☆Scar ☆

A few footsteps forward, and you were there again—on her doorstep, waiting for her: Regina George.

You didn't know what it was—but whatever it was intimidated the fuck out of you and you didn't know why; even as you stood before a double-doored, secure mansion in a gated community, the anxiety clung to you like a second skin and made your stomach hot. Or, maybe it was the anticipation. You honestly couldn't tell anymore.

It wasn't like it was your first time here, either. For the last 6 months at least, you've shown up on Regina's doorstep per her command. It wasn't anything weird, at this point—it was just routine. She called you, and within 20 minutes, you were back at her door with the same feeling. Everytime you came here, there was always the same nervousness that melted away the moment you step foot inside. And—

The door clicked open, pulling you out of your thoughts; all your worries peeled away when you saw Regina standing in the doorway, her smirk wide and gaze narrowed down at you like she was judging you. She was clad in a satin pink robe and was nursing a glass of, what was clearly and unsurprisingly, expensive wine that probably cost a small fortune. Her blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders and her fingers were tightly clenched around the glass. Bitchy and magnetic, that's what she was.

"Hey, loser," She scoffed, tilting her head slightly as she looked down at you. "Are you gonna keep staring, or are you gonna come in?" Without giving you a chance to say anything, she turned around and walked back in, to which you hustled behind her.

"Shut the door on your way in!"

You shut the door before wandering behind Regina and moving into the kitchen, wonderfully decorated and organized in all its glory. Her back was turned at the bar and you watched her move around, and you cleared your throat to inform her of your presence. "Hey, Gina," You hummed, the nickname rolling off your tongue like it was nothing; mostly, because it was nothing. According to her, when it came to you, she didn't care what you called her as long as you called.

"Hey, baby. Thirsty at all?" She echoed in response.

"Mhm, but I'll take whatever you give me," You responded as you came up behind her, trying to peek over her shoulder to see what she was doing. Before you could get a good view, she turned around and faced you with her refilled wine glass and that same smirk. "You always take whatever I give you," She scoffed playfully; you resisted the urge to roll your eyes to avoid however she'd use that against you later. "You can have some of mine. I'm almost out, otherwise, I would've poured you a glass," She hummed before turning on her heels, to which you followed like a lost puppy—that was kind of just how it worked between you two, though. You followed her command with little question, just how you both liked it.

You followed her to the living room, watching as she sat down on the couch and leaned back. Red wine on a white couch? She was either drunk or just didn't care; news flash, it wasn't the former.

You plopped down beside her and hummed, and she threw her legs over your lap while wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You swallowed as her robe loosened a bit, riding up on her soft thighs and revealing some of her cleavage. You accidentally stared for a moment before you felt her freshly-manicured fingers grip your chin, redirecting your gaze. "Ah-ah, babe. My eyes are up here," She teased, her smirk cocky. "Oh, shit—sorry," You sputtered, to which the blonde giggled in amusement before rolling her eyes. "Just shut up and take a sip."

She put the glass to your lips and you felt her other hand come up to grip your hair, gently tilting your head back to let the sweet beverage flow into your mouth. You felt that feeling in your lower stomach again at her sense of control—God, she was just hypnotic. "There you go," Regina hummed lowly, watching as you slowly downed it before she pulled the glass back and gave you air. You swallowed the drink and blinked as your head began to buzz slightly—it was sweet, but strong. You could see why she was trying to preserve it.

"Did I get here too early?" You hummed as the taste lingered on your tongue, surprised by how relaxed and comfortable she was—well, in a natural way. She always managed to present as though she had a settled composure, but you knew her enough to know that she wasn't in a rush, this time; she wasn't as serious, as quick, or as stoic. She was just there.

"No, what makes you think that?" Regina shrugged as she brought the glass to her own lips, humming as she did so. You shrugged. "I don't know—it just feels different, today? I could just be delusional."

"Well, it is different today," She deadpanned but didn't give further details. Before you could say anything or even ask about it, she pressed the wine glass to your lips to shut you up while she spoke. She tugged your head back a bit more roughly, and you gasped slightly before taking a few more sips. "It's no big deal—I'm just not working today," She hummed, her tone relaxed. You expected her to let you go, but she kept the wine flowing into your mouth, keeping you busy so she could keep talking. "But don't worry, baby—we're still recording. It's gonna be just for me this time, though. Got it?"

That was when she let up, removing the glass from your lips and letting you take a second; now, the glass was empty. She set it on the coffee table before turning her attention back to you.

You nodded in agreement as felt your brain buzz a bit more, but not enough for you to really be tipsy. For the second time, her fingers found your jaw and forced you to look up at her. "Words, baby."

"Yes, ma'am—got it," You repeated, to which she smirked. "Good."

There was a suddenness with the way she kissed you; she roughly turned your cheek before crashing her lips onto yours, humming softly as she felt you freeze up in surprise before melting against her lips. You let out a low groan and your hand found the back of her neck as you pulled each other closer, desperate to have more of her now, even if she'd have it her way. Regina had no problem taking what was hers.

Her fingers tightened around your jaw as she tilted her head to deepen the kiss, clearly trying to take control and suck all of the air out of you; oh, she'd leave you gasping for air until you saw stars, and she fucking loved it. Without warning, you felt her hand that was in your hair move to your sternum to guide you onto your back, forcing your elbows to sink into the couch as you used them to prop you up. As she crawled to hover over you, she reconnected your lips and kept that firm grip on your jaw, her nails digging into the soft skin. She pressed herself closer to you and you felt your noses clash from the intensity, to which you leaned forward in desperation while she pushed you back down and kissed you harder. You moaned softly at her dominance, and you felt her grip you tighter and kiss you harder—you were at the point where you didn't want to stop, but you couldn't fucking breathe. If you died like this, you definitely would've been happy; she wouldn't let that happen, though.

Regina pulled back a bit to give you air and to catch her own, and fuck, you swore you couldn't wait to touch her anymore; her stunning emerald eyes were blown with lust; her cheeks were flushed from the intensity of it all and from the simple fact that she damn near suffocated you both, and her lips were swollen and parted as her chest heaved. You probably didn't look too much different from her. She was fucking perfect, and it so was unfair. You felt lucky to even get to see her like this, of all things.

After a few seconds of catching her breath, she pressed another kiss to your lips, but lingered only for a moment and started turning your head to press kisses along your jawline. "Did you miss me, baby?" She purred breathlessly, and fuck, that did things to you. Of course, you fucking missed her; she was perfect. "Yes," You whined out as she tilted your chin up, kissing down the curve of your jaw and causing you to shudder as her lips found your neck. "Tell me what you missed, then?" She hummed. What were you supposed to say? You missed it when she kissed you like this? Or when she'd suffocate you with her thighs? When she made you beg for her to let her use you?

"I missed how you taste and how you feel," You sighed as you felt your heartbeat continue to race at a high rate that was probably unhealthy. "I miss worshiping you—how you sound when you cum on my fingers. I miss that privilege."

"Oh, yeah?" Regina giggled as she continued to kiss down your neck, pausing for a moment before licking a stripe up the side of it. "You miss being allowed to touch me and fuck me, is that it?" She spat, yet there was no venom in her tone. Suddenly, she bit down on the side of your neck, eliciting a whine from you and prompting you to answer as she sucked on the area. "Yes, Regina," You whined. "I miss it so, so much. I miss you, and I miss being yours."

You shuddered as you felt her smirk and groan against your skin at your tone, her hands beginning to feel along the curves of your body as you laid beneath her. She moved away from the area she bit after soothing it over with her tongue, kissing along your flesh before nipping at your pulse point, her teeth scratching at it. "Mine," Regina repeated, sighing softly before finding a spot on your collarbone. One of her hands slid under your shirt, resting on the soft skin of your abdomen before moving up to your breast, squeezing softly. Her tongue made its way against the side of your neck again before she pulled away. Just as you were about to whimper in protest, your complaint was quickly replaced with a yelp as her other hand got tangled in your hair and yanked your head back, angling your gaze up at her hungry, needy gaze. She leaned forward and brought her face close to yours, her breath fanning over your lips as she spoke.

"You wanna be good for me, baby? D'you wanna be good for Mommy?" She hummed lowly, to which you nodded desperately before remembering the rules. "Yes, ma'am," You sighed. You moaned softly as you felt her other hand continue to massage your tit, her thumb running over your nipple as she watched your reactions intently. She smirked when you gasped, and she bit her lip. "Then, you're going to go upstairs to my room, since that's where I want to film today," She hummed. "And you're going to wait and do nothing else. Got it?" You nodded, but when you didn't answer, a harsh tug on your scalp prompted you to respond properly. What? It wasn't your fault her beauty made you forget how to speak. "Got it."

She climbed off of you and ran a hand through her hair, her dilated eyes watching as you got up and hesitantly went upstairs, tracking your every move as you did so. God, she was going to make you ruin her.

Not too long after you practically flew up the stairs out of impatience and excitement, Regina followed you up; when she pushed the door open and looked at you with those sharp, tempting eyes, her head was tilted slightly as she looked you up and down. She was quick to shut the door and turn on the pre-set camera equipment before turning on her heels toward you, her bottom lip taken between her teeth as she scanned you, perched on the bed. Ready for her.

Silence clung between you two for a moment; then, without a word, she grabbed your collar and pulled you into a bruising kiss. You couldn't do anything but melt into her touch, groaning softly as she moved to straddle your lap. Your hands quickly found her hips and pulled her down against you, to which Regina whined before promptly taking a handful of your hair and yanking it back, causing you to yelp in surprise. "Did I say you could touch me?" She spat with narrowed eyes, her smirk prominent on her lips. "We just started, and you're already breaking rules, hm? I expected better from you," She scoffed, and you couldn't tell if she was just teasing or being serious. "Sorry, ma'am—" You corrected. "Can I touch you, please? I promise, I'll be good," You whined. She glared down at you and you watched her smirk widen—God, she loved the power she had over you. You were so fucking easy.

"Since you're so desperate for it, babe, why not?" She scoffed. "You're lucky you're even allowed to touch me." In an instant, she reconnected your lips.

You could tell it was different this time—not just because she was filming in her actual bedroom instead of the one she had designated for filming or because she was recording just for herself, but because of the way she kissed you. She was more possessive and forward about what she wanted from you—she kissed you senseless and literally marked you as hers (not that you minded). All of it just seemed much more desperate than usual; not like she was hungry for you, but fucking starving. You didn't know what this was, but fuck, you could tell you needed more of this version of her.

Her hand moved from being tangled in your hair to the nape of your neck, pulling you closer to her while your fingers dug into her hips. She whined softly and quickly shoved her tongue into your mouth—claiming what was hers with no mercy. She pressed herself against you like she was trying to become one with you—like she fucking needed you, and God, that made your already-buzzed brain feel even more drunk off of the ecstasy. Neither of you thought, you just felt.

You didn't know what the fuck was going on other than the fact that you loved it.

The kiss was so, so messy—your tongues danced, your lips locked, and you felt her trying to press closer to you, to get more of you. You took advantage of the opportunity to begin to guide her against your thigh, your pace slow and steady—fuck, she was soaked. Was this all for you, all because of you? God, you needed more; she clearly did, too.

Regina pulled away from the kiss to regain her breath, gasping softly as her hips rolled against your thigh, the friction making her brain fuzzy. She looked down at you with glossy eyes and parted lips, her hands moving to your shoulders as she swallowed. "Fuck me, baby," She moaned in your ear, tilting her head down at you. This? This was fucking insane—she knew how to disarm you with just the right tone and glare. Maybe you were easy, and if this was where it got you, then you'd take it.

Without hesitation, you moved your hand to tangle in her blonde locks and tugged her head back gently—and she let you, pressing kisses to the soft skin of her neck. Her eyes fluttered as she let out a low hum, her cunt dripping on your thigh. "You missed this, right, baby?" She hummed as you ran your tongue up the side of her neck, to which she moaned softly. "Yes, ma'am," You sighed against her neck.

"God, you're so, so perfect," You hummed lowly as you quickened her pace, your teeth scraping against her neck and eliciting a whimper from her. "Y-Yeah, baby? And how am I perfect?" Regina cooed, her smirk widening as her hand found your hair again and pulled you back to make you look at her. Oh, she had to hear this.

Fuck, how were you supposed to answer that? It was all just her—she was fucking perfect.

You swallowed as she looked down at you expectantly. "Use your words," She commanded firmly. You hummed, looking up at her with wide eyes, "Just every part of you, ma'am—your eyes, your smile, your body ... how needy you are." Subconsciously, you began to rock her at a quicker pace, biting your lip in thought. Fuck.

Regina chuckled softly at your reaction, watching as your brain began to turn to mush—just how she liked you. "Oh, baby—" She crooned, her other hand sliding under your chin. "You think I'm needy, after you were just begging to fuck me? That's so cute," She scoffed, her eyes narrowing down at you as she took her lip between her teeth. The hand on your chin moved up so that her thumb could tug at your bottom lip, her lashes fluttering and her tone low. If looks could kill, she'd have fatal attraction.

"Open your mouth," She hissed, and you obeyed knowingly, letting your mouth fall open for her. "Good girl," Regina purred in satisfaction before pushing two fingers into your mouth. You wrapped your lips around her digits and began to suck, gripping her hips tighter as she began to push them in and out of your mouth. "You're so pretty like this; so eager to please," She rasped , her expression and eyes conflicting; her smirk was wide and prideful, like she was proud of the control she had, but her eyes flickered with desperation, like she was struggling to keep control over herself. She was trying to stay put together, and you wanted to make her fucking fall apart.

"Anything for you," You whimpered, to which she shut you up by shoving her fingers back into your mouth. You took advantage of her vulnerability and gradually began to increase her pace, your hands steadily guiding her hips against your clothed thigh while she finger-fucked your throat, subtly gagging on her digits every now and then. Her gasps and groans grew louder and more frequent, her pace picking up as she seized some control while she looked down on you with those conflicted green eyes; fuck, this was perfect. Regina had you gagging on her fingers, showering her with praise, and following her every command—and you were more than happy to do it. And, fuck, the friction against her aching cunt felt so fucking good. God, what if she just came like this right now—for you? Fuck, that got her off. It'd be so—

Shit.

You were caught off guard when the blonde suddenly yanked your hair, and hard, making you yelp while she glared down at you with pointed eyes. What? Your hands kept her pace steady, but that was the fucking problem—she was too close, too soon.

"Fuck, baby—Y/N, stop," Regina snapped, biting down on her lip as she tried to slow her pace and regain self-control. You whined and gripped her hips to a bruising point, slowing her to a stop. What happened? Did you hurt her? Was she already tired?

You looked up at her with concern as her chest heaved from the sudden interruption, preventing her orgasm seconds before it happened. Fuck, she needed more of that. She slowly withdrew her fingers from your mouth, panting a bit as her almost-high feeling began to level out but settle in her bones, making her crave more.

"Are you okay, ma'am?" You hummed, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear with care. "I'm fine," Regina huffed, her dilated gaze fixing back on you. "Did you expect to be allowed to make me cum that fast? Oh, no, baby—you have to earn it," She scoffed, rolling her eyes as she dragged her wet fingers down the column of your throat. She watched in mesmerisation until her fingers landed by the collar of your shirt, giving her an idea. "Take this off, and get rid of those," She spat curtly, her head tilting down at you. You quickly obeyed and pulled your shirt over your head and your pants off, tossing them to the side and leaving you exposed to her in a bra and underwear. She clicked her tongue as her gaze fell over your nearly bare body and her smirk widened as her gaze hardened. She suddenly climbed off of your lap, leaving you to whine in protest as her warmth left yours.

She walked a few feet short of the bed, turning toward you as she hummed. "On your knees, now," Regina growled and pointed at the ground before her, tilting her chin up with a wide, cocky smirk. God, the chokehold this fucking woman had on you; she could step on you, and you'd thank her. "Yes, ma'am," You hummed as you walked over before kneeling down, tilting your head in curiosity.

"How about you help Mommy take this off?" She purred as she gestured to her robe, but it wasn't a question—and even if it was, the answer was fuck yes either way. You swallowed and sighed, taking your lip between your teeth. "Can I touch you, please?" You hummed, but it came out as more of a pathetic whimper—fuck. Regina's smirk widened and she hummed before reaching out to tilt your chin up, purring, "Of course you can, baby—you're so desperate to please Mommy, aren't you? Such a sweet, pathetic little thing."

You were quick to stand on your knees and get to work on the belt of the soft robe, tugging at the knot until it loosened and watching it cling to her shoulders. Regina hummed and gestured for you to get up to finish the job, which you obeyed; standing on your heels and gently pushing the delicate fabric off of her shoulders. And, fuck, you couldn't help but stare and admire the perfect woman before you; her curves, muscle, and everything in-between—fuck, you were lucky you even got to see her like this. God, you wanted to touch her so, so badly. The blonde giggled softly as she watched you stare before grabbing your chin and pulling you in close, her breath ghosting over your lips. "You like what you see, baby?" She cooed, her eyes darting to your lips and lingering for a moment before looking back up at your wide eyes. You nodded with a whimper, to which she squeezed your jaw. "Don't fuck up now, you're doing so good," She hissed. "Use your words."

"Yes, ma'am—fuck, I like what I see," You gasped as you ran your tongue over your lips. Regina tsked and hummed in response, and you felt her hand slide from your chin to your shoulder. "On your knees," She repeated; you sank down onto your knees before her, watching her cocky smirk perk up at your position.

Regina stepped a bit closer to you before letting her hand slide into your hair, slightly tugging your head back. "Open for me," She purred, and you let your mouth fall open and your tongue stick out. "God, you're fucking desperate," She scoffed with no real venom to her words. She admired for a moment then proceeded to spit into your open mouth, the glob of saliva sliding down your tongue and toward the back of your throat. You flinched slightly but didn't hesitate to swallow, whimpering as her grip on your hair tightened a bit upon watching. "We aren't done," She hissed. "Keep your mouth open—you're going to make Mommy feel good."

Once again, you didn't hesitate—that was just something you didn't do when it came to her. You opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out for her, to which Regina hummed in satisfaction before bracing herself. She took her lip between her teeth and mounted your face, her throbbing cunt aching with need against your tongue. Fuck—you groaned lowly at the taste before temporarily pulling away to press kisses to her inner thighs. Oh, you were going to savor this and spoil her.

Your lips worked against the soft flesh of the blonde's thighs, your hands gripping them as you moved upward, the faint taste of her arousal lingering on your lips from when she was on your tongue. Regina tugged at your hair in impatience and hissed, her vixen eyes narrowing down at you and silently telling you to hurry the fuck up; you hummed and moved your lips higher until you finally pressed a kiss to her aching pussy before diving in. You licked up her wet folds and felt her shudder above you at the contact, a soft groan escaping her lips. Okay, fuck it—you were too impatient, and so was she. You didn't care.

You licked a stripe from her entrance to her clit before dipping your tongue inside of her, her wetness dripping on your lips as you collected it on your tongue. You alternated between tongue-fucking her and flattening your tongue against her, and once she started grinding against your tongue, you felt your smirk widen and your grip on her thighs tighten.

"Fuck, baby—" She groaned, whimpering as you continued to work her. "I need more," She hissed as she tugged at your roots harder, pulling you into her. You moved your hand and went to work, circling her entrance with two fingers before slowly pushing them into her. She let out a moan as you didn't hesitate or tease, pumping in and out of her. You flattened your tongue against her weeping cunt before wrapping your lips around her clit and sucking, hard—to which Regina let out a pitchy moan and pulled your face impossibly closer. "Fuck!" She cried out, her hips rocking against your face at an utterly desperate pace. She whined, "Oh, shit—don't you fucking stop!"

You didn't want this to end; you had half a mind to edge her again, if it were up to you and if you weren't so desperate to have her cum for you over and over. Fuck, you didn't know what it was, but your brain was mush. You didn't think, because you couldn't. All you could focus on was how Regina George tasted and how she rode your tongue and fingers like it was her fucking lifeline; how you could barely breathe, but didn't care because you needed this so, so bad. You needed her to cum in your mouth while her words slurred out of the pure ecstasy that you brought her—you needed to bring her pleasure, over and over again, until she scolded you for being so desperate but praised you for being so good. You just fucking needed Regina George—you didn't care.

You picked up your pace desperately, your tongue alternating between flattening against and sucking on her clit while your fingers pumped until you started curling them, your digits ramming into her G-spot time and time again until she was fucking shaking and clenching around you. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—God, baby, please—" She pleaded.

"Please, what, Mommy?" You asked in confusion, your words muffled by her cunt.

"Let me cum, please."

Was she begging to cum for you? That was new.

Like, really new. Regina George didn't beg.

But you didn't care; your fingers curled at an impossible pace and you sucked on her clit, desperate to bring her over the edge. "Cum for me, Gina," You whimpered, and fuck, you almost came from watching her. The moment you gave her permission, she clenched around your fingers and screamed your fucking name, her eyes rolling back in pleasure as she convulsed and kept fucking herself on your fingers and tongue to ride out her high. You slowed your pace but didn't even think about stopping, doing your best to prolong her pleasure until she grinding slowed to a stop and she just stood there weakly, breathless with your fingers nestled inside of her momentarily. Fuck. You'd fucked before, but that felt different.

Her grip on your hair slackened. After you two caught your breath, you pulled your fingers out of her cunt; God, you were drenched in her. Her cum coated your hand and chin, along with her own inner thighs, but you got the most of it—was it slutty to say that you couldn't be happier?

"Get up," Regina said breathlessly, tilting your chin up to look down on you, her eyes clouded with lust and confusion. God, you really were pretty like this. It made her want to return the favor.

You wanted to melt into her palm, but instead, obediently stood up as she commanded. Her hand found your jaw, and, without warning, she pulled you into a kiss, moaning and getting greedier as she tasted herself on your lips. You moaned lowly and pushed her back, causing her gasp as her back hit the wall. Her tongue pressed into your mouth with an urgency and her hands freely roamed your body, stopping once they found the clasp of your bra to un-clasp it and toss it aside. Your slick-covered hand gripped her waist as your nails bit into her soft flesh, leaving crescent moon-shaped indents in their wake. Her hands continued to feel your body until they landed on your tits, which she teased and massaged. You moaned softly and pulled away from the kiss for a moment, melting into the feel of her hands on your body and leaning your forehead against hers. Your eyes met with hers; cloudy, hungry, and desperate. Still conflicted, but you didn't know why.

Her hands continued to toy with your breasts, alternating between her thumbs rolling over your nipples and pinching them between her fingers. She moved a hand to tilt your head up so she could press sloppy, open-mouthed kisses to your neck, her lips moving down the column of your throat. "God—you're so, so fucking good for me," Regina practically moaned before sinking her teeth into your neck, moving her hands to roam your body while she continued to suck a bruise into your skin. You groaned lowly, moving a hand to one of her angel-sculpted tits to reciprocate her actions while the other squeezed the plush of her ass. She drew away from your neck and ran her tongue over the bruise before continuing down to your chest, kissing and nipping at the skin there. "Aren't you? My good, desperate girl?" She asked, her tone raspy and greedy.

"Fuck, yes—yours," You whined out, squeezing her tit and eliciting a moan from her. She continued to kiss down your chest until she reached your tits, then your navel, and then just at the hem of your underwear. She took a finger and tugged at the elastic until it snapped back against your skin, causing you to let out a small whimper. "Aw, do you need something, baby?" She cooed, pressing her fingers against the damp spot of the fabric, feeling how fucking soaked you were. "Yes, please, ma'am," You whined pathetically. "God, are you this wet from fucking me?" She scoffed. "Pathetic—but I think you deserve a reward, since you've done been so good for Mommy."

Regina's teeth bit into the hem of your underwear before pulling them down to pool around your ankles, and you kicked them away eagerly as her smirk widened. She stood back up and pulled you into another kiss, and you stepped forward so her back hit the wall again. You felt her fingers dance up your side and her knee pushed your legs apart, your arousal dripping down your thighs and your cunt aching for attention. Without warning, the blonde palmed your pussy and pressed the heel of her palm against your clit, making your hips buck and pulling a whine of desperation from you. You fucking needed her.

"Please, Mommy," You whimpered, resisting the urge to grind against her hand. She tsked and smirked against your lips, her fingers slowly running through your folds. "Since you asked so nicely, baby ..." She purred before plunging two fingers into you, and fuck, you let out a throaty whine.

Her pace started off slow and steady, tortuously pumping in and out of you, her thumb finding your clit and rotating over it. God, you were impatient; you needed more, and Regina knew what she was doing. After seeing that you were willing to wait and listen, she was quick to increase her pace—her fingers curling into your G-spot deliciously, your walls clenching around her fingers as her thumb continued to torture your clit. Within seconds, you were grinding against her palm and riding her fingers desperately—your head hung and legs shaking. Fuck, she was insane.

"Ma'am, I-I'm close—" You whimpered, to which Regina slowed her pace. "Not yet, baby," She cooed in your ear, her tongue flicking against the shell of it. You whined at her teasing but took it without complaint, squeezing a handful her ass. Whatever she gave you was a blessing.

And having you like this got her off—enough to where she took your hand and held it against her pussy, her eyes silently begging for more of you. You nodded and had no problem obeying her command—you teased her entrance before beginning to pump your digits in-and-out of her, and as you picked up, her pace began to match yours, bringing you closer.

"F-Fuck," You whined and trembled around her fingers, your clit grinding against her palm while she fucked you; her forehead was pressed to yours while she rolled her hips against your digits, your thumb pressed against her clit making her legs want to give out. Fuck, she was close. Her fingers began to curl into your G-spot at a merciless pace, and you practically fucking screamed in pleasure. You reciprocated her actions and your moans began mix, your breaths picking up while you both got close. Neither of you thought, just felt—and you couldn't fucking wait anymore. You were fucking Regina George against her bedroom wall, about to cum with her, And all after God-knows-how-long of fucking.

"Fuck, I can't—" You choked out, your teeth sinking into your lip. Regina's fingers wrapped around your chin and forced you to look up at her flushed face, her emerald eyes hooded and glossy. "I don't care—cum with me, please," She pleaded; both of your moans got throatier, and you couldn't wait anymore. You felt it in your whole body—the bottom of your feet, your chest, your stomach—fuck, you were coming with her and for her. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—!"

Just as you came, she did, her cunt convulsing around her fingers while yours did the same, her name and obscenities slurring from your pretty lips while she continually fucked you through your orgasm. You continued to curl your fingers and didn't stop until she did, her cum dripping down your hand again. Fuck, you were spent.

You two slumped against each other for a moment, breaths fast-paced as you two panted and basked in the aftershocks. Before you could fully relax, Regina lifted your chin to look at her; her eyelids were drooped—she was exhausted. She carefully pulled her fingers out of you and put them to your lips, smearing your slick against them until you took her digits into your mouth and sucked your juices off of them. You moaned softly and did the same for her, pulling your fingers out of each other's mouths once they were clean. Fuck. Did any of that really just happen?

You didn't care. You took Regina's hand and guided her to the bed, tugging her down to lay beside you. Her arms wrapped around your waist and she snuggled up against you, burying her face in the crook of her neck. Neither of you said anything; you just dozed off.

When you woke up, it was way later than you intended—it was literally nighttime. You turned to see Regina stirring awake, her emerald eyes slowly fluttering open to look at you—you giggled softly. "How long have you been watching me, creep?" She scoffed, running a hand through her messy hair. "Not long, unfortunately," You pouted, to which Regina playfully rolled her eyes. "Whatever, baby."

The room fell silent again, the darkness securing your bubble of warmth. She looked at the window, blinking in surprise. "Have we really been asleep that long?" "Yeah, I guess so."

You sighed, scratching your shoulder. "That was amazing," You hummed, rolling over and facing her. She moved a hand to rest on your side, her smile soft and warm. "Tell me about it—I still owe you more from how hard you made me cum earlier," She giggled. You rolled your eyes, "You're insane."

"And you love it."

You two laid in silence for a moment before it dawned on you—you probably had to go, now. All of that, just for it to be over.

You rolled off of the bed and gathered your clothes, and you heard the sheets ruffle beside you. "What are you doing?" Regina asked in confusion, her brows knitted. You swallowed, turning to her. "I've been here a while—I'm sure you want the house to yourself," You hummed, though it hurt more to say it; it made it more real.

"I never said that, though," She hummed. "You don't have to go."

"No, don't feel pressured, Gigi. I understand if you don't wan—"

"I do," She cut you off pointedly, crawling over to the edge of the bed and holding your hand. "Stay, please."

You swallowed and looked back at her, feeling a warmth blossom in your chest. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been surer," She whined, gently tugging at your arm.

You nodded and dropped your things in a pile, crawling back into bed with her. Her arms found your waist again and tugged you close to her, her face buried in your neck and taking in your scent.

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too, Gina."

You two forgot the fact that the cameras were still rolling.

Ever since Lottie bought this place you’d both been deep of the trenches of making it both your home. From the sidewalk, the townhouse looked almost shy.

A quiet facade of pale limestone tucked behind a wrought-iron fence and a pair of neatly trimmed boxwoods. It was the kind of building you could walk past a dozen times without ever suspecting the life unfolding behind its high, arched windows.

Inside was well less pretty and nothing quiet or quaint. It was all chaos, meshing your interior style with Lottie’s had proven a challenge in communication. Lottie wanted more bohemian and functional. While you were very eclectic and maximalist. It was then when a word that was already introduced to the vocabulary of your relationship gained new meaning.

Compromise.

It was one thing to compromise on where to eat. You didn’t care. If Lottie wanted sushi you’d eat it. If she wanted burgers, that’s fine. Now if Lottie wanted to get a weird ass Persian tiger statue she thrifted from the antique mall? Now that..that was not something you wanted to see everyday.

You learned quickly, Lottie didn’t take rejection very well. She shut down, was quieter than normal, avoidant. And when she finally explained tearfully why she felt so passionately about that damn Persian tiger. You agreed that certain compromises were needed.

The Persian tiger lives on the top of her bookshelf in the den of her reading nook. And in came the flood gates of compromises. Tile patterns, colors on the walls, rugs (so many fucking rugs), furniture.

Everything became about compromising. And it sucked at first and sometimes you were stubborn, because that lamp was ugly regardless of how Lottie phrased it. But nothing compared to seeing Lottie beam when you agreed to her pick.

The way she squealed, surged to kiss your cheek, and if you’re lucky your lips. It left this bubbling warmth and joy. Compromising was worth it for that reaction.

This is where you think you might’ve created a monster. Because now…now you think— no you’re convinced Lottie thinks you’ll compromise with enough convincing.

You’re still crouched near the vent, listening for the hum that might be a trapped bird or a dying appliance, when you hear her voice behind you, bright and a little breathless.

“I need to talk to you,” she announces, which is always how she starts when she’s about to drop something life-altering into your lap.

“Is it about the vent?” you ask, hopeful.

“No,” she says, dreamily, “it’s about…well, us.”

You exhale, bracing yourself. You stand and dust your hands off on your jeans. “Okay. What did I do? Or what did we do?”

She shakes her head, dark hair catching the afternoon sun spilling through the tall window. “Nothing. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just—God, I was at the farmers market on 12th. You know, the one with the fancy bread and that stall with all the ridiculous microgreens—”

“Sure,” you say warily. “The microgreens. What about them?”

“And there was this woman with a little girl,” she continues, and her whole face changes, goes soft and bright in a way that makes your heart do a startled somersault. “She must’ve been two, maybe three. And she had this big floppy hat and these chubby cheeks, and she was holding a little basket like she was going to pick out her own tomatoes—”

“Oh God,” you mutter, because you see exactly where this is going.

“—and she looked exactly like you,” Lottie says, undeterred. “She had your eyes, the color, and she smiled at me—just this huge, shameless, beaming smile—and I swear to you, it was like seeing what our kid would look like. I couldn’t stop staring.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

Lottie keeps going, voice a little shaky with excitement. “I mean—your smile. Your nose. She even scrunched it up the way you do when you’re about to sneeze. And I—” She lets out a laugh, like she’s a little embarrassed by herself. “I don’t know, it just…baby it just hit me. Like a lightning bolt. That I want that. I want her. Or, well, someone like her. A little girl with your face.”

You stare at her, stunned. The vent hum forgotten. Your brain can’t seem to form a sentence.

Lottie’s hands flutter helplessly. “I know it’s a lot. I know you’re probably…freaked out. But I can’t stop thinking about it. About how incredible it would be to have a baby who has your eyes. Your smile. I mean—can you imagine?”

You can’t. Not really. Your imagination is stuck somewhere between adorable baby in a sunhat and well the sheer anxiety inducing terror of keeping a human alive.

She looks at you hopefully. Like maybe you’ll just say, Sure, why not, let’s do it tomorrow. And despite the shock, despite the mild heart attack currently in progress, you can’t help it. Your mouth twitches. Because it’s so her. So Lottie to stroll home with a baguette and a plan to drastically change your entire life.

You clear your throat. “Lottie,” you say carefully, “you do realize that a baby is…not a Persian tiger statue.”

Her eyes go wide. “I know! But—”

“Or a rug.”

“I know. But—”

“Or even a particularly expensive lamp.”

She sighs, a little exasperated, but still glowing. “I know. But I’m serious. I want this with you. Someday.”

Your heart is still galloping in your chest, but when you look at her—so earnest, so certain—you feel that dangerous softness again. The one that made you agree to the tiger. And the rugs. And the thousand other compromises that somehow made this house a home.

You rub a hand over your face. “Someday. I can do someday. Because I don’t know if I’m ready to be responsible for a whole little human. Even if they’re the cutest thing to ever exist.” you admit, voice low.

“I know,” she says gently. “I’m not asking you to be ready now. Just…think about it.”

And that’s the problem. Because you know you will.

Even as you promise to do just that and climb back down to peer at the vent, your mind is already conjuring it: a small, chubby-cheeked person with your smile. With her stubbornness. Someone you might someday love more than either of you can comprehend.

You sigh, pressing your ear to the vent.

Somewhere in the walls, the hum keeps going. And you can’t help thinking: maybe it’s not broken at all. Maybe it’s just another thing waiting to be discovered.

It was a week later, you don’t even know the day. You’re in the paint aisle at the hardware store, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, studying a wall of sample cards in a way that feels vaguely humiliating, like if you pick the wrong shade of white, the entire townhouse will collapse in on itself.

Your cart is full of things you’re ninety percent sure you don’t need: painter’s tape, a stud finder you don’t remember grabbing, a replacement filter for the furnace you forgot to measure. You’re determined to get in and out without making eye contact with anyone.

Your phone buzzes again, and you answer automatically, half expecting it to be the store texting about a pickup order.

Instead, Lottie’s voice pours into your ear, bright and animated.

“Babe, oh my God—you will not believe what I just found.”

You exhale a laugh. “Please don’t say it’s another aztec flower pot.”

“No,” she says, sounding delighted. “Better. Listen—there’s this antique mall on Orchard I stopped in on my lunch break—”

You roll your eyes, the last thing you needed was Lottie at the antique mall buying something we certainly didn’t need. “Lottie—”

“Just listen. I’m walking past this stall with all these old books and dishes, and there’s this tea set. Porcelain, with little painted violets. It’s so tiny, like dollhouse tiny, but the cups are real. And there were these wooden toys in the next booth—little carved animals and a pull-along duck—and I was just standing there thinking how perfect they’d be.”

“For what?” you ask cautiously, but you already know. Some deep part of your brain is bracing for impact.

“For our kids,” she says, her voice soft but sure, the way it always is when she’s decided something is meant to be. “I mean—someday. You could build them a little playhouse in the backyard, you know? With a porch and tiny chairs. And in the summer they’d have tea parties out there, with the set I just saw. I could paint murals on the walls—oh, or we could pick wallpaper together, something with animals or flowers—”

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. A week. You got a whole week of peace before she circled back to this.

“Lottie—”

“—and I was thinking, you’d be such a good parent, you know? You’d be the one making the playhouse perfect, measuring every board twice, probably overengineering the whole thing. And I’d—” She breaks off, laughing a little, almost shy. “God, I can just see it.”

You swallow, throat tight, and your eyes flick over the display of paint chips without really seeing them. Because she’s painting a picture so vivid you can’t help stepping into it: a little person running barefoot across your yard. Lottie laughing. You holding a teacup so absurdly small it balances on two fingertips.

You shake your head, a little helpless letting out a conflicted chuckle. “Lottie…my love, you are so funny. I thought we agreed to thinking about it… the opposite of you know…straight into planning.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t sound sorry at all—she sounds flushed with happiness. “I just—can’t you picture it? Really picture it?”

And that’s the worst part. Because you can.

You take a breath, leaning against the cool metal shelf. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “I can.”

She lets out this little exhale, shaky with feeling, and when she speaks again, her voice is soft and certain in your ear. “God, I just want that with you.”

And there it is—that dangerous warmth, the one that makes you want to say yes to things you’re not ready for. The one that made you build a life with her in the first place.

You clear your throat. Because as much as you might want that one day. It makes zero sense to have one right now. “I know baby. And you will someday, but we’re not buying a doll tea set today.”

“I know,” she sighs, and you hear the smile in her voice. “But maybe someday.”

“Someday,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

And as you hang up and turn back to the wall of paint samples, you realize, with an almost amused dread, that she’s going to wear you down eventually.

It started to become routine. A few days past and a baby mention. Or suddenly a baby related item appeared. Or a funny joke is made about oh wow babies. You almost were getting used to it. The baby fever that Lottie was clearly so infected by.

That the morning starts like any other.

You’re bleary-eyed in the kitchen, barefoot, trying to remember if you already put the coffee grounds in the filter. Lottie’s still in bed, though you can hear her stirring upstairs—drawers opening, the faint rustle of sheets as she stretches herself awake.

The townhouse is quiet except for the burble of the coffee machine and the birds outside the kitchen window. Sunlight spills across the counter, catching the absurd little ceramic sugar bowl she insisted on buying.

You pour a glass of juice and take a cautious sip, savoring the cold sweetness. For a moment, you think maybe you’ve made it through a whole day—maybe even two—without hearing the word baby.

You hear her before you see her: the soft pad of her feet on the stairs, the muffled yawn. She appears in the doorway, hair tangled, wearing one of your old shirts. Her face is luminous in that way it always is when she’s still half in a dream.

“Morning,” you say, voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Morning,” she murmurs, and crosses to you, wrapping her arms around your waist. She smells like your shampoo and the lavender lotion she uses at night.

You press a kiss to her hairline. “Coffee’s almost ready.”

“Mm. Good.” She leans back just enough to look up at you, her eyes bright. “I had the most amazing dream.”

Your stomach dips. You’ve learned to be suspicious of her dreams. They differ from being silly to prophecy around here.

“Oh?” you say carefully, trying to keep your tone neutral.

She nods, practically glowing. “Yeah. We had a baby. She had my hair, all these little dark curls, and my skin. But she looked so much like you.”

You take another swallow of juice, which, in retrospect, is a mistake.

“And I’d just given birth,” Lottie goes on, oblivious, “and you came in carrying her big sister—she must’ve been, I don’t know, five? She had these huge eyes, exactly your color. She was so excited. She climbed up on the bed to see the baby, and you—” Her voice goes a little soft. “You were looking at me like you were about to cry.”

You set the glass down, very carefully, because you’re pretty sure if you keep holding it you will drop it.

Lottie sighs, dropping her head against your shoulder. “It felt so real. Like…like it wasn’t a dream at all. Just…a memory from the future.”

You feel something tighten in your throat. “Lottie…”

She doesn’t look up, doesn’t seem to hear the tremor in your voice. “I can still feel her, you know? How warm she was. How soft her hair was. Like she was really here.”

You reach for something to say, but nothing comes out. Because this isn’t just a passing fancy for her—it’s becoming a vision she believes in with her whole heart.

And you…unfortunately are starting to believe she might be right.

Your hand rests on the back of her neck, fingers sifting through her hair. “You know,” you say hoarsely, “if you keep having these dreams…I don’t know if I’m going to have the heart to keep telling you no.”

She finally looks up, eyes shining with that fierce, tender certainty that always unravels you. “I know,” she says softly. “That’s why I keep telling you about them.”

You try to smile, but it comes out a little wobbly. The coffee machine beeps behind you, startling you both. You turn away, grateful for the excuse to breathe.

When you hand her, her mug, she’s still glowing, still lost in the afterimage of the life she’s certain is waiting for you both. And you stand there, clutching your orange juice, feeling the slow, inexorable shift inside you.

Because you’re not ready. Not even close. But you’re starting to think someday…you might be.

It’s late afternoon when it happens.

You’re out with Tai, who’s known you since college, walking the rows of little shops that have started putting out pumpkins and crates of apples. The air smells like woodsmoke and cinnamon. The sky is that crisp, washed-out blue that only comes at the end of September.

You’re half-listening to Tai talk about her new job, a to-go cup warming your hands, when you see her.

Just a little girl, maybe three years old, standing by the display of gourds outside a florist’s shop. She’s wearing a tiny corduroy pinafore over mustard-yellow leggings. Her hair is a tumble of dark curls, exactly the color of Lottie’s, so thick it forms a little halo around her face.

She has the same wide brown eyes. The same solemn way of studying the world, like she’s memorizing every detail to ask questions later.

And your heart—your heart just…stops.

It’s ridiculous, how small she is. Tiny hands, tiny legs, but so completely a person. So much like a miniature version of the woman you love that you feel something in your chest unspool.

Tai follows your gaze, then glances back at you, puzzled. “You okay?”

You can’t answer. Because all at once, you get it.

You see Lottie kneeling in the garden, tying a sunhat over hair exactly like hers. You see her showing small hands how to hold a watering can, her face soft and patient in the golden light. You see yourself sitting beside them, pretending not to cry because your heart is too full.

You see Saturday mornings with pancakes and cartoons. Bedtime stories in the big armchair. A thousand quiet moments you didn’t even know you wanted until right this second.

You blink, and your eyes are stinging.

Tai touches your arm gently. “Hey…seriously, what is it?”

You swallow hard, staring at the little girl until her mother comes to scoop her up. She buries her face in her mom’s neck, giggling, her curls bouncing.

And you can’t help but think; I want that. I want her. I want them.

The wanting is so big, so immediate, it feels like a wave breaking over you. You drag in a shaky breath, watching as they disappear into the florist shop.

“I—” You stop, because you don’t know how to say it. Because until now, it was always Lottie dreaming this life into being. You were the one pressing pause, the one saying someday.

But now…you can’t deny it anymore. You want to see her be a mother. You want to build that world with her.

And you have no idea what to do with that knowledge, except hold it very carefully inside you, like something fragile and astonishing. Tai is still watching you, brows raised.

You clear your throat, voice low. “I…I think I’m in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where,” you say slowly, the truth sliding out before you can stop it, “I’m going to fucking compromise on another thing for Lottie.”

Tai’s face softens, and she bumps her shoulder into yours. “That’s not trouble. Call it the beauty of loving with a hint of your girl winning 90% of the time.”

You let out a soft chuckle but don’t say anything else. You’re too busy picturing it: Lottie smiling at you over the top of a crib. A sleepy child tangled between you in bed. The quiet, ordinary miracle of making something together…someone together.

You take another breath, and the air tastes different somehow. Like fall. Like something beginning.

When you came home, Lottie was still out and about running errands. And you decided a surprise was in order. You cleaned the house, made sure to light candles. You ordered dinner from Lottie’s favorite mediterranean restaurant four blocks down. Made sure to set the table as beautifully as you could.

All to watch as Lottie’s face goes from confused to surprised to finally beaming. Her smile is electric the way it seemed to jolt you where you stood.

“Baby? What’s the occasion?” She asks with a grin, dropping her bags near the coach.

You shrug, “Oh you know…just wanted to show you how much I love you.”

She paused, giving you a suspicious look before gliding to you. Her arms draping over your shoulders to get a good look at your face.

“Did you break something?” She asks sternly.

You laugh. “Surprisingly no. I’m actually being serious. I just wanted to show the love of my life the way I love her is infinite.”

She softens instantly. That wary little crease between her brows melts away, and her whole face goes tender.

“God,” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss you. “You’re going to kill me with this.”

“Hopefully not before dinner,” you say against her mouth, and she laughs, bright and golden, before kissing you again slow and unhurried, her thumb brushing your jaw.

When you finally pull back, she sighs, eyes shiny in the candlelight. “I love you too. More than I can even say.”

“Come on,” you say, taking her hand. “Sit down before everything gets cold.”

You pour her a glass of wine, then settle across from her. For a few minutes, you eat in easy quiet, the clink of silverware and the faint music from the record player filling the space.

It’s so normal, this moment. So domestic and ordinary. And somehow that’s what makes your heart feel like it’s going to burst out of your ribs.

Halfway through your plate, you clear your throat and pick at a piece of pita bread, trying to sound casual.

“So…I’ve been thinking,” you say.

Lottie perks up, always ready for one of your schemes. “Dangerous.”

“Very,” you agree. “But…you know how we keep talking about finally renovating the upstairs rooms?”

Her eyes narrow playfully. “You mean the rooms full of boxes we keep pretending we’re going to unpack someday?”

“Those ones,” you say, fighting a smile. “I was…well, I was thinking it could be nice to actually start planning them out. Deciding what they’re for.”

She tilts her head, studying you in that way she does when she senses there’s more beneath the surface. “Like what?”

You clear your throat, stalling. “Oh, you know. A home gym. An art studio. Maybe a…taxidermy workshop.”

Her brows shoot up. “A what?”

You shrug, deadpan. “You know. Just in case we ever take up taxidermy. Or, I don’t know, a shrine to that cursed Persian tiger.”

Lottie snorts, rolling her eyes. “Be serious.”

“Okay, okay,” you relent, grinning. “I was also thinking maybe…a library. Or a craft room. Or—”

You hesitate. You feel your heart beat once, hard, like it knows what you’re about to say.

“Or,” you say, voice softer now, “I was thinking…a baby’s room.”

The words hang between you, bright and fragile. Lottie goes very still, her hand frozen around her fork. Her lips part, but nothing comes out at first.

Your own voice is trembling when you keep going. “I saw this little girl today—she looked so much like you. And I just… I got it. All of it. Why you keep talking about it. Why you want it so much.”

Her eyes are shining now, wide and searching your face.

You take a breath, your throat tight. “I’m not saying tomorrow. But…definitely someday…soon. I want that with you. I want her. Or him. Or whoever they are.”

For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then she pushes back her chair and comes around the table, dropping to her knees beside you. Her hands are warm and trembling on your cheeks as she kisses you, slow and sure, like she’s sealing some promise you didn’t even know you were ready to make.

When she finally pulls back, she’s smiling through tears. “God,” she whispers. “You have no idea how happy you just made me.”

You close your eyes and let your forehead rest against hers.

“Actually,” you breathe, “I think I do.”

Lottie hums, and shakes her head. “No, I don’t think you do. But I think I can show you.”

Before you can even question what she means, her lips are on yours in the blink of an eye. Her hands grip your waist tightly, as if anchoring herself to you.

You respond without thinking, your fingers finding the back of her neck, pulling her closer. The kiss is urgent now—hungrier, deeper. Like something pent up is finally being let loose.

She shifts, rising from her knees to straddle your lap in the chair, and your hands slide to her thighs, grounding yourself in the warm, familiar feel of her.

The kiss breaks only so she can breathe against your mouth, eyes heavy-lidded, voice breathless. “I’ve wanted this. God, I’ve wanted you like this.”

You thread your fingers into her hair and kiss her again slower this time, but just as intense. She melts against you, her body pressing close, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

The chair creaks beneath you both, and you pull back with a quiet laugh. “We’re going to break this thing.”

She grins, flushed and wild-eyed. “Good. We’ll burn it for warmth after.”

“Dramatic,” you murmur, already standing, her legs still wrapped around your waist. She squeals softly in surprise and clutches your shoulders, but she’s smiling. Glowing.

“Where are we going?” she whispers against your jaw.

“Where do you think?”

You carry her through the house like she weighs nothing, like she’s something precious. Her mouth finds the crook of your neck. Her hands pull at the hem of your shirt, and your skin burns under her touch.

The hallway is a blur. All you feel is her open mouth kissed and the way she is biting any free real estate of skin. The bedroom door pushes open. You don’t bother with the light.

It’s just you and her now—falling back into the bed, into each other.

Lottie’s lips drag up your neck, and along your jaw. Your hands are underneath her top feelings the warm skin of her waist under your fingertips. When her lips finally find your own Lottie is in control. She leads the kiss into something slower again. More deliberate. Her fingers trail down your side, your arm, curling over your ribs like she’s memorizing every inch.

You kiss her like she’s your answer. She touches you like she already knows. Somewhere between the warmth of her skin and the softness of her voice, you realize this is what saying yes looks like. This is what wanting looks like.

Not just the wanting of now—but the wanting of a future. And for the first time, you feel almost stupid for being afraid of wanting it.

All while being lost in thought Lottie’s hands slip underneath your shirt, trail up your stomach and they reach your boobs. You never wore a bra at home, which tonight Lottie was thankful for. She flicked and then pinched your nipple. And when you moan at the feeling her tongue takes advantage and slips into your mouth.

All you can think is; Well played.

She’s swirling her tongue around yours. Taking the lead in this dance. And you let her. Let her have her way, almost recompense for making her wait so long to agree.

You let her hands pinch and grope you. You let buck into your lower abdomen. You in fact help the rhythm of her subtle grind. She halts suddenly.

Her eyes are wide as she pulls away from you and string of saliva connecting you two. You feel your eyebrows scrunch in confusion. Lottie smiled before removing herself from you completely.

She stands to strip fully. Your breath hitches and your eyes locked on her body. Lottie finally lets out a sweet breathy laugh.

“Baby, you going to strip too or are you going to just watch me? Because personally I’m trying to get a jump on baby making.” Lottie teases.

You feel your face flush red, and you nod your head quickly. “Shit yeah, my bad.” you mumbled.

Sitting up you remove your shirt in sudden motion and you maneuver your pants and boxer off as quickly as you could. And before you could reach back out to your love, she was walking away.

You froze confused, but then your heart picked up when you saw her walking to your shared closet. You knew exactly what she was grabbing. You swallowed hard as she grabbed the strap harness.

She looked at you over her shoulder with a childlike giddy. You couldn’t help the butterflies that seemed to manifest in your stomach at that look. Or the deep desire you had to make her feel everything she needed and wanted to feel.

She motioned for you to come closer. You expected her to put the harness on you. Yet instead she chuckles, “Help me put this on, I always have a hard time with tightening it properly.”

You feel like heart race in realization. You nod and reach out to help her. All while feeling your need triple. Whenever Lottie used that damn strap on you, you weren’t leaving the room until you had at least 5 orgasms, you couldn’t walk, and your voice was hoarse.

And she had this glint in her eye. Her hands were threading themselves into your hair as you finished the last of it. You tapped her thigh lovingly and looked up at her from on your knees.

Lottie looked down at you and her eyes were hooded with desire. “So I have a surprise for you.”

Thats how you ended up, eyes wide still on your knees face to face with a brand new strap Lottie bought. You moved your hands to the base of the strap and started to pump it, licking at the tip.

All while feeling Lottie’s eyes on me. You could picture her mouth just slightly agape. Lottie nudges you closer, and you know what she wants.

You look up at her with a small smile, before taking her tip into your mouth. The rush of pride that buzzed within you when you heard Lottie groan.

Moments like that make it hard to forget she couldn’t feel you really. Lottie never acted or sounded like that was the truth though. She was so fucking vocal, so breathless, so affected by you. It only spurred you on. You took more of her, letting your head bob up and down her shaft.

Lottie took a shaky exhale, her grip on your hair tightening. “Fuuuuck you’re so pretty-f-fuck.” she moaned out.

The more you took the more impatient Lottie got. Thrusting up, into your mouth. Chasing her own high, wanting to hear you gag. Finally when her thighs begin to tremble you tap her to stop.

Lottie jolts to a pause. Her face is twisted in disappointment and concern. Her chest rising and falling, fingertips frozen at her sides. You catch your breath before kissing her thigh.

“Want you inside me.” You explain into the skin of her leg.

Lottie swallowed hard. She was practically dripping at the scene before her. You looking up her so soft. With so much need. Lottie didn’t even understand what she did to deserve this.

She nods, not even trusting her voice anymore. And gently grabs your face in her hands to pull you to your face. Her lips land on your jaw, “Go lie down then,” she mumbles.

You were a mess, “shit lot,” you mumbled breathlessly, as Lottie continues to grind against your folds. Dragging that damn strap all across your entrance spreading your wetness around it. You basically makeshift your own special lube on her cock, the way you’re dripping.

Lottie’s lips kiss you with all the intention in the world. Her hand was tightly gripping your thigh. You kiss her back with soft pants, breaking your rhythm.

“I thought about this so many times. I thought about you like this. That this would—“ She didn’t have to finish for you to know what she meant.

She wanted to be the one to get me pregnant. Actually…truly. Something about that knocked the air out of you.

Finally, she slides into you, and you gasp. This strap was so much bigger than the others. She very slowly but steadily bottoms out. The stretch has you whining in Lottie’s ear. Your arms wrapped around her tightly, her face is buried in your neck. As she gives you time to adjust.

She said it was a surprise. Your imagination had run through various reasons why it would be a surprise. Finally after a beat she moves, snapping her hips back then against yours to slam back into you.

That was the thing about Lottie, she knew you could take it. She knew you could handle all of her, and she knew you wanted it. So she had no shame in being rough as she pounded into you.

Or maybe she was just desperate for you to feel her. Feel all of her inside you. To have your insides clench and mold themselves around the shape of only her.

She fiddled with your clit, as she rutted into all the right spots. She was just far enough to see your face, gauge your reaction. Know what to keep doing and how much of it to get you to cum.

But she was also just so loud, groaning and panting like she could feel you. Mumbling how good you felt around her. What a good girl you were. How excited she was to see you as a mom.

It was unraveling you by the second. You knew it wouldn’t be long. Lottie could tell by the way your nails dug onto her back hot anger lines. The way your legs were beginning to lock her hips down into you.

You were so close. Fuck Lottie was getting off this so much she was so close. She doubled her efforts, pounding harder and harder. Hoping to get you there faster. Wanting you to be splintered open for her.

She was desperate for it.

You couldn’t even speak mumbling a faint “M so close baby.”

And all it took was one more hard snap of her hips, and you folded. You came hard. Pulling Lottie flushed into you. Lottie rutted her hips trying to fuck you through your orgasm.

And finally as you laid still, she picked up the pace of her thrusts and you start were a mess. “Fuck fuck lot. Baby hold on.” your voice hoarse.

Lottie ignored you, she ignored you kept fucking a harsh pace. Chasing her own high? Dragging another orgasm out of you? You didn’t know. You just knew you were seeing white and the dissent into another orgasm was quick.

Lottie finally rumbled a fuck into your neck and you felt something spill into you. Holy shit? Lottie dumped her release inside you, soaking your slit with herself. The revelation alone pushed you over the edge with her, your eyes squeezed shut.

You were panting for air, your legs trembling and Lottie’s body laid on top of yours. She had a dumb ass smile on her lips. Her strap still inside you. Leaving you feeling so full and…well complete.

“You’re going to look so fucking beautiful pregnant.” She sighed out.

And just like that Lottie won….again.

The backyard smells like charcoal and rosemary. Someone put on a playlist that’s mostly 90s pop, and you’re half-listening to it while balancing a sweating glass of lemonade on your belly.

Your belly.

It’s so fucking insane to you. After several appointments and ivf treatments you were actually pregnant. You’re still getting used to thinking of it that way. That you were casually creating some tiny person in your stomach.

Crazy.

Lottie certainly has no trouble. She’s practically glued to you these days, one hand always drifting absently to the swell of your bump like she needs to reassure herself you’re both real.

You’re sitting on a big striped blanket under the oak tree. Around you, your friends and a scattering of your relatives are chatting, drinking, passing around platters of grilled vegetables. It’s warm, a little sticky with the late summer heat, but you can’t quite bring yourself to complain.

Because Lottie is sitting behind you, her arms wrapped around your waist, her cheek resting against your shoulder. And she is—God help you—telling the story again.

“I swear, it was the little girl at the farmer’s market that did it,” she’s saying, her voice all soft and starry-eyed. She lifts her hand to gesture, nearly tipping your lemonade in the process. “She looked just like her. Same eyes, same expression. And I just knew. I knew if I kept talking about it, you know painting the picture, eventually she’d see it too.”

Your distant cousin Mariah, who you haven’t seen since you were twelve, is nodding politely. “Wow,” she says, clearly not sure what else to add.

“And then,” Lottie goes on, oblivious, “she came home one day and started talking about renovating the upstairs rooms. And I knew—I knew she was going to say it. So when she started listing all these ridiculous ideas, and like ridiculous. She said what was baby? TAXIDERMY?? A goddamn taxidermy room?? Can you believe—”

“God,” you groan, tipping your head back against her. “You make it sound like you hypnotized me.”

Lottie beams and kisses your temple. “Did I?”

“Maybe,” you mutter, but you can’t keep the smile from your voice.

Mariah laughs, shaking her head. “Well, however it happened, I’m so excited for you two!”

Lottie’s hand slides back over your belly, her thumb stroking a slow circle. “We are too,” she agrees softly, her voice almost reverent. “I still can’t believe it. Every morning I wake up and I’m like—we made this.”

Your heart does that dangerous little flip it always does when she talks like that.

You roll your eyes, but you reach back to squeeze her knee. “You’re soooooo disgustingly in love with me, you know that?”

She leans forward so her mouth brushes your ear. “Yeah,” she whispers, grinning. “And I’m never going to stop. Sue me.”

You sigh and take another sip of lemonade, feeling her arms tighten around you, her hand warm and steady over the life you made together.

Ever since Lottie bought this place you’d both been deep of the trenches of making it both your home. From the sidewalk, the townhouse looked almost shy.

A quiet facade of pale limestone tucked behind a wrought-iron fence and a pair of neatly trimmed boxwoods. It was the kind of building you could walk past a dozen times without ever suspecting the life unfolding behind its high, arched windows.

Inside was well less pretty and nothing quiet or quaint. It was all chaos, meshing your interior style with Lottie’s had proven a challenge in communication. Lottie wanted more bohemian and functional. While you were very eclectic and maximalist. It was then when a word that was already introduced to the vocabulary of your relationship gained new meaning.

Compromise.

It was one thing to compromise on where to eat. You didn’t care. If Lottie wanted sushi you’d eat it. If she wanted burgers, that’s fine. Now if Lottie wanted to get a weird ass Persian tiger statue she thrifted from the antique mall? Now that..that was not something you wanted to see everyday.

You learned quickly, Lottie didn’t take rejection very well. She shut down, was quieter than normal, avoidant. And when she finally explained tearfully why she felt so passionately about that damn Persian tiger. You agreed that certain compromises were needed.

The Persian tiger lives on the top of her bookshelf in the den of her reading nook. And in came the flood gates of compromises. Tile patterns, colors on the walls, rugs (so many fucking rugs), furniture.

Everything became about compromising. And it sucked at first and sometimes you were stubborn, because that lamp was ugly regardless of how Lottie phrased it. But nothing compared to seeing Lottie beam when you agreed to her pick.

The way she squealed, surged to kiss your cheek, and if you’re lucky your lips. It left this bubbling warmth and joy. Compromising was worth it for that reaction.

This is where you think you might’ve created a monster. Because now…now you think— no you’re convinced Lottie thinks you’ll compromise with enough convincing.

You’re still crouched near the vent, listening for the hum that might be a trapped bird or a dying appliance, when you hear her voice behind you, bright and a little breathless.

“I need to talk to you,” she announces, which is always how she starts when she’s about to drop something life-altering into your lap.

“Is it about the vent?” you ask, hopeful.

“No,” she says, dreamily, “it’s about…well, us.”

You exhale, bracing yourself. You stand and dust your hands off on your jeans. “Okay. What did I do? Or what did we do?”

She shakes her head, dark hair catching the afternoon sun spilling through the tall window. “Nothing. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just—God, I was at the farmers market on 12th. You know, the one with the fancy bread and that stall with all the ridiculous microgreens—”

“Sure,” you say warily. “The microgreens. What about them?”

“And there was this woman with a little girl,” she continues, and her whole face changes, goes soft and bright in a way that makes your heart do a startled somersault. “She must’ve been two, maybe three. And she had this big floppy hat and these chubby cheeks, and she was holding a little basket like she was going to pick out her own tomatoes—”

“Oh God,” you mutter, because you see exactly where this is going.

“—and she looked exactly like you,” Lottie says, undeterred. “She had your eyes, the color, and she smiled at me—just this huge, shameless, beaming smile—and I swear to you, it was like seeing what our kid would look like. I couldn’t stop staring.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

Lottie keeps going, voice a little shaky with excitement. “I mean—your smile. Your nose. She even scrunched it up the way you do when you’re about to sneeze. And I—” She lets out a laugh, like she’s a little embarrassed by herself. “I don’t know, it just…baby it just hit me. Like a lightning bolt. That I want that. I want her. Or, well, someone like her. A little girl with your face.”

You stare at her, stunned. The vent hum forgotten. Your brain can’t seem to form a sentence.

Lottie’s hands flutter helplessly. “I know it’s a lot. I know you’re probably…freaked out. But I can’t stop thinking about it. About how incredible it would be to have a baby who has your eyes. Your smile. I mean—can you imagine?”

You can’t. Not really. Your imagination is stuck somewhere between adorable baby in a sunhat and well the sheer anxiety inducing terror of keeping a human alive.

She looks at you hopefully. Like maybe you’ll just say, Sure, why not, let’s do it tomorrow. And despite the shock, despite the mild heart attack currently in progress, you can’t help it. Your mouth twitches. Because it’s so her. So Lottie to stroll home with a baguette and a plan to drastically change your entire life.

You clear your throat. “Lottie,” you say carefully, “you do realize that a baby is…not a Persian tiger statue.”

Her eyes go wide. “I know! But—”

“Or a rug.”

“I know. But—”

“Or even a particularly expensive lamp.”

She sighs, a little exasperated, but still glowing. “I know. But I’m serious. I want this with you. Someday.”

Your heart is still galloping in your chest, but when you look at her—so earnest, so certain—you feel that dangerous softness again. The one that made you agree to the tiger. And the rugs. And the thousand other compromises that somehow made this house a home.

You rub a hand over your face. “Someday. I can do someday. Because I don’t know if I’m ready to be responsible for a whole little human. Even if they’re the cutest thing to ever exist.” you admit, voice low.

“I know,” she says gently. “I’m not asking you to be ready now. Just…think about it.”

And that’s the problem. Because you know you will.

Even as you promise to do just that and climb back down to peer at the vent, your mind is already conjuring it: a small, chubby-cheeked person with your smile. With her stubbornness. Someone you might someday love more than either of you can comprehend.

You sigh, pressing your ear to the vent.

Somewhere in the walls, the hum keeps going. And you can’t help thinking: maybe it’s not broken at all. Maybe it’s just another thing waiting to be discovered.

It was a week later, you don’t even know the day. You’re in the paint aisle at the hardware store, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, studying a wall of sample cards in a way that feels vaguely humiliating, like if you pick the wrong shade of white, the entire townhouse will collapse in on itself.

Your cart is full of things you’re ninety percent sure you don’t need: painter’s tape, a stud finder you don’t remember grabbing, a replacement filter for the furnace you forgot to measure. You’re determined to get in and out without making eye contact with anyone.

Your phone buzzes again, and you answer automatically, half expecting it to be the store texting about a pickup order.

Instead, Lottie’s voice pours into your ear, bright and animated.

“Babe, oh my God—you will not believe what I just found.”

You exhale a laugh. “Please don’t say it’s another aztec flower pot.”

“No,” she says, sounding delighted. “Better. Listen—there’s this antique mall on Orchard I stopped in on my lunch break—”

You roll your eyes, the last thing you needed was Lottie at the antique mall buying something we certainly didn’t need. “Lottie—”

“Just listen. I’m walking past this stall with all these old books and dishes, and there’s this tea set. Porcelain, with little painted violets. It’s so tiny, like dollhouse tiny, but the cups are real. And there were these wooden toys in the next booth—little carved animals and a pull-along duck—and I was just standing there thinking how perfect they’d be.”

“For what?” you ask cautiously, but you already know. Some deep part of your brain is bracing for impact.

“For our kids,” she says, her voice soft but sure, the way it always is when she’s decided something is meant to be. “I mean—someday. You could build them a little playhouse in the backyard, you know? With a porch and tiny chairs. And in the summer they’d have tea parties out there, with the set I just saw. I could paint murals on the walls—oh, or we could pick wallpaper together, something with animals or flowers—”

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. A week. You got a whole week of peace before she circled back to this.

“Lottie—”

“—and I was thinking, you’d be such a good parent, you know? You’d be the one making the playhouse perfect, measuring every board twice, probably overengineering the whole thing. And I’d—” She breaks off, laughing a little, almost shy. “God, I can just see it.”

You swallow, throat tight, and your eyes flick over the display of paint chips without really seeing them. Because she’s painting a picture so vivid you can’t help stepping into it: a little person running barefoot across your yard. Lottie laughing. You holding a teacup so absurdly small it balances on two fingertips.

You shake your head, a little helpless letting out a conflicted chuckle. “Lottie…my love, you are so funny. I thought we agreed to thinking about it… the opposite of you know…straight into planning.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she says, but she doesn’t sound sorry at all—she sounds flushed with happiness. “I just—can’t you picture it? Really picture it?”

And that’s the worst part. Because you can.

You take a breath, leaning against the cool metal shelf. “Yeah,” you admit quietly. “I can.”

She lets out this little exhale, shaky with feeling, and when she speaks again, her voice is soft and certain in your ear. “God, I just want that with you.”

And there it is—that dangerous warmth, the one that makes you want to say yes to things you’re not ready for. The one that made you build a life with her in the first place.

You clear your throat. Because as much as you might want that one day. It makes zero sense to have one right now. “I know baby. And you will someday, but we’re not buying a doll tea set today.”

“I know,” she sighs, and you hear the smile in her voice. “But maybe someday.”

“Someday,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

And as you hang up and turn back to the wall of paint samples, you realize, with an almost amused dread, that she’s going to wear you down eventually.

It started to become routine. A few days past and a baby mention. Or suddenly a baby related item appeared. Or a funny joke is made about oh wow babies. You almost were getting used to it. The baby fever that Lottie was clearly so infected by.

That the morning starts like any other.

You’re bleary-eyed in the kitchen, barefoot, trying to remember if you already put the coffee grounds in the filter. Lottie’s still in bed, though you can hear her stirring upstairs—drawers opening, the faint rustle of sheets as she stretches herself awake.

The townhouse is quiet except for the burble of the coffee machine and the birds outside the kitchen window. Sunlight spills across the counter, catching the absurd little ceramic sugar bowl she insisted on buying.

You pour a glass of juice and take a cautious sip, savoring the cold sweetness. For a moment, you think maybe you’ve made it through a whole day—maybe even two—without hearing the word baby.

You hear her before you see her: the soft pad of her feet on the stairs, the muffled yawn. She appears in the doorway, hair tangled, wearing one of your old shirts. Her face is luminous in that way it always is when she’s still half in a dream.

“Morning,” you say, voice still scratchy with sleep.

“Morning,” she murmurs, and crosses to you, wrapping her arms around your waist. She smells like your shampoo and the lavender lotion she uses at night.

You press a kiss to her hairline. “Coffee’s almost ready.”

“Mm. Good.” She leans back just enough to look up at you, her eyes bright. “I had the most amazing dream.”

Your stomach dips. You’ve learned to be suspicious of her dreams. They differ from being silly to prophecy around here.

“Oh?” you say carefully, trying to keep your tone neutral.

She nods, practically glowing. “Yeah. We had a baby. She had my hair, all these little dark curls, and my skin. But she looked so much like you.”

You take another swallow of juice, which, in retrospect, is a mistake.

“And I’d just given birth,” Lottie goes on, oblivious, “and you came in carrying her big sister—she must’ve been, I don’t know, five? She had these huge eyes, exactly your color. She was so excited. She climbed up on the bed to see the baby, and you—” Her voice goes a little soft. “You were looking at me like you were about to cry.”

You set the glass down, very carefully, because you’re pretty sure if you keep holding it you will drop it.

Lottie sighs, dropping her head against your shoulder. “It felt so real. Like…like it wasn’t a dream at all. Just…a memory from the future.”

You feel something tighten in your throat. “Lottie…”

She doesn’t look up, doesn’t seem to hear the tremor in your voice. “I can still feel her, you know? How warm she was. How soft her hair was. Like she was really here.”

You reach for something to say, but nothing comes out. Because this isn’t just a passing fancy for her—it’s becoming a vision she believes in with her whole heart.

And you…unfortunately are starting to believe she might be right.

Your hand rests on the back of her neck, fingers sifting through her hair. “You know,” you say hoarsely, “if you keep having these dreams…I don’t know if I’m going to have the heart to keep telling you no.”

She finally looks up, eyes shining with that fierce, tender certainty that always unravels you. “I know,” she says softly. “That’s why I keep telling you about them.”

You try to smile, but it comes out a little wobbly. The coffee machine beeps behind you, startling you both. You turn away, grateful for the excuse to breathe.

When you hand her, her mug, she’s still glowing, still lost in the afterimage of the life she’s certain is waiting for you both. And you stand there, clutching your orange juice, feeling the slow, inexorable shift inside you.

Because you’re not ready. Not even close. But you’re starting to think someday…you might be.

It’s late afternoon when it happens.

You’re out with Tai, who’s known you since college, walking the rows of little shops that have started putting out pumpkins and crates of apples. The air smells like woodsmoke and cinnamon. The sky is that crisp, washed-out blue that only comes at the end of September.

You’re half-listening to Tai talk about her new job, a to-go cup warming your hands, when you see her.

Just a little girl, maybe three years old, standing by the display of gourds outside a florist’s shop. She’s wearing a tiny corduroy pinafore over mustard-yellow leggings. Her hair is a tumble of dark curls, exactly the color of Lottie’s, so thick it forms a little halo around her face.

She has the same wide brown eyes. The same solemn way of studying the world, like she’s memorizing every detail to ask questions later.

And your heart—your heart just…stops.

It’s ridiculous, how small she is. Tiny hands, tiny legs, but so completely a person. So much like a miniature version of the woman you love that you feel something in your chest unspool.

Tai follows your gaze, then glances back at you, puzzled. “You okay?”

You can’t answer. Because all at once, you get it.

You see Lottie kneeling in the garden, tying a sunhat over hair exactly like hers. You see her showing small hands how to hold a watering can, her face soft and patient in the golden light. You see yourself sitting beside them, pretending not to cry because your heart is too full.

You see Saturday mornings with pancakes and cartoons. Bedtime stories in the big armchair. A thousand quiet moments you didn’t even know you wanted until right this second.

You blink, and your eyes are stinging.

Tai touches your arm gently. “Hey…seriously, what is it?”

You swallow hard, staring at the little girl until her mother comes to scoop her up. She buries her face in her mom’s neck, giggling, her curls bouncing.

And you can’t help but think; I want that. I want her. I want them.

The wanting is so big, so immediate, it feels like a wave breaking over you. You drag in a shaky breath, watching as they disappear into the florist shop.

“I—” You stop, because you don’t know how to say it. Because until now, it was always Lottie dreaming this life into being. You were the one pressing pause, the one saying someday.

But now…you can’t deny it anymore. You want to see her be a mother. You want to build that world with her.

And you have no idea what to do with that knowledge, except hold it very carefully inside you, like something fragile and astonishing. Tai is still watching you, brows raised.

You clear your throat, voice low. “I…I think I’m in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The kind where,” you say slowly, the truth sliding out before you can stop it, “I’m going to fucking compromise on another thing for Lottie.”

Tai’s face softens, and she bumps her shoulder into yours. “That’s not trouble. Call it the beauty of loving with a hint of your girl winning 90% of the time.”

You let out a soft chuckle but don’t say anything else. You’re too busy picturing it: Lottie smiling at you over the top of a crib. A sleepy child tangled between you in bed. The quiet, ordinary miracle of making something together…someone together.

You take another breath, and the air tastes different somehow. Like fall. Like something beginning.

When you came home, Lottie was still out and about running errands. And you decided a surprise was in order. You cleaned the house, made sure to light candles. You ordered dinner from Lottie’s favorite mediterranean restaurant four blocks down. Made sure to set the table as beautifully as you could.

All to watch as Lottie’s face goes from confused to surprised to finally beaming. Her smile is electric the way it seemed to jolt you where you stood.

“Baby? What’s the occasion?” She asks with a grin, dropping her bags near the coach.

You shrug, “Oh you know…just wanted to show you how much I love you.”

She paused, giving you a suspicious look before gliding to you. Her arms draping over your shoulders to get a good look at your face.

“Did you break something?” She asks sternly.

You laugh. “Surprisingly no. I’m actually being serious. I just wanted to show the love of my life the way I love her is infinite.”

She softens instantly. That wary little crease between her brows melts away, and her whole face goes tender.

“God,” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss you. “You’re going to kill me with this.”

“Hopefully not before dinner,” you say against her mouth, and she laughs, bright and golden, before kissing you again slow and unhurried, her thumb brushing your jaw.

When you finally pull back, she sighs, eyes shiny in the candlelight. “I love you too. More than I can even say.”

“Come on,” you say, taking her hand. “Sit down before everything gets cold.”

You pour her a glass of wine, then settle across from her. For a few minutes, you eat in easy quiet, the clink of silverware and the faint music from the record player filling the space.

It’s so normal, this moment. So domestic and ordinary. And somehow that’s what makes your heart feel like it’s going to burst out of your ribs.

Halfway through your plate, you clear your throat and pick at a piece of pita bread, trying to sound casual.

“So…I’ve been thinking,” you say.

Lottie perks up, always ready for one of your schemes. “Dangerous.”

“Very,” you agree. “But…you know how we keep talking about finally renovating the upstairs rooms?”

Her eyes narrow playfully. “You mean the rooms full of boxes we keep pretending we’re going to unpack someday?”

“Those ones,” you say, fighting a smile. “I was…well, I was thinking it could be nice to actually start planning them out. Deciding what they’re for.”

She tilts her head, studying you in that way she does when she senses there’s more beneath the surface. “Like what?”

You clear your throat, stalling. “Oh, you know. A home gym. An art studio. Maybe a…taxidermy workshop.”

Her brows shoot up. “A what?”

You shrug, deadpan. “You know. Just in case we ever take up taxidermy. Or, I don’t know, a shrine to that cursed Persian tiger.”

Lottie snorts, rolling her eyes. “Be serious.”

“Okay, okay,” you relent, grinning. “I was also thinking maybe…a library. Or a craft room. Or—”

You hesitate. You feel your heart beat once, hard, like it knows what you’re about to say.

“Or,” you say, voice softer now, “I was thinking…a baby’s room.”

The words hang between you, bright and fragile. Lottie goes very still, her hand frozen around her fork. Her lips part, but nothing comes out at first.

Your own voice is trembling when you keep going. “I saw this little girl today—she looked so much like you. And I just… I got it. All of it. Why you keep talking about it. Why you want it so much.”

Her eyes are shining now, wide and searching your face.

You take a breath, your throat tight. “I’m not saying tomorrow. But…definitely someday…soon. I want that with you. I want her. Or him. Or whoever they are.”

For a moment, she doesn’t move. Then she pushes back her chair and comes around the table, dropping to her knees beside you. Her hands are warm and trembling on your cheeks as she kisses you, slow and sure, like she’s sealing some promise you didn’t even know you were ready to make.

When she finally pulls back, she’s smiling through tears. “God,” she whispers. “You have no idea how happy you just made me.”

You close your eyes and let your forehead rest against hers.

“Actually,” you breathe, “I think I do.”

Lottie hums, and shakes her head. “No, I don’t think you do. But I think I can show you.”

Before you can even question what she means, her lips are on yours in the blink of an eye. Her hands grip your waist tightly, as if anchoring herself to you.

You respond without thinking, your fingers finding the back of her neck, pulling her closer. The kiss is urgent now—hungrier, deeper. Like something pent up is finally being let loose.

She shifts, rising from her knees to straddle your lap in the chair, and your hands slide to her thighs, grounding yourself in the warm, familiar feel of her.

The kiss breaks only so she can breathe against your mouth, eyes heavy-lidded, voice breathless. “I’ve wanted this. God, I’ve wanted you like this.”

You thread your fingers into her hair and kiss her again slower this time, but just as intense. She melts against you, her body pressing close, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.

The chair creaks beneath you both, and you pull back with a quiet laugh. “We’re going to break this thing.”

She grins, flushed and wild-eyed. “Good. We’ll burn it for warmth after.”

“Dramatic,” you murmur, already standing, her legs still wrapped around your waist. She squeals softly in surprise and clutches your shoulders, but she’s smiling. Glowing.

“Where are we going?” she whispers against your jaw.

“Where do you think?”

You carry her through the house like she weighs nothing, like she’s something precious. Her mouth finds the crook of your neck. Her hands pull at the hem of your shirt, and your skin burns under her touch.

The hallway is a blur. All you feel is her open mouth kissed and the way she is biting any free real estate of skin. The bedroom door pushes open. You don’t bother with the light.

It’s just you and her now—falling back into the bed, into each other.

Lottie’s lips drag up your neck, and along your jaw. Your hands are underneath her top feelings the warm skin of her waist under your fingertips. When her lips finally find your own Lottie is in control. She leads the kiss into something slower again. More deliberate. Her fingers trail down your side, your arm, curling over your ribs like she’s memorizing every inch.

You kiss her like she’s your answer. She touches you like she already knows. Somewhere between the warmth of her skin and the softness of her voice, you realize this is what saying yes looks like. This is what wanting looks like.

Not just the wanting of now—but the wanting of a future. And for the first time, you feel almost stupid for being afraid of wanting it.

All while being lost in thought Lottie’s hands slip underneath your shirt, trail up your stomach and they reach your boobs. You never wore a bra at home, which tonight Lottie was thankful for. She flicked and then pinched your nipple. And when you moan at the feeling her tongue takes advantage and slips into your mouth.

All you can think is; Well played.

She’s swirling her tongue around yours. Taking the lead in this dance. And you let her. Let her have her way, almost recompense for making her wait so long to agree.

You let her hands pinch and grope you. You let buck into your lower abdomen. You in fact help the rhythm of her subtle grind. She halts suddenly.

Her eyes are wide as she pulls away from you and string of saliva connecting you two. You feel your eyebrows scrunch in confusion. Lottie smiled before removing herself from you completely.

She stands to strip fully. Your breath hitches and your eyes locked on her body. Lottie finally lets out a sweet breathy laugh.

“Baby, you going to strip too or are you going to just watch me? Because personally I’m trying to get a jump on baby making.” Lottie teases.

You feel your face flush red, and you nod your head quickly. “Shit yeah, my bad.” you mumbled.

Sitting up you remove your shirt in sudden motion and you maneuver your pants and boxer off as quickly as you could. And before you could reach back out to your love, she was walking away.

You froze confused, but then your heart picked up when you saw her walking to your shared closet. You knew exactly what she was grabbing. You swallowed hard as she grabbed the strap harness.

She looked at you over her shoulder with a childlike giddy. You couldn’t help the butterflies that seemed to manifest in your stomach at that look. Or the deep desire you had to make her feel everything she needed and wanted to feel.

She motioned for you to come closer. You expected her to put the harness on you. Yet instead she chuckles, “Help me put this on, I always have a hard time with tightening it properly.”

You feel like heart race in realization. You nod and reach out to help her. All while feeling your need triple. Whenever Lottie used that damn strap on you, you weren’t leaving the room until you had at least 5 orgasms, you couldn’t walk, and your voice was hoarse.

And she had this glint in her eye. Her hands were threading themselves into your hair as you finished the last of it. You tapped her thigh lovingly and looked up at her from on your knees.

Lottie looked down at you and her eyes were hooded with desire. “So I have a surprise for you.”

Thats how you ended up, eyes wide still on your knees face to face with a brand new strap Lottie bought. You moved your hands to the base of the strap and started to pump it, licking at the tip.

All while feeling Lottie’s eyes on me. You could picture her mouth just slightly agape. Lottie nudges you closer, and you know what she wants.

You look up at her with a small smile, before taking her tip into your mouth. The rush of pride that buzzed within you when you heard Lottie groan.

Moments like that make it hard to forget she couldn’t feel you really. Lottie never acted or sounded like that was the truth though. She was so fucking vocal, so breathless, so affected by you. It only spurred you on. You took more of her, letting your head bob up and down her shaft.

Lottie took a shaky exhale, her grip on your hair tightening. “Fuuuuck you’re so pretty-f-fuck.” she moaned out.

The more you took the more impatient Lottie got. Thrusting up, into your mouth. Chasing her own high, wanting to hear you gag. Finally when her thighs begin to tremble you tap her to stop.

Lottie jolts to a pause. Her face is twisted in disappointment and concern. Her chest rising and falling, fingertips frozen at her sides. You catch your breath before kissing her thigh.

“Want you inside me.” You explain into the skin of her leg.

Lottie swallowed hard. She was practically dripping at the scene before her. You looking up her so soft. With so much need. Lottie didn’t even understand what she did to deserve this.

She nods, not even trusting her voice anymore. And gently grabs your face in her hands to pull you to your face. Her lips land on your jaw, “Go lie down then,” she mumbles.

You were a mess, “shit lot,” you mumbled breathlessly, as Lottie continues to grind against your folds. Dragging that damn strap all across your entrance spreading your wetness around it. You basically makeshift your own special lube on her cock, the way you’re dripping.

Lottie’s lips kiss you with all the intention in the world. Her hand was tightly gripping your thigh. You kiss her back with soft pants, breaking your rhythm.

“I thought about this so many times. I thought about you like this. That this would—“ She didn’t have to finish for you to know what she meant.

She wanted to be the one to get me pregnant. Actually…truly. Something about that knocked the air out of you.

Finally, she slides into you, and you gasp. This strap was so much bigger than the others. She very slowly but steadily bottoms out. The stretch has you whining in Lottie’s ear. Your arms wrapped around her tightly, her face is buried in your neck. As she gives you time to adjust.

She said it was a surprise. Your imagination had run through various reasons why it would be a surprise. Finally after a beat she moves, snapping her hips back then against yours to slam back into you.

That was the thing about Lottie, she knew you could take it. She knew you could handle all of her, and she knew you wanted it. So she had no shame in being rough as she pounded into you.

Or maybe she was just desperate for you to feel her. Feel all of her inside you. To have your insides clench and mold themselves around the shape of only her.

She fiddled with your clit, as she rutted into all the right spots. She was just far enough to see your face, gauge your reaction. Know what to keep doing and how much of it to get you to cum.

But she was also just so loud, groaning and panting like she could feel you. Mumbling how good you felt around her. What a good girl you were. How excited she was to see you as a mom.

It was unraveling you by the second. You knew it wouldn’t be long. Lottie could tell by the way your nails dug onto her back hot anger lines. The way your legs were beginning to lock her hips down into you.

You were so close. Fuck Lottie was getting off this so much she was so close. She doubled her efforts, pounding harder and harder. Hoping to get you there faster. Wanting you to be splintered open for her.

She was desperate for it.

You couldn’t even speak mumbling a faint “M so close baby.”

And all it took was one more hard snap of her hips, and you folded. You came hard. Pulling Lottie flushed into you. Lottie rutted her hips trying to fuck you through your orgasm.

And finally as you laid still, she picked up the pace of her thrusts and you start were a mess. “Fuck fuck lot. Baby hold on.” your voice hoarse.

Lottie ignored you, she ignored you kept fucking a harsh pace. Chasing her own high? Dragging another orgasm out of you? You didn’t know. You just knew you were seeing white and the dissent into another orgasm was quick.

Lottie finally rumbled a fuck into your neck and you felt something spill into you. Holy shit? Lottie dumped her release inside you, soaking your slit with herself. The revelation alone pushed you over the edge with her, your eyes squeezed shut.

You were panting for air, your legs trembling and Lottie’s body laid on top of yours. She had a dumb ass smile on her lips. Her strap still inside you. Leaving you feeling so full and…well complete.

“You’re going to look so fucking beautiful pregnant.” She sighed out.

And just like that Lottie won….again.

The backyard smells like charcoal and rosemary. Someone put on a playlist that’s mostly 90s pop, and you’re half-listening to it while balancing a sweating glass of lemonade on your belly.

Your belly.

It’s so fucking insane to you. After several appointments and ivf treatments you were actually pregnant. You’re still getting used to thinking of it that way. That you were casually creating some tiny person in your stomach.

Crazy.

Lottie certainly has no trouble. She’s practically glued to you these days, one hand always drifting absently to the swell of your bump like she needs to reassure herself you’re both real.

You’re sitting on a big striped blanket under the oak tree. Around you, your friends and a scattering of your relatives are chatting, drinking, passing around platters of grilled vegetables. It’s warm, a little sticky with the late summer heat, but you can’t quite bring yourself to complain.

Because Lottie is sitting behind you, her arms wrapped around your waist, her cheek resting against your shoulder. And she is—God help you—telling the story again.

“I swear, it was the little girl at the farmer’s market that did it,” she’s saying, her voice all soft and starry-eyed. She lifts her hand to gesture, nearly tipping your lemonade in the process. “She looked just like her. Same eyes, same expression. And I just knew. I knew if I kept talking about it, you know painting the picture, eventually she’d see it too.”

Your distant cousin Mariah, who you haven’t seen since you were twelve, is nodding politely. “Wow,” she says, clearly not sure what else to add.

“And then,” Lottie goes on, oblivious, “she came home one day and started talking about renovating the upstairs rooms. And I knew—I knew she was going to say it. So when she started listing all these ridiculous ideas, and like ridiculous. She said what was baby? TAXIDERMY?? A goddamn taxidermy room?? Can you believe—”

“God,” you groan, tipping your head back against her. “You make it sound like you hypnotized me.”

Lottie beams and kisses your temple. “Did I?”

“Maybe,” you mutter, but you can’t keep the smile from your voice.

Mariah laughs, shaking her head. “Well, however it happened, I’m so excited for you two!”

Lottie’s hand slides back over your belly, her thumb stroking a slow circle. “We are too,” she agrees softly, her voice almost reverent. “I still can’t believe it. Every morning I wake up and I’m like—we made this.”

Your heart does that dangerous little flip it always does when she talks like that.

You roll your eyes, but you reach back to squeeze her knee. “You’re soooooo disgustingly in love with me, you know that?”

She leans forward so her mouth brushes your ear. “Yeah,” she whispers, grinning. “And I’m never going to stop. Sue me.”

You sigh and take another sip of lemonade, feeling her arms tighten around you, her hand warm and steady over the life you made together.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you were faced with the devil of the sun coming in through the curtains. You were a bit disoriented for a moment, the contents of your dream so real in your mind that it took you a moment to figure out that all of it had been a dream.

“Fuck,” you whispered, barely audible, rolling over from your side onto your back. You wanted it to have been real so bad, it had been so perfect.

You looked beside you. Lottie was still asleep, facing you on her side. You watched her closely, she was so gorgeous even in sleep, her dark hair perfectly splayed over her shoulders. She’d slept naked, both of you had after the night you’d had together before, and your eyes couldn’t help but wander to what was visible of her chest above the blankets.

Her eyes fluttered open and you looked away, feeling your cheeks grow warm as embarrassment crept up your chest. You didn’t have wet dreams often, and when you did you certainly didn’t tell anyone about them, and you knew how guilty you probably looked watching her sleep.

“Morning,” she said softly, and a smile tugged at your lips.

“Morning,” you said, a bit more awkward than you would’ve liked. Visions from your dream kept running through your mind uncontrollably, and you could only imagine how wet you were.

“You okay?” She asked, scooting closer to you and wrapping an arm around your waist. “Were you watching me sleep?” She asked, her tone playful.

“No, just for a second, but no, not really,” you said, stumbling through your answer.

“What were you thinking about?”

You didn’t respond, sighing and shaking your head.

“Tell me,” she said, teasing you, a mischievous smile staining her lips. Her hand ran up and down your bare abdomen, distracting you.

“Lottie,” you protested, still embarrassed.

“What, baby? You weren’t so shy last night, were you?” She asked, trailing her hand over the hickeys covering your neck and chest. “Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

After a moment you relented. “You were in my dream,” you said quietly, claiming her full attention.

“Yeah? What was I doing?”

You bit your lip, hesitating again.

“Oh,” she said, realizing. She sat up, straddling your hips, and your breath hitched. “So dirty, dreaming about me fucking you. What was I doing to you, gorgeous?”

“I was on your thigh,” you admitted, and while you were still a bit embarrassed there was a morbid satisfaction that came from your humiliation in retelling the dream to her as she straddled you naked, looming over you like a goddess. “You were telling me how good I was, how pretty I was…”

“Yeah? You like being a good little slut for mommy, don’t you?”

You nodded, hands falling to her thighs as she leaned down to kiss you. She was intoxicating, and every time she kissed you it overcame every one of your senses completely. She owned you in every way and you loved it, you lived off it.

She pulled away, suddenly moving off of you. A bit confused, you whined, watching as she sat back against the headboard.

“Come here, baby,” she said, patting her lap.

Your heart did flips in your chest, and the adrenaline of it pooled between your legs, your clit throbbing.

You straddled her lap, pulling her into a kiss, one of her hands weaving into your hair as she adjusted her leg and moved you to hover above her thigh.

“Look at me,” she ordered, and you met her gaze as she grabbed your hips and lowered you down onto her thigh. “Keep your eyes on me, I want to see how pretty you look when you ride my thigh.”

You moaned, eyes trained on her as you began to grind on her thigh. Any thoughts about the dream you’d had disappeared, for this was so much better, and nothing could replicate or replace the feeling of you slipping on her thigh, the friction so perfect but still not quite enough to get you to cum.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so wet,” she purred, flexing her thigh, and you moaned. “Making such a mess for mommy, aren’t you?”

“Mommy, please…” you whined, and quickened your pace, not entirely sure what you were asking for but knowing that you needed something. It wasn’t enough, you needed her to touch you, to fuck you until you were in tears.

“‘Please,’ what, sweet girl?”

“I need you to touch me,” you breathed, “it’s not enough, I can’t…”

Lottie shook her head, hands clamping your hips as she guided you on her thigh. “Yes you can, love. This is what you wanted, hm? You dreamed about it all night, baby, and you woke up so desperate for it, so now you’re going to be a good girl and ride mommy’s thigh until you cum.”

You moaned, nodding. You would always do what she wanted, any will of your own went out the window when she called you her good girl, when she dangled the promise of euphoria just out of your reach.

You rode her harder, trying desperately to catch your release but it evaded you. You whined, your head dropping to the crook of her neck, and her hand came up to your back, holding you against her as you continued to chase your orgasm.

“You’re doing so good for me, princess,” she praised. “Keep going, baby, I know you’re so close.”

You whimpered, keeping your pace but you were tired, and you were so focused on the pleasure overcoming you that the rhythm of your hips became erratic and every time you came close to release you lost it.

Without warning Lottie flipped you over. You gasped when she slipped two fingers into you, the heel of her hand rubbing against your clit. She murmured praises into your ear but you could hardly hear them, the sound of her voice and the feeling of her fingers inside of you getting you to the edge again.

“Cum for me, pretty girl,” she whispered, and you came undone, your back arching off the bed as your orgasm rushed over you in a wave. You moaned, hips jerking into her hand as you rode it out, so much better than anything you could have dreamed up.

When it finally passed, you slumped into the pillows, wrapping your arms around her. Lottie kissed you gently, pulling you to lay on top of her, your head resting on her chest and one of your legs thrown over her hips. You were so tired, you’d only woken up a little while ago, and looking at the clock you hadn’t realized how early it was.

“Get some rest, my darling,” Lottie said softly, and after a moment a mischievous smirk passed over her lips. “In a few hours, maybe you’ll have dreamed up something else for us to try.”

———

The museum is the kind that smells like floor polish and old air. It’s quiet, intimate, half-forgotten by the city but full of life if you know where to look. You picked it for that reason—it’s easy to disappear in, or to impress someone who thinks she’s seen it all.

Regina walks beside you, glossy hair tucked behind one ear, arms crossed like she’s just enduring the afternoon, pretending to be completely unimpressed. But you’ve caught her glancing at you when she thinks you’re not looking. Twice.

“So,” she says, voice echoing a little too loud off the tile walls. “I still think you’re gonna lose.”

You blink, smirk cocky. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Janis already has a head start. She used to know me. You? You’re just a random girl who knows how to flirt and hold a pencil.”

You shoot her a look. “You forgot charming. And hot.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue.

You stop in front of a wall of amateur submissions—bold brush strokes, uneven canvases, a section of the museum curated by people who still believe their work can matter. You glance at her out of the corner of your eye, heart already picking up speed. You say it before you can talk yourself out of it.

“You should be up there.”

Regina scoffs. “Yeah, okay. That’ll be the day.”

“I’m serious.” You step a little closer, tilt your head like you’re already studying her light source. “You belong in a frame. Center of attention. Little plaque under your name. ‘Regina George: Untouchable.’”

“You’re ridiculous.”

You shrug. “Maybe. But let me paint you. Submit it. If I’m gonna lose, I want the museum to know who beat me.”

There’s a flicker in her face—something unreadable, something not as sure of itself. But then she laughs. “Fine. Paint me. Knock yourself out.”

You grin like it’s nothing, like the idea doesn’t already have roots wrapping tight around your chest.

----

You’re at some tiny place with cheap wine and candles shoved in old glass bottles now. Regina’s halfway through a salad she doesn’t like, and a story about a cheerleading competition gone wrong. You laugh at all the right parts.

“You’re not bad at this,” she says eventually, sipping from your glass instead of her own.

“At what?”

“This.” She gestures vaguely between the two of you. “Dating. Wooing. Whatever.”

You smile. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

That part is a lie. You’ve never cared enough to try like this. Never wanted to be chosen so badly it hurt.

“You’re confident. Like... weirdly confident,” Regina says again, crossing her legs and leaning back like she’s interviewing you for a job you’re already underqualified for.

You shrug, sip your wine, keep your expression loose. “Fake it till you make it.”

She clicks her tongue, eyes narrowing slightly. “So it’s fake. All this charming, flirty, I’m-so-mysterious crap—it’s just a performance?”

You meet her gaze, something flickering just behind your smile. “Not the part where I like you.”

And she freezes—just a second, just a flicker—before she looks away and says, “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Regina raises a brow. “God, you’re so earnest. You really think you’re gonna paint me into a museum and I’ll suddenly fall in love with you?”

You hold her gaze. “No. I think I’m gonna paint you into a museum and you’ll realize you already do.”

That one gets her.

She blinks—quick, sharp. Her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, but then she cuts it with a scoff.

“Janis is gonna eat you alive.”

You laugh, even though it hits you low in the chest. “Probably.”

“Like, I don’t even think you know how much of a head start she has. We used to be inseparable. She knows everything about me.”

You don’t flinch. “Then I guess I’ll just have to learn new things.”

Regina leans forward, fingers trailing the rim of her glass. “See, that’s your problem. You think this is about who tries harder. It’s not.”

“What’s it about then?”

“Proximity. Timing. History. Not getting caught up in the fantasy of some art girl who thinks love is something you can paint into existence.”

You smile, but it’s smaller now. “Then why’d you let me try?”

She sits back. Smirks. “Because I wanted to see if you can handle losing.”

****

It started like a joke. Something stupid and flippant Janis tossed across the lunch table between sips of orange soda and mutual delusion.

“We should just make it a game,” she said. “One month. One Regina. Winner takes all.”

And you—you laughed, because what else do you do when the person you maybe almost kissed last summer dares you to fight for the same girl they’ve been lowkey in love with for years?

You said yes. Said “may the best girl win” with a wink, like your bones weren’t already shaking.

The rules were simple:

One month.

No sabotage.

Whoever Regina chooses by the end gets her and a hundred dollars.

The loser gets a broken heart and a pat on the back.

It was supposed to be fun. Light.

But then you took Regina to a museum, and she looked at a painting like it mattered. And then you told her you’d make her one. And she let you.

Now you’re on your third draft of her mouth alone, wondering if anyone’s ever loved her the way you do now—quietly. Stupidly. With a brush instead of a spotlight.

And the worst part?

You already know you’re going to lose. But you’d still rather love her the right way once than win her the wrong way forever.

****

It starts with a playlist.

Regina gets a link at 2 a.m. JANIS: remember this song? we made fun of it in 8th grade but secretly loved it. REGINA: omg. i literally haven’t heard this since middle school. JANIS: some things just stick in your brain. like you.

Then it’s walks home after practice, catching Regina outside the gym and offering her half a Slurpee like nothing ever broke between them.

Inside jokes resurface like ghosts. They laugh too hard in the hallway. They linger. Janis buys Regina sour candy and pretends not to care when Regina steals the last piece.

“I forgot how fun you used to be,” Regina teases once.

Janis shrugs. “I forgot how soft you used to be.”

The silence that follows that isn’t awkward—it’s heavy. Like they both remember everything they never got to say.

And the worst part? Regina looks happy. She glows in those moments. You see it from across the room. And you wonder if you ever made her shine like that, or if all your light just pooled on the canvas instead.

----

You haven’t texted her in a day.

Not because you don’t want to. But because your hands are full—with brushes, with color, with the ache of trying to get her right.

Your room’s a mess. Cups of cloudy paint water. Paper towels crusted with smears of gold and red. And in the center: the canvas.

It’s her face, half-finished. Her mouth, slightly parted. Her eyes—god, her eyes are wrong. You’ve painted them over twice already.

You pause, stare at the photo you took of her on your second date. She wasn’t even posing. She was talking about how much she hated bad lighting in restaurants.

But her face was lit up—candles and carelessness. That’s what you’re trying to paint. Not her beauty. Her being.

And you’re running out of time.

You cancel plans. Skip two of your elective classes. Tell your friends you’re just “busy.” But the truth is you can’t look at Regina right now without feeling like she’s slipping away.

So you stay in your room. Painting. Loving her in silence. Letting Janis do it out loud.

****

You’re already at the park when she texts “on my way.” It’s gray out, cold enough for a hoodie and warm enough for regret.

You sit on a bench with two cups in hand and your head full of static.

The painting isn’t going well. You redid her eyes three times and still couldn’t get the look right. You have a paper due. You haven’t started it. You told yourself you would last night, but instead you stared at a blank document while imagining Regina’s mouth spelling someone else’s name. Janis is winning. You can feel it. You see it in the way Regina smiles at her now—like something familiar is warming back up.

You grip the cups tighter and try to breathe. You’re here now. You’ll be sweet. You’ll be funny. You’ll hold on as long as she lets you.

She arrives ten minutes late, no apology.

“Wow,” Regina says, sweeping her gaze across the park. “Really went all out, huh?”

You smile, standing. “Exotic locale. Very niche.”

She eyes the bench like it might infect her. “This place smells like... damp wood and disappointment.”

You hold out the drink. “Thought you might like something warm.”

She takes it. Doesn’t say thank you. Sips it and winces.

“Oh my god, this is sugar in a cup.”

You nod. “Sweet for someone sweeter.”

She glares. “Don’t flirt. It’s embarrassing.”

god, she’s so easy to tease. why is she so calm? why does she just—take it? she looks at me like she’s not afraid. she should be. i don’t want to be mean, but it keeps happening. if i let myself be soft back, it’ll feel like picking her. and i’m not ready to admit she might be worth it.

You sit back down on the bench, patting the spot beside you. She doesn’t sit for a beat too long—like she doesn’t want to be seen accepting it.

“Five-star bench,” you say. “Real wood.”

“Splinters guaranteed?”

“Authenticity.”

She sips again and mutters, “Janis would’ve taken me to a rooftop or something. Somewhere with actual atmosphere.”

You hum. “Guess I’ll just have to make this one feel like the stars.”

She goes quiet.

----

You walk through the park after that.

She critiques everything.

“This path’s cracked.” “The ducks are weirdly aggressive.” “That man is staring. Why is that man staring?” “Ugh. Children. Gross.”

You nod. You smile. You let it happen.

At one point, she almost steps in mud. You stop her with a gentle hand on her wrist. She yanks it back like you burned her.

“Don’t touch me like that.”

You pull your hand away, slow. “Sorry.”

fuck, that was too much. i didn’t mean to snap. why is she so gentle about it? she should be pissed. she should fight back. it’d be easier if she yelled. if she stopped looking at me like i’m someone worth caring about.

Eventually, you end up on the swings.

You’re quiet. It’s the first moment where she doesn’t speak just to fill the space.

You push off the ground, let the chains creak, let the breeze tug at your sleeves.

Regina watches you out of the corner of her eye.

“You really think this is working?” she asks eventually. “This whole ‘soft and sweet’ thing?”

“I’m not doing a thing,” you say. “This is just me.”

She exhales sharply. “That’s worse.”

You grin. “You’re still here.”

She kicks at the dirt, barely swinging. “Because I’m bored.”

“Sure.”

She glares. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you say, still smiling, “here I am.”

she’s patient. it’s infuriating. janis would’ve told me to shut up by now. would’ve matched me. this one just... breathes through it. stays kind. i hate it. i hate that i don’t hate it. i hate that it feels like maybe... she sees me. and i don’t know if i can stand being seen. not like that. not by her.

You both sit there for a while, not talking.

And for the first time that day, Regina doesn’t complain.

She just lets the swing sway and pretends her chest isn’t tight.

----

Eventually, your stomach growls.

Loud enough that Regina raises an eyebrow and glances over. “Charming.”

You laugh, not embarrassed in the slightest. “It’s part of the experience.”

“What experience? Starving on a swing set?”

“I brought food.”

“You brought—what?”

You hop off the swing, dusting off your jeans, and walk to your backpack sitting by the bench. From inside, you pull out two foil-wrapped hot dogs and a small paper bag of chips.

Regina makes a face as you sit back down beside her. “You brought me gas station hot dogs.”

“Carefully selected,” you say, handing her one. “They’re not that sketchy. The lady who sold them had kind eyes.”

“I hate this.”

“No you don’t.”

She glares at you—but takes the hot dog.

this is so dumb. it’s dumb and gross and she’s smiling at me like i just gave her flowers. why am i eating this. why am i still sitting here. janis would’ve taken me to some weird indie place. made me try shit with pickled radishes. this girl brought me trash food in tinfoil and made me feel like it’s an offering. i’m going to lose my goddamn mind.

“I really hate this,” she mutters again after her first bite.

You nod, chewing. “Of course. That’s why you’re halfway through it already.”

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and scowls. “Do you think this pathetic attempt is actually gonna win me over?”

You swallow and take a sip from your drink before answering. “No. I just wanted to feed you.”

She blinks. Doesn’t respond.

You hand her a napkin from your hoodie pocket because the last time you touched her, she snatched herself away from you like you hurt her. “You’ve got mustard.”

She takes it. Doesn’t say thank you.

stop being nice. stop being sweet. stop acting like this matters. you’re gonna lose. i’m not going to choose you. i can’t. but god, why do you keep making it so hard to not love you?

You lean back again, stretching your legs out. “You know, this date would be a lot more enjoyable if my company didn’t hate every second of it.”

“I don’t hate it,” she says, surprising herself.

You glance over, eyebrows raised. “No?”

“I just... expected more.”

“More what?”

She doesn’t answer. You watch her look away, chewing on a chip too hard.

You nod, thoughtful. “More flash? More drama? You want me to serenade you in front of a fountain or something?”

Regina snorts. “You can’t sing.”

“You’ve never heard me sing.”

“I can tell.”

You laugh again, soft and real. “You’re brutal.”

“You’re an idiot.”

You nudge her knee with yours, gently. “And yet, here we are.”

she keeps doing this. soft touches. soft words. soft smiles. i want to bite. i want to push her away. but all she ever does is look at me like she’s already forgiven me for not loving her back. and that’s the scariest part. because i think i might be. i think i might be loving her. and if i admit that, i have to admit janis might lose. and i don’t want janis to lose. but i don’t want to hurt her either. not this girl. not this stupid sweet girl who brought me hot dogs and patience.

----

The sun’s dipping low, casting that soft golden light that makes even this cracked old sidewalk look cinematic.

You walk beside her, your hands tucked into your jacket, her cup empty and swinging by her side.

She hasn’t said much since the hot dogs. Just a few complaints, one exaggerated groan when a bug flew near her face, and a mumbled “gross” at a couple holding hands too aggressively on a bench.

But she’s still walking with you.

And you’re still smiling.

“You like movies?” you ask casually, nudging a pebble down the path with your foot.

Regina glances over, suspicious. “That’s a weird way to ask me on a second date.”

You fake surprise. “Who said anything about a second date?”

“You’re transparent.”

You shrug. “I’m curious. You seem like someone who hates most movies. But I feel like there's a secret list you’ll defend to the death.”

She narrows her eyes at you. “I don’t like things that waste my time.”

“Good to know.” You nod. “No boring indie flicks. What about concerts?”

She stops walking for a second, then keeps going. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Small talk.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Giant talk, then.”

“You’re trying to figure out what to do next.”

You smile, caught. “And you’re dodging all my attempts.”

She smirks. “Why would I help you win?”

You lift a shoulder. “Maybe you like spending time with me.”

“I think I’m just tolerating you.”

“Mm. Strong word. Sounds like affection.”

She glares with an exasperated sigh, but she’s not walking faster. Not leaving. Not hanging up this conversation.

----

The sidewalk gives way to a street of nicer houses, and Regina starts unlocking the gate in front of hers.

You stop at the bottom of the steps, hands still in your pockets, rocking slightly on your heels.

“Well,” you say softly. “Thanks for tolerating me.”

She pauses, halfway through the gate. Doesn’t look back. “Don’t expect me to be nice and say thank you.”

You grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

i caught her trying. she thought she was being smooth. it was obvious. she wants another chance. another date. another hour to make me feel soft again. and i didn’t help. because i can’t. because if i help, i might want it. and if i want it, then she’s not the underdog anymore. she’s not losing. and that scares the shit out of me. but the worst part? even with me giving her nothing... she still might figure me out.

****

They’re in some no-name bar, lights too dim, energy just right. A beat-up mic. A playlist full of nostalgia.

Janis is already waving down the host. Regina’s pretending not to smile, arms crossed, legs crossed tighter. She looks good and knows it.

“You sang this in my room when we were, like, thirteen,” Janis says, teasing.

Regina scoffs. “That was before I had shame.”

Janis gives her a look. “You still don’t. You just pretend better now.”

she’s not wrong. janis knows me. like, knows me knows me. every version of me. the ugly ones, the dramatic ones, the insecure ones. she saw them all and never left. it’s comfortable with her. easy. like i don’t have to prove anything.

She grabs the mic anyway. Doesn’t let Janis see the way her hand trembles, just a little.

The song starts. The room tilts warm.

By the time the second verse hits, Regina’s singing for real. Janis is shouting beside her, tone-deaf as ever. They’re ridiculous. A mess. It’s fun.

They’re outside after, Regina’s makeup slightly smudged from laughing too hard.

“You were good,” Janis says, handing her water.

“That’s a lie,” Regina mutters, unscrewing the cap.

“Still better than everyone else tonight.”

Regina leans back against the wall, quiet.

this feels right. janis makes me feel like i never left. like the world pressed pause the second she looked at me again. but there’s something missing. no. not missing. just... different.

She tilts her head back and closes her eyes.

because with janis, it’s history. safety. a book i already know how to read. but with her—the other one—the one who paints like it’s prayer— it’s tension. it’s soft chaos. she looks at me like i’m a living poem. like she’s memorizing every line i try to cover up. and i don’t know why that’s terrifying. or why it keeps showing up in my head now.

She opens her eyes. Janis is mid-sentence, talking about some song she wants to cover next time.

Regina nods, smiling. But something’s unsettled now.

i should be happy. i am happy. but i can’t stop thinking about the park. about the stupid hot dogs. about how she tried so hard to pretend it was enough. and how part of me wanted to believe it was.

****

Back in her room, reader is bent over the canvas under too-yellow desk light. It’s quiet, except for the soft scratch of a brush, a pencil rolling off the table, the occasional sound of her own exhale.

The painting is almost done.

Almost.

The shadows of Regina’s face are perfect. Her mouth—set in that particular soft smirk she gave reader once during a joke about Greek statues—took four hours alone. The collar of her shirt is crooked on purpose. The background is a swirl of gold and warmth.

But it’s not done. Not really.

Because the eyes are still wrong.

You’ve painted them four times.

You tried curiosity. You tried power. You tried softness.

But nothing quite captures it—the way Regina looks at you when she’s pretending not to care while listening anyway.

You sit back, brush between your fingers, and stare at her face. Realer than memory. Sharper than a photo.

Your phone buzzes beside you. A picture on your feed. Janis and Regina, blurry under karaoke lights. Laughing.

You turn it face down and go back to painting.

Your hands are steady. Your stomach isn’t.

You whisper to no one, “Just a few more days.”

And in your head, you hope—please let it be enough.

**** One Week Until The End Of The Bet ****

The final brushstroke goes down at 3:47 a.m.

The room is still. Her hands ache. The light buzzes faintly overhead. The canvas looks back at her—not just Regina’s face, but everything about her that was too loud to say aloud.

She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t even smile. She just sits there for a long time, paint drying on her fingers, chest hollow with the weight of the word almost.

She thinks about taking a picture. Thinks about texting Regina. Thinks about saying look.

But instead, she wraps the painting in brown paper, ties it gently with string, and writes her name on the submission form at the museum front desk.

If Regina picks her, she’ll take her on a date there. If she doesn’t—well. The painting’s there either way. A piece of her will hang in that place where they laughed, where Regina rolled her eyes and called her weird and still smiled when she thought she wasn’t looking.

She leaves the museum quietly. Doesn’t look back.

****

It’s after class. Hallway mostly empty. Reader’s shoulders are heavy with sleeplessness and things unsaid.

Janis leans against the lockers, arms crossed. “Can I ask you something?”

Reader nods. Too tired to say anything first.

“Why’d you agree to the bet?”

Reader tilts her head. “You asked me to.”

“Yeah, but…” Janis pauses. “You’re taking it seriously.”

There’s no sarcasm in her voice. Just something… surprised. Maybe even guilty.

Reader smiles softly. “You didn’t think I would.”

Janis looks down. Shrugs. “Thought you’d flake. Give up. I mean—it’s Regina.”

“I didn’t agree to win.” Reader’s voice stays calm. “I agreed because I knew I’d try. And because I already liked her.”

There’s no bitterness. No blame.

Just love. Quiet and doomed.

Janis doesn’t say anything after that. She doesn’t need to.

****

She finds you outside the building, hunched over your sketchbook in the fading light.

“Hey,” Regina says, tone sharp and indifferent, like she regrets showing up the second she speaks. “Here.”

You blink, take the iced drink without hesitation. “What’s this?”

“Accidentally ordered an extra.” A lie.

You smile anyway. “Thank you.”

You sit together. Not close. But not apart.

Regina watches you for a second too long as you flip through pencil-sketched portraits of nothing in particular. Her fingers twitch. Her mouth softens.

You glance up, smiling. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You seem—”

“I said I’m fine.” Regina’s voice cuts like glass.

you're so quiet. Like you're waiting for me to say something wrong. Or right. i doesn’t know which would be worse.

“You’re weird,” she says.

You laugh gently. “That’s been established.”

“I mean it.” Her voice sharpens. “You’re weird. Like... emotionally weird. You just take things. Every time I’m mean to you, you just sit there and smile like it doesn’t matter.”

“I never said it didn’t matter.”

“Then why don’t you do anything?”

You glance at her, finally. “What do you want me to do, Regina?”

She’s breathing harder now. “I don’t know. Get mad. Get annoyed. Push back. Something.”

“Why?”

“Because this—” she gestures to you, wild and careless, “—this perfect little forgiving act makes me want to scream.”

“I’m not pretending to forgive you.”

“Oh my God, stop.” She stands up, pacing a few steps away, voice rising. “Do you think you’re better than me? Because you’re sweet and patient and quiet? You think that makes you worthy? Is that it?”

“Regina—”

“Like—like I don’t get you,” she spits. “Why are you like this?”

You blink. “Like what?”

“So nice. All the time. It’s exhausting. Do you think that makes you interesting? You think that’s gonna be enough to make someone fall in love with you?”

Your fingers tighten around the drink.

“I’m not trying to—”

“Yes, you are. You’re trying to be the better choice. With your painting and your quiet looks and your tragic little dates. You think if you suffer politely enough, you’ll win.”

Regina sighs. “Don’t wait around for another date,” she snaps. “It’s not happening.”

You nod. “If that's what you want.”

again with shit like that. always what I want. just walk away. walk away. walk away. before i say something worse.

But she doesn’t. Not yet.

Because something in her snapped.

“You’re performing. Always. Acting like you’re this gentle little saint who doesn’t care if she loses, but you do, don’t you?”

Your throat is tight. But your voice doesn’t waver. “Of course I do.”

Regina stares at you like she hates you. Maybe she does. Or maybe she hates that you’re still not fighting back.

“No one wants people like you," she says coldly. “People want people who make them run.”

say something. please. tell me i’m awful. tell me i’m pushing you too far. tell me you hate me so i don’t have to keep doing this.

“You think just because you feel big feelings and paint them onto a canvas that makes them matter?” she spits. “You think because you’re soft and sweet and quietly obsessed with me, I’m gonna suddenly realize I love you back?”

"No, Regina, I just—"

“Then why the fuck are you still here? Why the fuck do you even try?”

You blink. “Because I like you.”

She laughs. Bitter. Loud. “Yeah, well, that’s a mistake.”

It hangs there—mean, and cold, and loud.

god, she’s still not yelling back. why won’t she scream at me. hate me. cry. it’d be so much easier if she did. i don’t know why i want her to hurt. maybe because she’s the only one who doesn’t deserve to.

She glares, "You are so pathetic—This is so pathetic."

Your breath catches.

She turns and walks away.

And you just sit there.

Still holding the drink.

****

They’re sitting on Regina’s bed, spread out in a comfort Regina doesn’t allow anyone else. Karen is painting her nails. Gretchen is halfway through a story about a guy from math class when Regina blurts out as she thinks of all the ways she's snapped at you and all the ways she just let Janis back into her life:

“I don’t know who to choose.”

Gretchen stops mid-sentence. Karen pauses, brush in the air.

Regina picks at the blanket under her, eyes tight. “Janis feels like home. I look at her and remember exactly who I used to be. And who I wanted to be.”

She swallows.

“And this bitch Y/N... oh, my god—she makes me feel like someone else entirely. Like I’m a stranger with a heart.”

Karen blinks. “Isn’t that, like, a good thing?”

Gretchen’s quiet. Then she says, “Which one makes you feel like you could actually be happy?”

Regina laughs, bitter. “They both do. That’s the problem.”

****

You’d written it days ago. Hidden in your drafts. Just in case.

It said things like:

“You were never supposed to matter this much.” “I tried not to fall.” “I hope she makes you feel safe.”

But you reread it again now, and suddenly, it feels embarrassing. Too exposed. Too raw.

You delete it in one motion.

Instead, you write one line. For the title card. Just that.

For the girl who never believed I saw her.

It’s short. It’s real. It’s not a plea. It’s the only thing left to say.

****

reginaa💖: you up

The sudden message makes you pause because you remember the way she last talked to you. You decide not to hold that against her.

You: yeah are you okay?

reginaa💖: no

You: want to talk about it?

reginaa💖: do you think it’s possible to love 2 people at once like actually love. not fake love.

You: yes i think love’s not as clean as people want it to be you can love someone who hurt you someone you’re afraid to want someone who makes you feel new all at once

reginaa💖: what if i don’t know who makes me feel what

You: then you’re human

reginaa💖: that sounds like something you’d say

You: thats cause i did say it;)

reginaa💖: you always say the right thing even when i’m awful to you

You: you’re not awful

reginaa💖: you don’t know me well enough to say that

You: i think i do

Regina doesn’t respond after that. not because she’s asleep. but because that’s the kind of love she doesn’t know what to do with. not loud. not flashy. just… forgiving. and maybe she doesn’t think she deserves to be forgiven. especially by you.

**** Two Days Before The Bet Ends ****

You text Regina in the morning, calm and simple:

You: wanna go out today? nothing huge one more date before you break my heart?

She responds ten minutes later.

reginaa💖: fine but if this is some pity play i’m leaving

You smile because it’s not. it’s a goodbye.

----

You pick her up with two wristbands already in your hand.

She blinks down at them, unimpressed. “A fair?”

You smile. “You said you liked chaos.”

“I meant emotionally.”

You grin wider. “Perfect.”

She rolls her eyes but gets in the car.

----

The fair is noisy, bright, and smells like sugar and metal. Regina complains the second you park.

“My shoes are gonna get wrecked.”

“I’ll carry you.”

“Don’t say shit like that.”

You don’t say anything else.

You just walk next to her, keeping your hands to yourself.

She doesn’t grab yours, but she also doesn’t tell you to leave.

----

You win her a stuffed animal at one of the booths — a floppy little duck that looks like it’s been through hell.

She stares at it.

Then at you.

“You know this doesn’t change anything, right?”

You nod. “I just thought you’d like it.”

She doesn’t say thank you. But she holds onto it like someone's going to steal it away from her.

----

You both get hot dogs. She judges you for how much mustard you use.

“Disgusting.”

“You still gonna kiss me after this?”

She snorts, eyes flickering. “Who said I was going to?”

You don’t push it.

You just smile and wipe a smear off your lip with the back of your hand.

why are you always like this. soft. honest. impossible.

----

Later, you take her to dinner.

It’s a tucked-away, neon-lit noodle place you overheard her say was “shockingly good” during a conversation she didn’t know you were listening to.

When she realizes where you’ve brought her, she pauses.

“…You remembered that?”

“Yeah.”

“That was weeks ago.”

You nod. “Was it wrong?”

She looks at you like she wants to say no.

Instead, she says, “This place smells like feet.”

You laugh, not even hurt. “But, like, good feet.”

She rolls her eyes. But she doesn’t get out of the car. Not for another ten seconds.

Then she sighs and says, “Come on. They’ll run out of pork buns.”

----

You eat across from her, under string lights and loud laughter from the kitchen. You let her steal the better half of your plate. You don’t say anything when she keeps glancing at her phone.

When she catches you watching her, she glares. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m gonna break.”

You go quiet.

“I don’t think you’re gonna break, Regina.”

She scoffs. “Right.”

You lean forward, voice low. “I just think you already have. A long time ago. And you’ve been pretending ever since.”

She freezes.

Then stabs at a dumpling.

You don’t speak again for the rest of the meal.

----

On the drive home, she doesn’t say much. But she doesn’t tell you to shut up when you start humming. Doesn’t flinch when your hand rests near hers on the gearshift again.

You drop her off two houses down. She doesn’t want her mom to see your car.

When she gets out, she holds the duck under her arm. Glances at you like she wants to say something.

Instead, she says, “If you think this night gives you bonus points, it doesn’t.”

You smile. “I know.”

She shuts the door harder than necessary.

You stay parked for a while after she’s gone.

if i lose, at least i lost trying.

****

She sits cross-legged on her bedroom floor, phone balanced on her knee, Janis’s name highlighted in her inbox.

The cursor blinks in the group chat she made. The one where she’s going to announce her decision like it’s a press release.

Her fingers don’t move.

The duck Reader won for her sits on her dresser. Stupid. Yellow. One eye a little off-center. She's tried to throw it out twice. Keeps putting it back.

She stares at it for a long time before whispering, “You’re not even that cute.”

No one responds.

She exhales. Loud. Tired. Angry.

----

they would’ve waited forever. that’s the worst part.

like—no matter how cruel i got. how many times i told them they didn’t have a chance. they still showed up with hot dogs and jokes and art and patience.

who does that? who keeps showing up after the fourth time i bite their hand?

i hate that they did. i hate that it made me want to be softer.

She lies on her back and stares at the ceiling.

----

Janis sends a selfie. Something casual. A stupid little caption: “thinking about u, unfortunately.”

She’s got that smug look on her face — like she knows she’s already won.

Regina opens it. Stares for a second. Then locks her phone again.

----

janis makes sense. janis is smart and sharp and knows when i’m lying. she won’t let me get away with shit.

she makes me feel like i’m on fire.

but you—

She swallows.

reader makes me feel like i’m underwater. quiet. still. terrifying.

----

Her throat tightens suddenly, and she sits up too fast.

“God,” she mutters. “Why is this so hard.”

She grabs her phone again. Open your contact. Just... sits there.

No text.

No call.

She flips to the group chat.

----

they’re so fragile. i’d break them. not on purpose. but eventually. i always do.

and maybe that’s the problem. i don’t want to watch them shatter and know it was me who did it.

janis wouldn’t break. janis would fight back. reader would just take it.

and i don’t want that on my conscience.

----

She types the message out fast. Like pulling off a bandage.

Regina: hey. just wanted to make it clear so no one’s confused. i’m with janis. that’s who i’m choosing. thanks for the fun or whatever.

She doesn’t reread it.

She doesn’t check if anyone’s typing.

She throws her phone onto her bed and curls up like something inside her might come out if she doesn’t fold small enough.

this is better. this is safer. this is right.

...right?

****

It’s been a week.

Regina’s still not used to the way Janis kisses her. Fast. Certain. Like claiming territory instead of asking for it.

They don’t hold hands much in public, but today Janis reaches for hers and laces their fingers together anyway.

“We’re doing a culture date,” she says, swinging their arms. “You’re gonna hate it.”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “Where?”

Janis grins. “Museum. Local stuff. It’s weird, but cool.”

Something twists in Regina’s stomach. She doesn’t say no.

They go.

----

It’s the same museum.

Smaller than she remembers. Warmer. A little dusty around the corners.

Her steps slow as they move past the front desk, and for a second she swears she can still hear someone saying “you should be in here someday.”

She shakes it off.

Janis is leading her toward the back. Toward the new exhibit.

“This way,” Janis says. “They actually put up one of mine.”

“You’re so humble,” Regina mutters, but she follows.

They turn a corner.

Janis stops.

“Here,” she says, pointing.

It’s a charcoal cityscape, jagged and loud and unmistakably hers.

Regina nods once, studying the piece. “It’s cool.”

But Janis isn’t looking at her painting anymore.

She’s looking at something else.

So Regina turns.

And sees it.

It’s her.

Painted like a secret. Framed like something holy.

She’s not even smiling in the piece — just staring off to the side, half-lit and half-lost, like she wasn’t supposed to be caught in the moment. Like someone had captured her when she wasn’t looking. Like she mattered.

She reads the tiny plaque underneath:

For the girl who never believed I saw her. by Y/N Y/L/N

Her stomach drops.

“What the hell…” she breathes.

Janis doesn’t say anything.

She’s still staring at the painting.

Still staring at her.

Then she looks at Regina.

And sees it.

The flicker. The sting. The ache.

The realization.

That this isn’t just a painting. That it never was.

Regina takes a half step forward. Her fingers hover over the frame but don’t touch.

they did it. they actually did it. they painted me like i was worth something. and i never even said thank you.

Behind her, Janis exhales softly.

And smiles.

But it’s the kind of smile that knows the joke’s on her.

She doesn’t say you chose wrong.

She doesn’t have to.

Regina looks at the painting one last time.

Then says, barely above a whisper:

“…I think I fucked up.”

------------------------