Cheyenne

The kitchen was too quiet, too still--the kind of silence that didn't settle so much as hover, like it was waiting for her to do something, say something, break something.

Carina Marie Delvecchio sat at her mother's scratched-up kitchen table, legs sprawled, tank top loose, jaw tight. One acrylic nail clicked restlessly against the side of her iced coffee, half-melted and watery. Outside, the South Philly heat pressed in like a body, thick and close. Inside, it was just her and that fucking silence.

Twenty-four, working shifts at CVS she could do in her sleep, waking up hungover more often than not, and making rent by sheer force of attitude. She still lived two blocks from where she was born. Same sidewalks, same stoops, same corner where she smoked her first cigarette and kissed her first girl--Adelina.

Adelina fucking Graziano.

God. That name still cracked something open in her chest if she thought about it too long.

She hadn't said it out loud in months. Maybe longer. What was the point? Nobody wanted to talk about Adelina. Not since the trial. Not since the sentencing. Not since her own fucking mother--Angie DeLuca, queen of passive-aggressive guilt and lasagna made with store-brand mozzarella--called the cops on her daughter's girlfriend and testified without even looking Carrie in the eye.

Adelina. Heat and hunger and screaming matches that turned into make-outs in alleyways. Someone actually getting her, knowing how to cut her open and hold the messy parts. It ended in handcuffs. Literally.

Carrie didn't cry when they took her away. Didn't scream. Didn't say a word. She just sat on the curb outside the courthouse, shaking, eyeliner smudged to hell, lighting cigarette after cigarette until her throat burned.

She hadn't gone to see her. Not once. Not even when she got the postcard. Handwritten. Careful. "I don't blame you." Yeah, well, Carrie did. She blamed everyone. Her mom. The system. Herself. Most of all, herself.

And now what? Over a year since Bridgette ghosted. A woman who'd smiled too sweet and touched too soft, like maybe Carrie could be somebody you kept. She'd let herself hope. Just a little. Just enough to hurt when it all went quiet.

No warning. No fight. Just gone.

Carrie had checked the socials, of course. Bridgette was still alive, still posting, still hot. Just... not interested. And that was almost worse. It wasn't like she had died. She'd just decided Carrie wasn't worth sticking around for.

Another notch. Another story. Another unfinished ending.

So here she was. Mid-July 2022. Sweat on her back, CVS name tag still sitting in her purse like it owned her, and the house dead quiet with Gianna and Angie off shopping for shit they didn't need.

This moment belonged to the girl in the kitchen with the chipped red nails and the phantom taste of bad love still stuck to her tongue.

The Carrie who didn't know where the fuck she was headed. Who hadn't met Zach yet--sweet, weird, surprisingly submissive, exhausted Zach with his thrifted hoodies and tired hands. Or Anna, that slow-burn woman who could read her like a book and leave her speechless.

No, this version of Carrie was raw. Untethered. All teeth and eyeliner and the ache of too many almosts.

She kicked her foot up on the opposite chair, stretching, lazy and tense at the same time. Her phone buzzed somewhere in the other room. She didn't get up.

What was the point? Another text from a number she wouldn't save, or worse, nothing at all. She wasn't sure which was more humiliating these days--being wanted or being ignored.

The A/C sputtered to life and she startled like she'd forgotten the world could move. Her shoulder ached from sleeping weird. Her hips were sore from fucking some guy she barely remembered last night--what was his name, Brandon? Benny? He'd wanted her to ride him like she meant it. She had. She always did.

But she hadn't cum. Not really. Not in any way that mattered.

Carrie rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand. She hadn't done her nails in two weeks. Too tired. Too busy. Too done. The red was chipped down to ragged edges. She looked like she'd been clawing her way out of something. Maybe she had.

She lit a cigarette out the back door and blew smoke toward the alley. The neighborhood was alive with the usual summer shit--kids screaming, someone blasting reggaeton too loud, the sizzle of a grill someone probably shouldn't be using this close to the building.

Normal. Familiar. And still, she felt like a ghost inside it.

Maybe that's what 2022 was for her. A ghost year. A liminal space. That strange breath between loves. Between disasters. Between knowing who you are and figuring it out all over again. The ache before the next fuck-up. The quiet before the next bang.

She wasn't happy. Not really. But she wasn't broken either. Not all the way.

She still laughed too loud. Still made guys blush when she leaned in too close at the register. Still stole lip gloss and Advil when the manager wasn't looking. Still fucked like she had something to prove, which maybe she did. Still came home to Angie's cooking, to Gianna's noise, to the comfort and suffocation of familiarity.

And she still remembered Adelina's mouth. The way she said "Carina" when she was close. The way her voice dropped when she was about to lie. The way she never begged--except for Carrie.

Carrie closed her eyes and tipped her head back, letting the smoke burn its way out of her. She didn't know what came next. She didn't know how to move forward.

But she would.

Because she was Carrie fucking Delvecchio.

And nobody survives Philly without knowing how to claw your way back from hell.

Carrie fucking Delvecchio didn't wake up so much as she revived, like something jostled loose in the night and she crawled back into herself around 10:43 a. m., smelling like menthols, hair wild, last night's mascara fanned out beneath her eyes like wings. She reached for her phone, cursed at the sunlight slicing through her blinds, and swiped through nothing--no new texts, no calls, just a DM request from a guy with two first names and no dignity.

She rolled out of bed in a tank top and lace panties, padded barefoot to the bathroom, pissed with the door open, and rinsed her mouth with tequila because she was out of mouthwash. CVS wouldn't miss her if she was late. Manager Dave was too scared to say shit, and Assistant Manager Gina knew Carrie was worth ten of the other clowns combined.

By 11:12 a. m., she was half-dressed--tight jeans, no bra, CVS polo knotted at the waist like a fuck-you to the dress code. She scraped her hair up into a messy ponytail, looped her gold nameplate necklace over her neck (Carrie, bitch), slapped on a little eyeliner with the steadiness of a sniper, and left the apartment like a storm cloud in hoop earrings.

1:03 p. m. -- CVS, the Seventh Circle of Corporate Hell

Dave was at the front, fiddling with the printer, his combover damp with sweat like he'd just run a marathon instead of shuffled in from his Buick. He gave Carrie that smile--the one with too much gum and not enough spine.

"Heyyy Carrie. Clocked in late again, huh?"

She didn't break stride. Just popped her gum and tossed her purse behind the counter.

"You wanna dock my pay or my patience?"

Dave stammered something about teamwork and schedules and she was already walking away, hips swaying like a metronome set to fuck you.

Brenda was on register, chewing gum in sync with Carrie like they shared a wavelength. Eighteen, bubble-pink gloss, eyes wide with admiration Carrie didn't ask for but didn't mind soaking in. Brenda still thought this job meant something. Still wore her lanyard like it was holy. Cute.

"You smell like sin," Brenda muttered with a grin.

"Good," Carrie muttered back. "I hate it when I smell like work."

Gina came striding out from the back like the real boss of the place--which she was. Thirty-nine, nails sharp, eyes sharper, mouth set in a line that meant she wasn't here for games. She clocked Carrie instantly.

"Delvecchio."

"Boss lady."

"You in a fuckin' mood today, or just naturally unbearable?"

"Yes."

Gina shook her head, half smiling, half ready to murder her. Their mutual respect was forged in fire and passive-aggressive breakroom notes. Carrie loved her like a pissed-off aunt who'd hit you with her purse and then feed you soup.

3:17 p. m. -- Hell Hour

Todd showed up for his shift late, stoned, and acting like he invented charisma. Twenty-three, white boy, faux-deep, one of those guys who says "females" unironically. Carrie hated him immediately and daily.

"Yo Carrie, what's up, girl?"

"Don't 'girl' me like I won't make you cry in front of the condoms."

"Damn, someone's spicy today."

"I'm always spicy. You're just bland."

Brenda laughed so hard she almost dropped a pack of Plan B.

They passed the time in the CVS way: restocking KY Jelly like it wasn't tragic, listening to Soft Rock Hits of the 2000s loop for the fifth time, ringing up tourists who got confused and angry at the self-checkout. A man screamed about coupons. A woman asked if CVS took Bitcoin. Carrie fantasized about walking into traffic.

Gina handed her a mop around 4:10 and said, "Floor's yours."

Carrie flipped the mop upside down, let it rest against her hip, and said, "Baby, I own this floor."

Gina looked skyward like she was praying for strength--or a new employee.

5:47 p. m. -- Back Room Break

Carrie took her break in the backroom, leaning against the washing machine where they pretended to clean employee polos. She lit a cigarette out the back door and scrolled through her phone like she might find someone who wanted her just enough to be brave about it. She didn't.

Brenda poked her head in. "Can I bum one?"

Carrie handed over a menthol and lit it for her, watching the younger girl's hands tremble with the high of rebellion.

"You ever gonna get out of here?" Brenda asked.

Carrie blew smoke out her nose. "You ever ask a drowning girl if she's gonna build a boat?"

Brenda didn't say anything after that. Just smoked with her, silent and watching the sky like maybe it had answers.

7:15 p. m. -- The Freak Parade

Evening shift meant freaks. Man with a raccoon on a leash. Drunk lady crying in the shampoo aisle. High school couple fighting over a stolen lip balm. Carrie glided through them like a queen among jesters, smirking, chewing gum, tapping her nails against the register like a dominatrix with a barcode scanner.

Todd tried to flirt again while bagging chips.

"You ever think about us, like, maybe hanging out sometime?"

Carrie didn't even look at him.

"You ever think about getting neutered? 'Cause that's where I'm at."

Gina burst out laughing from behind the perfume counter and muttered, "That's my girl."

9:01 p. m. -- Clock Out, Cigarette, Repeat

She clocked out one minute after closing. On purpose.

"See you tomorrow, Carrie," Dave said, still hopeful, still delusional.

"Don't threaten me."

Outside, the air had cooled just enough to remind her the world kept spinning. She lit a cigarette with one hand, leaned against the wall, and stared out at the dark street like it owed her money.

She was tired, yeah. But not the kind of tired sleep fixed.

Carrie Delvecchio wasn't waiting for her life to start. It had started a long time ago, and she'd been sprinting through it barefoot with a bloody lip and a middle finger in the air ever since.

And she still looked better than anyone else doing it.

Tomorrow? Same shit. Maybe worse.

But tonight she was still standing.

And that? That was enough.

9:32 p. m. -- Wawa, South and 22nd

The air outside CVS was the kind of sticky that clung under your tits and behind your knees. Carrie crossed the street anyway, middle finger up at some honking SUV, CVS vest slung over her shoulder like a dead animal. Wawa called to her like a sanctuary of processed comfort--fluorescent lights, cold air, sandwiches built by tired hands.

She pushed the door open with her hip, walked in like she owned the place, and beelined for the kiosk like a woman on a mission from God.

Short Meatball Parm. Toasted. Provolone. Sweet peppers. Mayo. $4. No notes.

She paid in crumpled bills and a few coins she fished from her bra. Then she leaned on the counter to wait, chewing her gum with the tired patience of someone who's been too hot for too long and hasn't had an orgasm that meant anything in months.

And that's when she saw her.

Behind the deli counter: quiet girl. Brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Soft face, no makeup, eyes downcast as she wrapped a hoagie like it was sacred. She was maybe 22, maybe younger, but not too young. Her jeans were tight, her tee clung just enough, and her posture was all shy, shoulders rounded like she didn't want anyone to see how pretty she actually was.

Carrie leaned just slightly forward, eyebrows up.

Well, hello, you little snack.

The girl looked up to call a number, and her eyes snagged on Carrie's. Just for a second.

Carrie smirked. Let it hang. Let it mean something.

The girl blinked and looked away, fast. But not before Carrie caught the tiniest blush.

Oh.

That was it.

That was the flicker. The spark. The first inhale after hours of holding your breath. Carrie didn't even know this girl's name, didn't care. Didn't need a number. Didn't need a story. All she needed was the warmth curling in her belly like maybe--not everything was fucked.

The girl called her number--67--with just the smallest tremble in her voice.

Carrie stepped forward, slow, hips swaying like she was walking into a club and not a sandwich shop, grabbed the hoagie, and held the girl's gaze for half a breath longer than necessary.

"Thanks, sweetheart," she said, low and velvety.

The girl nodded, biting her lip.

Carrie left without turning back.

She ate that sandwich on the curb like a fucking queen. Elbows on her knees, mouth full of meatball and melted provolone, and she felt--lighter.

It wasn't love. It wasn't salvation.

But it was something.

A blush. A look. A tiny shift in the dark.

And for the first time in weeks, Carrie Delvecchio smiled with her mouth full--and meant it.

10:05 p. m. -- South Street, July heat still clinging like a second skin

Carrie was leaning against the short concrete wall just off South, one foot propped, arms crossed under her tits like they needed guarding. Her meatball sub was long gone, but she lingered in the afterglow--grease on her lips, smoke curling from the cigarette in her fingers, and that lazy, fuck-you grin playing on her mouth like she knew something you didn't.

The Wawa's little grey back door creaked open.

Out stepped her.

Sandwich Girl.

Hair in the same high ponytail, Wawa shirt untucked, jeans still criminally tight. She didn't see Carrie at first--was too busy fumbling with her vape and yanking off her gloves. Then her eyes flicked up and landed squarely on the woman smirking in the shadows.

Carrie let the moment hang. She didn't say a word. Just blew out a slow drag and raised one eyebrow, hips shifting just enough to make sure the curve of her ass caught the low streetlight.

"So," Carrie said finally, voice husky and bored, "you always make meatball subs that good, or was that just for me?"

The girl hesitated, lips parting, caught between a smile and something more vulnerable.

"Uh... depends who's ordering," she said, eyes flicking away, then back again, like she couldn't help herself.

Carrie straightened up, slow and easy, flicked her cigarette to the curb, and sauntered forward a few steps--not threatening, just deliberate. Letting the air shift between them.

"You got a name, or should I just keep calling you Sandwich Girl in my fantasies?"

That earned her a laugh. A small one, but real. The girl tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and finally met Carrie's eyes, fully.

"It's Cheyenne."

"Cheyenne," Carrie repeated, tasting it. "Cute. You always blush when girls flirt with you, Cheyenne?"

"Only when they do it like that," she said, and then surprised herself, like the words had slipped out before she could catch them.

Carrie stepped close now, just shy of touching. She didn't need to invade. Her body did enough damage just by being there. She tilted her head, eyes heavy-lidded, lashes low.

"I was gonna ask if you were into girls, but I think I just got my answer."

Cheyenne let out a breath, nervous but not running. She looked up at Carrie like maybe she hadn't meant to, like her body was betraying her in the best way.

"Are you always this... intense?"

Carrie smiled with her whole fucking face. Lazy, lethal, hungry.

"Only when I'm hungry for dessert."

Cheyenne blinked, bit her lip, and blushed so hard Carrie thought the sidewalk might catch fire.

A beat passed. Then Cheyenne said, "I get off at ten tomorrow. If you're hungry again."

And Carrie, heart suddenly light in her chest for the first time in weeks, nodded slow, already imagining the taste of a kiss that hadn't happened yet.

"Save me a sub. And maybe a little more."

Cheyenne disappeared through the grey door, but not before looking back once.

And Carrie?

She lit another cigarette with trembling fingers and a grin she couldn't fight. For once, the night didn't feel like a weight. It felt like a fucking promise.

Friday night. 10:42 p. m.

Carrie had waited by the grey door again, because of course she did. Leaning like sin, one booted foot kicked back against the concrete, a lollipop between her lips instead of a cigarette tonight--cherry red, slow and suggestive. She wore the same tight jeans, a black tank that didn't even try to contain her, and gold hoops that shimmered every time she tilted her head. She looked like trouble. She looked like a reward. She looked like the final boss of your bisexual awakening.

And when Cheyenne stepped out, she smiled like she felt all of that. Her ponytail was still up, her face a little shiny from working in the heat, but she had changed into a vintage tee--Fleetwood Mac, worn soft--and she carried herself a little straighter this time. Like she was ready for whatever came next. Or trying to be.

"You waited."

Carrie grinned around the lollipop. "I said I was hungry, didn't I?"

Cheyenne flushed, laughed, and shook her head. "You always this much?"

"Nope. Sometimes I'm worse."

They didn't go far. Just up the block to a little late-night taco joint with bad neon and a patio that smelled like sweat and cilantro. They sat under string lights at a busted metal table, plastic cups sweating in front of them, cheap tequila and pineapple soda and a basket of chips they kept refilling without realizing.

And they talked.

Not about Bridgette. Not about Adelina. Not about the hollow ache Carrie carried like a second spine.

Just talked.

Cheyenne told her about growing up in Roxborough. About the cat she had named Kevin (full name: Kevin Spacecat, don't judge her, it was 2015). About how she used to make hoagies with her dad on Sundays, and how she could still tell when someone was gonna order turkey just by how they walked.

Carrie listened. Not the way people usually did--waiting for their turn to talk, calculating angles. She listened like Cheyenne was telling her something sacred, something worth hoarding. She dipped her chip in queso and licked her fingers after, eyes locked on Cheyenne the whole time.

"You ever think about doing something else?" Carrie asked, tilting her head. "Like... outside of Wawa?"

"Every fucking day," Cheyenne said, grinning. "But I don't know what that 'else' is. You?"

Carrie shrugged. "I'm good at yelling and looking hot. Not exactly transferable skills."

"I don't know," Cheyenne said, eyes dancing. "You could make a killing in politics."

Carrie laughed--loud, unfiltered, gum-snapping laughter that turned heads. She didn't care. Not tonight. Something in her chest was warm and reckless and soft.

They shared churros. Carrie fed Cheyenne one with her fingers and didn't break eye contact. Cheyenne licked sugar off her knuckle like it was the most natural thing in the world.

There were moments--little pauses--where something heavier tried to creep in. Carrie could feel it pressing at the edges, all the old shit, the wreckage she usually threw at new people like a dare. But tonight she didn't want to talk about ghosts.

She wanted to watch Cheyenne talk about her favorite trashy horror movies. She wanted to know why Cheyenne refused to eat shellfish. She wanted to keep catching that look Cheyenne gave her, like Carrie was a little dangerous and maybe worth the risk.

"This is nice," Cheyenne said, a little surprised by her own honesty.

"Yeah," Carrie said, softer than she meant to. "It really is."

They walked back slow, their arms brushing. No rush. No pressure. Just the hum of the city, the beat of late-night life, and something slow and real opening up between them.

When they reached the grey door again, Cheyenne hesitated.

"Wanna come up?"

Carrie smirked. "You asking for dessert?"

Cheyenne blushed, but stood her ground. "I'm asking if you wanna hang out. I've got Kevin, a fan that barely works, and probably enough tequila for two shots if we're careful."

Carrie nodded. "Yeah. I'd like that."

No games. No performance. Just two girls and a cat named Kevin in a shitty apartment with one working fan.

And hope--quiet, cautious, new.

It wasn't love.

But it wasn't CVS, either.

And that was more than enough.

The apartment smelled like fabric softener, cat litter, and something faintly floral--cheap lotion maybe, or a candle burned down to waxy memory. Kevin Spacecat blinked from the couch like he'd seen worse and climbed onto a windowsill to ignore the situation entirely.

Carrie dropped onto the futon like she owned it, legs spread, arms stretched along the backrest, radiating that fucked-out confidence without even touching anyone yet. Cheyenne stood by the kitchenette, pouring tequila into mismatched shot glasses with concentration like she was performing surgery. Her hands shook, just a little.

"You said two shots," she called over her shoulder.

"I say a lot of things," Carrie said, kicking her boots off. "Don't mean I'm not full of shit."

Cheyenne turned around holding four shots--two in each hand--and tried to act like her knees weren't made of jello.

They drank. One each to start. Then the second. The tequila hit soft at first, then climbed--slow and warm and liquid-bold. Cheyenne sat close, not touching, but near enough that their knees brushed. Carrie smelled like smoke, vanilla, something faintly sweet under all that heat.

The third shot didn't get drunk. Not right away.

Carrie tilted her head. Cheyenne was talking--something about a customer who ordered three tuna sandwiches and flirted like a drunk uncle--and then Carrie just kissed her. No warning. No prelude. Just leaned in and caught her mouth mid-laugh.

Lazy.

Like there was no hurry. Like she had all the time in the world to memorize the shape of her.

Cheyenne made a sound--small, surprised, pleased--and melted. Her hands found Carrie's thighs, light at first, unsure if she was allowed. Carrie deepened the kiss by degrees, giving and then taking, teasing Cheyenne's bottom lip with her teeth, her breath already a little ragged.

They pulled apart slow.

Cheyenne blinked, dazed. "You're really good at that."

"I know," Carrie whispered against her mouth, already leaning back in. "But it's cuter when you say it."

The kisses stayed slow. Hands wandered with curiosity, not hunger. Carrie let her palms slide up under Cheyenne's shirt, fingertips tracing skin like a map she planned to get lost in. Cheyenne's breath hitched--not hitched, caught, like her lungs were still deciding whether they trusted this.

Carrie didn't rush.

She leaned back into the couch, pulled Cheyenne gently into her lap. Straddling, denim against denim. One of Cheyenne's knees pressed against Carrie's side, her hands sliding around Carrie's neck like she didn't quite believe this was real.

"You sure?" Carrie murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Yeah." Cheyenne's voice was barely there. "You?"

"Girl," Carrie said, grinning against her throat, "I've been sure since you wrapped that sub like you wanted to wrap me."

Cheyenne laughed. Full-bodied, nervous, delighted. Carrie kissed that laugh off her mouth and let her hands settle just beneath the curve of Cheyenne's ass, thumbs digging into warm denim.

Time stretched. There were no clocks. No old names. Just the quiet of city hum and cat paws and two women breathing into each other like maybe they could make the night last longer by feeling it slower.

They didn't fuck.

Not yet.

But it was headed that way--careful, electric, inevitable.

By the time Carrie finally lay back, Cheyenne curled half-on-top of her, head on her chest, lips swollen, cheeks pink, Carrie stared up at the cracked ceiling like maybe something in her life had finally shifted. Just a little.

Just enough.

Kevin Spacecat yawned and turned his back on them.

And the last two tequila shots sat untouched on the table, waiting for tomorrow.

The room was too quiet again.

Not the same silence as that kitchen, but a new kind--thicker, fuller, like it was holding its breath for them. The kind of quiet that asks questions with no words. That dares you to answer with your hands.

Carrie lay back on the futon with Cheyenne still half on top of her, the heat between them stretched taut, pulsing. They hadn't said anything since that kiss. Not really. Just stayed close. Still. Breathing the same hot air like they were syncing heartbeats.

Cheyenne's fingertips traced lazy patterns along the edge of Carrie's tank top, eyes flicking up, then down again, like she was trying to memorize something she hadn't even seen yet.

Carrie brushed a thumb across Cheyenne's cheekbone, slow. "Hey."

Cheyenne blinked. "Yeah?"

"You don't have to be brave," Carrie said. Her voice wasn't cocky now. It was low, quiet, almost... reverent. "Not with me."

Cheyenne let out a shaky breath. "That's the scary part."

Carrie tilted her head. "What is?"

"You," Cheyenne said. "You look like you've already lived through the end of the world and made it your bitch."

Carrie smiled, soft and crooked. "Maybe I did. Maybe I'm just really good at faking it."

Her hands moved, slow and sure, sliding beneath the hem of Cheyenne's Fleetwood Mac tee. Not yanking--no performative urgency. Just lifting, inch by inch, until her fingers brushed bare skin and Cheyenne gasped, barely audible.

"Can I?" Carrie asked, voice so quiet it made the question feel sacred.

Cheyenne nodded. Not a big nod--just the smallest tilt of the chin. But her body said yes louder than her voice ever could.

Carrie peeled the shirt up, her knuckles grazing ribs, tracing the softness of Cheyenne's belly, the undercurve of her breasts. When the fabric bunched at her armpits, Cheyenne raised her arms and let Carrie strip it off.

There she was--small, pale, and trembling just enough to feel real. A cotton candy pink bra. Modest. Slightly faded. The kind you wear for comfort, not seduction. Carrie stared.

"Fuck," she whispered.

"What?"

"You're so--" She shook her head. "Soft. You look like a Sunday morning I never got to have."

Cheyenne flushed again, deeper this time, hands twitching like she didn't know whether to cover herself or grab Carrie tighter.

Instead, she leaned in and kissed her. It wasn't hungry. Not yet. It was full of please let this be real.

Carrie kissed back, both hands on Cheyenne's ribs, thumbs grazing the sides of her bra. And then she kissed her down. Chin. Throat. A freckle just beneath her collarbone. She took her time. Open-mouth kisses, wet and slow, letting her breath land after the lips. Letting Cheyenne feel every inch of want like it was language.

She reached behind Cheyenne's back, fingers nimble on the clasp, and undid it with one practiced motion. Cheyenne flinched--not from fear, exactly, but something like being seen.

The bra slid down and off. Carrie sat up a little to look.

Cheyenne's breasts were small, perky, a little uneven in that human way that made Carrie ache with how real she was. Nipples soft, puckered from the air, from nerves, from being looked at like this.

Carrie didn't say anything at first. Just reached out, cupped one breast like it might vanish if she moved too fast. Then she kissed it--slow, open-mouthed again, lips brushing the underside before drawing the nipple into her mouth. Not hard. Not greedy. Just there, like she wanted to worship more than devour.

Cheyenne made a noise--half moan, half breath, half apology. Carrie shushed her with another kiss.

"Your turn," Carrie said, leaning back just enough to grab the hem of her own tank top. "If you want."

Cheyenne nodded. Her hands were clumsy but determined, pulling the fabric up and over. Carrie didn't wear a bra. Her tits weren't small, they mattered--round and high, nipples already tight, her olive skin flushed at the collarbones. Philadelphia's Mount Rushmore.

Cheyenne stared. Then laughed. Then said, "You're unfair."

"Goddamn right," Carrie murmured. "Touch me."

Cheyenne did. Tentative at first--palms on Carrie's ribs, up over her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples with awe. Carrie's breath caught--not hitched. Caught. She let it out with a little shiver and kissed Cheyenne hard again.

They shifted on the couch. Cheyenne ended up on her back, hair splayed over the armrest, jeans still on, looking up at Carrie like she might disappear.

Carrie leaned over her, planting small kisses--under her ear, down the center of her chest, between her breasts. Her hands slid down to the waistband of Cheyenne's jeans and paused.

"Tell me," she said. "If you want me to stop--"

"I don't," Cheyenne whispered. "I'm just scared I'll... fall too fast."

Carrie met her eyes. "Then fall. I'll catch you."

She undid the button slowly, one hand holding Cheyenne's gaze while the other dragged the zipper down. The jeans came off inch by inch--knees, thighs, hips--revealing pale pink cotton panties with a little bow in the front. Cheyenne flushed redder.

Carrie pressed a kiss to the crease of her thigh, just above the fabric.

"These too?"

A beat. Then: "Yeah."

The panties slid down. Carrie didn't make a joke. Didn't lick her lips. She looked.

And she smiled.

Cheyenne was glistening already. Bare. Trimmed. Legs slightly parted but tense.

Carrie kissed the inside of her thigh again, this time a little higher. Then she pulled back.

"You're beautiful when you're scared," she said. "But I want you to remember this when you're not."

Cheyenne reached for her, pulled her in, and whispered, "Then don't stop."

Carrie didn't.

She moved slow. She undressed herself the rest of the way--kicking off her jeans, wriggling out of black lace underwear that had seen better nights. Her thighs were strong. Her belly soft but firm. She had stretch marks on her hips and an old scar across one knee.

They kissed like it mattered. Because it did.

And when Carrie finally slid between Cheyenne's legs, mouth hot and sure, she wasn't trying to impress.

She was trying to remember what it felt like to be wanted back.

And Cheyenne--tangled in blankets and breathless beneath her--was learning what it meant to be seen and still be kissed like a miracle.

They didn't rush the finish.

But when it came, it wasn't loud. It was full--a release in the belly, the chest, the heart.

Carrie kissed her way back up, arms bracketing Cheyenne's body like she might never move again.

And Cheyenne looked up, glassy-eyed and glowing, and said the only thing that made sense.

"Stay."

Carrie nodded.

And for the first time in a long time, she meant it.

Saturday Morning -- 9:08 a. m.

The apartment was a box of sun and sweat and skin. The fan ticked rhythmically overhead like a metronome stuck in time, and Kevin Spacecat was passed out upside-down on a pile of clean laundry like he'd survived a war.

Carrie blinked awake on the futon, lips dry, hair matted, one thigh sticking to the vinyl cushion. Her back ached in that way that meant she'd slept half-twisted, legs tangled with someone else's, head on a throw pillow that smelled like lilac and drugstore shampoo.

Cheyenne was still asleep--or close enough to fake it. One arm slung across Carrie's stomach, one bare leg wedged between Carrie's thighs, her cheek pressed against Carrie's shoulder like she was trying to merge. She'd wrapped herself around Carrie like a second skin sometime during the night and hadn't let go.

Carrie lay still.

Too still.

She stared at the ceiling like it might offer a map out of this moment.

The sex had been good. Really good. Slow and hot and full of that aching reverence Carrie usually only saw in romcoms and old lovers she'd ruined. Cheyenne had moaned her name like it meant something. Had come apart under her fingers, under her mouth, with her whole body arched like she was trying to memorize every second.

But now?

Now Cheyenne was clinging. Breathing slow against her chest, fingers twitching in sleep like she didn't want to lose her grip. Carrie didn't hate it. But she also didn't know what to do with it.

She rubbed her eyes with the heel of one hand. Her other arm was pinned under Cheyenne's ribs. Her phone buzzed somewhere in her jeans pocket across the room, but she didn't move.

Cheyenne made a soft noise. Not awake, not asleep. Just... there.

Carrie swallowed, her throat dry. She let her hand drift lightly over Cheyenne's back, nails skimming the bare skin, just enough pressure to soothe, not to stir.

Then Cheyenne shifted.

Lifted her head, blinked those wide, still-sleepy eyes, and smiled. Like that. Like this was a thing now. Like waking up tangled in Carrie fucking Delvecchio meant something good. Something more.

"Hi," Cheyenne murmured, voice raspy, warm.

Carrie didn't answer at first. Just offered a lopsided smirk. "You always this cuddly?"

Cheyenne propped herself up on one elbow, letting the sheet slide down to her waist, tits bare, one nipple still marked faintly with a bite Carrie didn't remember making. She grinned.

"Only when the sex is good."

Carrie snorted. "Bold of you to assume I didn't just use you for your sandwich discounts."

"Mm," Cheyenne said, nuzzling her way back into Carrie's side like she didn't buy it for a second. "That what last night was? A transactional meatball-for-orgasm situation?"

"Hey," Carrie muttered, "you came twice. I should've gotten a fucking hoagie tray."

Cheyenne laughed--full-bodied, bright--and wrapped her arm back around Carrie's waist like the joke was just foreplay.

Carrie exhaled slowly.

This wasn't bad. This was nice. Too nice. Like staying here meant something permanent. Like she was about to be folded into someone else's rhythm before she had time to find the beat.

"Babe," Cheyenne said, softly. "What's your day look like?"

Carrie stiffened almost imperceptibly. Babe. Fuck. That word. That tone.

"I've got work at five," she muttered.

"Wanna hang before that? I was thinking--"

"I should probably head home for a bit," Carrie cut in, not mean, just sharp. "Shower. Change. You know."

Cheyenne pulled back a little, just enough for the air to creep in between them. The hurt was small, quiet, but present. Like a pinprick in a balloon--subtle, slow, inevitable.

"Oh," she said. "Yeah. Of course."

Carrie sat up, rubbing her face, already reaching for her jeans. "Don't take it personal, alright? I'm not a sleepover girl."

Cheyenne nodded, but it was tight. "You stayed over."

"Yeah," Carrie said, slipping her tank top back on without a bra, hair wild, eyeliner smudged in a way that still looked deliberate. "But that was last night."

She didn't say: last night, I didn't mind being seen. Last night, you didn't call me anything yet. Last night, I wasn't scared that you might actually like me.

Cheyenne stood too, a little awkward now, pulling on her tee, eyes flicking to the floor. Kevin Spacecat stretched, unimpressed.

Carrie grabbed her phone from her pocket, checked the screen. Three texts from Brenda. One from Gina: Don't be late. Dave's being weird again.

"Hey," Cheyenne said softly, suddenly. "I don't want to make this weird. I'm not, like... trying to move in or some shit. I just... liked last night. Liked you."

Carrie looked up. Met her eyes. And for a second, everything in her face softened.

"I liked it too," she said, voice low, honest.

Cheyenne smiled, but didn't reach out.

Carrie crossed to the door, boots in one hand, keys in the other. She paused, looked over her shoulder.

"I'm not good at the clingy thing," she said. "But maybe... I'll see you around?"

Cheyenne nodded. "Yeah. You know where to find me."

Carrie smirked. "Behind the counter, looking edible."

And then she was gone--down the stairs, into the heat, out into the city that still owed her something.

Saturday -- 10:14 a. m.

Carrie walked home alone. CVS polo crumpled under her arm, tank top clinging with sweat, mascara still smeared beneath one eye like war paint from a fight no one else knew she'd been in. The city was already loud again. Trash trucks growling. Kids screaming. A man with a speaker blasting "Hot in Herre" like it was still 2002.

She lit a cigarette with a shaky hand. Couldn't stop thinking about Cheyenne's eyes when she'd said I just... liked you.

Like it was something small. Something harmless.

Carrie knew better.

She got home, dropped her boots by the door, and stepped into the kitchen. It was too quiet again. Same table. Same cheap-ass iced coffee. Her CVS name tag still sat on the counter like it was waiting for her.

Carrie stared at it for a long time.

She could text her. Cheyenne. Hey, sorry I bailed. Wanna hang later? Easy. A sentence. A fuckin' crumb of bravery.

She didn't.

She took a shower instead. Scrubbed herself down until her skin was red and clean and cold. Stared at her reflection like it might tell her what she was so afraid of.

She knew, of course. She just didn't want to say it.

Because maybe Cheyenne would fall in love. Maybe she'd mean it. And Carrie wouldn't know what the fuck to do with that.

She knew how to be wanted. Knew how to make someone moan, make them laugh, make them stay the night.

She didn't know how to be kept. Not without burning the house down first.

So she showed up to CVS at 4:55 p. m., five minutes early just to piss off Gina. Brenda gave her a look like she wanted to ask about the night before, but didn't. Dave handed her a printout she ignored. Todd made some dumbass comment she barely heard.

And Carrie?

Carrie rang up customers like nothing had changed. Like her mouth hadn't said someone's name in the dark. Like her heart wasn't quietly pounding against the ribcage she kept padlocked on principle.

She didn't text.

Cheyenne didn't call.

And that night, alone in her bed with the fan whirring and the sheets too hot, Carrie stared at the ceiling and whispered it to the dark.

"I liked you too."

She didn't say it out loud.

Not to anyone.

Not yet.