. In a weird way, this is easier than you expected.

“You know,” she says after a while, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup, “I don’t usually do this. Hang out with people like you.”

“People like me?” you repeat with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, you know, the ‘goody two-shoes’ types,” she says, using air quotes with a slight smirk. “The people who care about everyone and everything. It’s… exhausting to be around.”

You’re taken aback by her honesty, but you can’t help but smile. “You think I’m exhausting?”

“Sometimes,” she admits, eyes glinting with mischief. “But it’s… refreshing, I guess.”

You’re not sure if she means that as a compliment, but something inside of you swells at the idea that she sees you differently. There’s something strangely tender in her words, even though she’s trying to play it off as casual. You chuckle. “You’re not so bad either, you know.”

Sevika tilts her head, eyes narrowing. “Don’t get all soft on me now.”

“No promises,” you reply, grinning.

The evening goes on with more laughter, more teasing, and moments of awkward silence that you’ve both learned to embrace. By the end of it, you’re not entirely sure when the awkwardness started to fade away, but it has.

the two of you stand outside the café, your breath visible in the cold air. Sevika tucks her hands into her jacket pockets, her expression unreadable.

“I had a good time,” she says, avoiding eye contact, her voice strangely soft. “Not that I’m saying I’ll do this again. Don’t get too fucking comfortable.”

You grin. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Don’t expect you to turn into a total softie or anything.”

She smirks at you, but you catch a glimmer of something in her eyes that makes your heart race.

“Maybe not,” she mutters, but there’s warmth behind her words that she’s not quite ready to admit.

You stand there for a moment, neither of you moving. For once, the silence between you isn’t awkward—it’s comfortable. There’s a connection here, one that feels like it’s been building without either of you fully acknowledging it.

Before you can think too much about it, Sevika steps forward, her hand brushing against yours as she walks past you, her fingers lingering just long enough to make you wonder if it was on purpose.

“See you tomorrow,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t make me regret this.”

You watch her walk away, a grin tugging at your lips. You may not know where this is going, but for the first time, you’re okay with that.

The next day in English class, you sit down at your usual spot, your mind still spinning from last night. You glance over at Sevika, who’s doodling something in her notebook, her lips curved in a faint smirk. You can’t resist taking a peek at what she’s drawing, and to your surprise, it’s a small, simple heart—next to your name.

You catch her eye just as she looks up, and she immediately shuts her notebook. “Not a word out of you.” She grumbled with her typical scowl.

You can’t help but laugh. But as she turns back to open her notebook again, you notice the warmth in her eyes—something real, something you know she doesn’t show anyone else.

You smile to yourself, knowing that despite everything, Sevika’s starting to crack, and you’ve never been more thrilled.