What's Wrong with You?

All characters are over 18.

Tuesday, 8:14 AM.

She's supposed to be writing a pitch.

The cursor blinks like an accusation--twelve words in, two of them "synergy." Her coffee's cold. Her phone keeps lighting up. She's already opened the same email draft five times. Deleted the same sentence four.

It's not the pitch. It's not even work.

It's her body.

She shifts in the chair again. Crosses her legs, then uncrosses them. Her underwear sticks when she moves, and she tells herself it's just the heat, just the polyester, just--

She doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't want to.

There's a text from Lauren.

"You good?"

She doesn't answer.

Her laptop's screen dims. She taps the trackpad, stares blankly at the document, then closes it.

She thinks about last night.

Not the whole thing. Just the parts that don't go away. The way the hallway smelled--laundry soap and something else. The flicker of a shadow across her wrist. The look that lodged under her ribs like a nail.

She touches her lower lip without thinking. Pulls her hand away when she catches herself doing it.

Her body's humming. Low. Constant. Like she's holding something in, but it's not words. It's not a secret. It's want.

She gets up to make more coffee. Stands in the kitchen too long, staring at nothing. Her reflection in the microwave looks undone.

When the machine beeps, she flinches.

12:11 PM.

She's been pretending to work for three hours. Tabs open. Slack pinging. Outlook flashing little red flags like it's urgent that she give a fuck. She doesn't.

The same three words keep circling in her head:

What was that?

No one asked. No one will. But her body won't shut up about it.

Her phone buzzes with a calendar alert:

Lunch with Meredith -- 12:30 -- Franklin's Deli

She stares at it like it's a foreign language. She's not doing lunch. She's not doing Meredith. Not today. Maybe not ever again. Meredith can be so much.

Her stomach flips. Not hunger. Nerves. Or heat. Or maybe guilt, curling low and wet in her gut. She closes her laptop lid too hard. It claps like a gavel.

Her hand moves to the mouse. Clicks open Microsoft Teams.

She finds her manager's name, heart thudding like she's about to lie on a stand in court.

[me]

Hey--taking some PTO for the rest of the day. Not feeling well.

She doesn't wait for a response.

Slack is muted. Email is closed. Her calendar goes blank.

She sits there for a second, frozen, then pushes back from the desk and stands.

Her thighs brush, and it's there again. The throb. The remembering. The echo of something that shouldn't have felt so good.

She puts her hands on the counter. Breathes.

Her mind keeps slipping back to the way her name sounded in that voice. The way her knees almost gave out when--

No. No. No.

She goes to shower. Not because she needs one. Just because she hopes maybe it'll wash off the feeling. Even though part of her doesn't want to lose it.

12:37 PM.

The bathroom fills with steam before she even steps in. She stands naked in front of the mirror, not looking at her face. Just the fog creeping across the glass, softening her outline until she barely exists. Just skin now. Just heat.

Her shirt had stuck to her. Her bra, damp. Her panties--she had to peel them down, slow, careful, because the fabric clung in that wet way that made her breath catch. Not arousal. Something worse. Something haunting.

She steps under the water.

Hot. Too hot. That's the point.

It hits her shoulders like punishment. She turns her back to it, presses her palms to the tile. Lets it drum across her skin, across the soft slope of her back, down to where her spine arches just slightly. Her chest rises and falls--small breasts, pink-tipped, barely more than handfuls. They lift with each breath, nipples tightening in the heat.

The water trickles down her belly. Past the shallow dip of her navel. It darkens the patch of curls between her thighs, clinging there, heavy and unruly. She used to like the way it made her feel grown--earthy, real, not some sculpted pornographic ideal. She liked the roughness of it.

But now?

She stares down at it like it's the enemy. Like it remembers too much.

She grabs the shaving cream from the back of the shelf. It's not the kind meant for this, but she doesn't care. It's lavender-scented, girlish, comforting in a way that makes her feel fragile. She lathers it onto her mound with slow, deliberate fingers, coating each curl until they're lost beneath the foam.

Then she takes the razor. New blade. No hesitation.

Her hand shakes a little at first, but steadies by the third stroke.

She starts at the top--short, careful strokes, rinsing the blade after every pass. She's methodical. Focused. It's not about being pretty. It's about removing. Each strip leaves her barer. Smoother. Vulnerable. She shaves downward, then sideways. Each direction catches a little more. She parts her lips to get underneath, breath held, neck flushed with the effort.

By the time she crouches to get the underside--perineum, folds, everything--her thighs are trembling. Not from arousal. From the sheer attention she's giving herself. Like she's excavating her own body. Like she needs it gone.

The hair clogs the drain. She watches it circle, then vanish.

She rinses herself off slowly. Water sliding over her now-slick skin, over the raw pink of her pussy, bare and almost unfamiliar. She looks down and feels a pang of--what? Regret? Relief?

It's too smooth now. Exposed. Nothing left to hide behind.

She shuts the water off. Stands dripping, shivering in the sudden silence.

The steam settles. The mirror starts to clear.

She still doesn't look at her face.

She wraps herself in a towel but doesn't dry off. Doesn't bother. Water beads on her collarbones, clings to her thighs, slides down the slick new skin between her legs. She's clean now, but it doesn't help. Not really.

She steps toward the mirror.

It's only half-cleared, fog curling around the edges like it's trying to shield her from what she's about to see. She reaches up, wipes a streak through it with her palm, and there she is.

Hair dripping in limp, dark red ropes. Freckles bleeding across her cheekbones. A smear of shaving cream still clinging to the curve of her jaw.

And her eyes--green, wide, accusing.

She stares at herself for a long time.

Then:

"What's wrong with you?"

It comes out hoarse. More breath than voice.

The girl in the mirror doesn't answer. She just looks back, damp and stripped and wrong, like someone cracked her open in the middle of the night and something shifted inside her. Something tilted.

She drops the towel.

It puddles at her feet.

She looks at her body now like it betrayed her. Pale skin, flushed from the shower. Pink nipples standing sharp in the cool air. Her pubic mound--bare, soft, trembling faintly with the leftover adrenaline of the shave.

She runs a fingertip down her belly, stops just above the cleft.

No hair. No hiding.

She's never been this bare before. Not for anyone. Not even herself.

"What the fuck is wrong with you," she whispers again.

And this time, her voice breaks.

She presses both hands to the sink, shoulders shaking, mouth drawn tight like she's trying not to cry, not to scream, not to come just from the memory of someone else's breath on her skin.

That's the worst part.

That she wants to remember. That some part of her is still wet.

She doesn't dry off. She just walks--naked, damp, clean in the most unnatural way--back to the bedroom. Her thighs brush as she moves, and it's different. Every step a soft friction. Her bare pussy slick from steam, from the tiniest pulse of memory.

The sheets are cool. She pulls them down, slides in, lies on her back.

The ceiling doesn't say anything, but she stares at it anyway.

Her hand finds her breast first. She always starts there. She tells herself it's comforting. Just a soft brush, a fingertip circling her nipple, light enough to tease but not press. But her breath still catches. Her body still arches, just slightly. She cups herself. Squeezes. Traces a path downward.

She skims her stomach, past the sharp little dip of her navel, and rests her hand just there. Flat against the bare mound. Palm warm. No barrier now. Just skin on skin.

One finger dips lower. Finds the seam. Slippery already. God. She barely touched herself and she's this wet?

She closes her eyes and tries not to picture her. Not the lips. Not the eyes. Not the voice. But her body is already moving. Already curling around the image. Hips shifting, thighs parting, breath deepening--

And then the phone rings.

The sound cleaves through her like a slap.

She jerks upright. Blinks. Her hand shoots away like it was caught stealing.

The phone buzzes across the nightstand, screen lit with the name:

Meredith.

Fuck.

She doesn't answer. Just stares at the screen until it stops.

Then she swings her legs out of bed. Stands. Her skin's still hot. Still flushed. Her pussy throbs once--like it's mad at her for stopping.

She pulls open a drawer.

Underwear first. Cotton. Simple. She steps into them slowly, the fabric catching just slightly on her damp skin. It feels... wrong. Childish. Soft in the way she isn't.

Bra next. She hooks it behind her back without thinking, but fumbles. Tries again. Finally gets it. Her breasts lift, contained again. Hidden.

A tank top. No bra line visible. Then jeans--tight, stiff. She has to hop once to get them up over her hips. The waistband digs. The button fights her.

She zips.

Stares at herself in the mirror.

Hair still wet. Eyes glassy. Mouth red.

Phone buzzes again. Another call from Meredith.

She pulls her hair back into a bun. No makeup. No expression.

Then she answers.

She taps Accept. Holds the phone to her ear. Doesn't sit down. Just stands there in the middle of the room, barefoot, soaked between her legs, jeans tight enough to hurt.

"... Hey."

Silence.

"No, I just-- I wasn't near my phone."

A pause. She scratches the back of her neck.

"Yeah. I'm okay. Just... took the day."

More silence. Her eyes flick to the mirror. She looks like she's lying.

"No, I'm not sick. Just... off."

She crosses her arms. Then uncrosses them. Rubs a finger along the seam of her jeans, just above her zipper. She's still aching.

"I know. I didn't forget."

A longer pause.

"No, I know. I said I'd be there. I'm just running a little behind, okay?"

Her voice is sharper now. Defensive.

"I said I'm coming. Don't-- Jesus, Meredith, I know. You don't have to remind me every time."

Another silence. Longer.

Her jaw tightens. She closes her eyes.

"No. Sorry. That's not fair. I didn't mean it like that."

The apology sounds like it's been said a hundred times before. Polished. Empty.

"I just... had a weird night."

She doesn't elaborate. Doesn't explain. Just lets that hang there.

A beat.

"Yeah," she says softly. "I saw her."

And now her shoulders tense.

"No, it wasn't planned. She just-- I don't know. She was there."

Her free hand curls into a fist. Her jeans suddenly feel like they're welded to her thighs.

"No, nothing happened."

Pause.

"I said nothing happened."

A sharp exhale. Not quite a laugh.

"I'm not lying."

She is.

"I'm not."

Her voice shakes.

Then quiet again.

"... Look, I'll be there, okay? Give me fifteen."

She pulls the phone away. Doesn't say goodbye.

Just stares at the screen for a second before locking it.

Her jeans are soaked at the crotch. Not visible. But she knows. She feels it.

She grabs her keys and leaves anyway.

The bus rocks beneath her feet. She holds the overhead rail with one hand, the other jammed into the pocket of her jacket. The fabric inside is rough against her knuckles. She shifts her weight and pretends she's fine.

She's not.

There's a woman seated two rows down. Left side. Facing forward.

Short hair, dark curls, buzzed at the neck. Big hoop earrings. Button-up shirt. Rolled sleeves. Wide legs crossed at the ankle. Docs. One scuffed.

Reading something thick, the kind of book people pretend to understand.

She looks up. Just once.

Their eyes meet for a second too long.

She looks away, immediately.

But she doesn't.

The woman on the bus watches her. Not aggressive. Not flirty. Just... aware. Like she can see something shifting underneath her skin.

Her cheeks flush. She can feel it spreading--cheekbones to collarbones to cunt. That low, hot pull again.

She swallows and looks at the floor.

But then she looks back.

Because something about her--this stranger--is doing it. Not on purpose. Not even sexually. Just by existing.

It's in the way she spreads her legs a little wider when the bus lurches. The way her shirt gaps at the chest, showing the curve of one small breast, braless, unbothered. The faint scar under her chin. A chipped nail. The hair on her legs, visible when the fabric shifts.

She's real. And her body responds like it knows the difference.

She pictures kneeling between her thighs before she can stop the thought.

Her hand grips the rail tighter.

The woman flips a page. Doesn't look back. Doesn't need to.

She does nothing. Doesn't move closer. Doesn't speak. Just stands there, flushed and humming, staring at a stranger's clavicle like it's the answer to a question she didn't know she was asking.

What's wrong with you?

That voice again. Her own. Still raw from the mirror.

She looks away.

At the next stop, the woman gets off. Walks without hurrying. No glance back.

She exhales like she's been holding her breath the whole ride.

Her stop's next. She's still wet. And none of this is going away.

She spots Meredith before Meredith spots her.

Corner table. Outdoor patio. Two empty glasses already on the table, one with a lipstick print. The air's gone still. No wind, no music, just the low murmur of other people being normal.

Meredith stands as she approaches. Smoothly, like she's done this a thousand times.

Her skirt is too short.

Not scandalously. Just... wrong, for someone who prides herself on being "put together." It flares at the thigh in a way that feels deliberate. Red and black plaid, the kind that belongs to schoolgirls or punk bands. Not muted. Not ironic. Loud.

And tight at the waist. Draws the eye to the sharp dip of her abdomen. The tuck of her shirt. White blouse, sleeves rolled. Gold watch. Expensive. Her legs are crossed at the ankle even as she stands, toe pointed slightly outward like she's posing.

She used to think Meredith looked powerful like this.

Now she just looks curated.

"Hey," Meredith says.

She says it like nothing's happened. Like they didn't argue. Like nothing trembled.

She sits down. Her skirt slides higher on her thighs.

Main character sits opposite, carefully. Keeps her eyes on Meredith's face. Forces it. But it's not safe. Not anymore.

Because she notices things now. The sheen on Meredith's legs. The faint trace of her perfume, something musky, floral, calculated. The slight gap at the buttons of her blouse when she leans forward.

And it doesn't land the way it used to.

It doesn't burn. Not like the girl on the bus. Not like--

She swallows. Folds her hands in her lap.

Meredith smiles tightly. Like she's already mid-conversation.

"Got here early," she says, reaching for the second drink. "Figured I'd get us started."

She sips. Licks the inside corner of her lip.

"Rough day?"

Our girl nods. "Yeah."

But her eyes drift. To the plaid. To the skin just above the knee. And not with hunger. With... detachment.

Like watching someone play a role they no longer fit.

Meredith doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe she does, and pretends not to. She crosses her legs again. The skirt hikes just a bit more.

"So," Meredith says. "Are we going to talk about it?"

She looks up. Straight into those sharp, knowing eyes.

She's not sure what it means anymore.

She doesn't answer right away. Just glances down at the menu like she's reading it for the first time. Even though she's had the same lunch here a dozen times. Because Meredith likes routine. Meredith likes restaurants where the waiters know her name. Meredith likes control.

She hates that this thought comes with a flicker of resentment. Or is it revelation?

"I'm not really hungry," she mutters.

Meredith raises an eyebrow, already signaling the waiter.

"I ordered for you."

Of course she did.

When the plates come, hers is a salad. Always is. Spinach, shaved parmesan, grilled chicken. Dressing on the side. Boring.

She stabs a piece of lettuce and brings it to her mouth, chewing mechanically. It tastes like green.

"So," Meredith says again, voice softer this time, like she's trying out a different approach. "What actually happened?"

Her fork stills. She swallows.

"Nothing."

"That's not what it looked like."

She sets her fork down too hard. The clink against the plate makes a man at the next table glance over.

Meredith leans in, but not kindly. Like she's testing the edges.

"You saw her."

It's not a question.

She nods once. "By accident."

Meredith studies her. Her gaze drops--just for a moment--to her chest, to her mouth. Calculating.

"You didn't mention she was back in town."

"I didn't know."

There's silence.

Then: "Did you touch her?"

Her hand tightens around the water glass. She doesn't answer.

Meredith smiles. It's not kind.

"Guess that means yes."

She shakes her head. "We didn't do anything."

"You shaved."

Her stomach drops. It's not an accusation, not exactly. Just observational. Clinical.

"How would you even--?"

"I know you." Meredith's voice is flat. "You only do that when you're unraveling."

She looks down at her plate. The chicken's cold. The lettuce limp.

"Nothing happened," she says again.

Meredith doesn't respond. Just picks up her wine glass, sips. Watches her over the rim.

A car alarm goes off somewhere behind them. Neither of them flinch.

The rest of lunch passes in small bites and silence. She eats four pieces of lettuce, one tomato. Drinks water. Doesn't meet Meredith's eyes again.

And Meredith doesn't press. Not really. Not yet.

But the pressure's there.

Unspoken. Waiting.

She checks her phone. No real reason. Just something to break the silence.

"Shit," she says. Not convincingly. "I've got to go."

Meredith frowns. "You just got here."

"I know. I forgot--I have to be uptown by three."

"Seriously?" Meredith's fork hovers mid-air. "You can't stay another twenty minutes?"

She's already standing. Brushing crumbs off her jeans like they matter.

"Sorry."

"You could've told me."

"I didn't know," she lies.

Meredith leans back. Crosses her arms. Her knee bounces once, just enough to shift the plaid.

"You're not going to talk about this, are you?"

She pauses. Then shakes her head.

Meredith laughs softly. Not kindly. "Coward."

She doesn't argue.

Just grabs her coat and leaves Meredith there--half-finished wine, untouched salad, all that sharp control suddenly with no one to aim it at.

The city swallows her up.

South Philly smells like old bread and traffic and distant fryer oil. Her boots scuff uneven pavement. The air's heavy, humid, not quite hot but sticky enough to feel like skin. She walks without thinking. Down alleys that still remember last night. Past stoops and scooters and corner stores that wear their neon like armor.

She keeps moving.

She's not running. Just... walking fast enough that it feels like maybe she's leaving something behind. If she doesn't stop, maybe she won't feel how empty she is inside. How everything still hums.

Her stomach growls. Not real hunger. Just a chemical need. Salt. Sugar. Form without meaning.

She ducks into a corner store with a flickering sign and humming coolers.

The air's too cold. Overcorrected. Makes her nipples tighten under her shirt. She zips her jacket halfway. Pretends that solves something.

The fluorescent lights make everything look wrong.

She wanders the aisles with a basket she doesn't need.

Corn chips. Gummy worms. A bottle of that neon-pink lemonade that tastes like batteries. Pretzels. A Snickers. Sour candy she doesn't even like, just wants to feel something sharp in her mouth.

Her basket's heavy with junk. None of it means anything.

She stands in front of the refrigerated section for a full minute, staring at the rows of single-serve milk bottles. Tiny, pale, useless.

"Fuck it," she mutters. Grabs one. Adds it to the pile.

She pays in cash. Doesn't look at the cashier. Leaves the change.

Back on the street, she tears open the gummy worms first. Eats them two at a time, sour sugar burning the cut on the inside of her cheek she forgot she had.

She keeps walking.

Mouth full. Body hollow. Last night a scream behind her ribs she still won't let out.

She doesn't know she's made an offering.

But Almie does.

The first bite helps.

It shouldn't. She knows it shouldn't. The flavor is artificial to the point of parody--sour, acidic, vaguely citric, a color no fruit ever achieved naturally. But her jaw works, and her brain quiets for half a second, and that's enough.

Another. Two at once. One red, one green.

The sugar coats her teeth. Wakes something up. A little spark in the fog. A snap of dopamine. Her footsteps get lighter. Her shoulders loosen just slightly, like someone whispered it's okay to be feral right now.

She doesn't hear it.

But someone does.

Just behind her, pacing in perfect rhythm with her uneven strides, is Almie.

Minor Goddess of Unnecessary Carbohydrates.

She is barefoot, as always. Toes dusted in flour. Her hair is the color of melted butter and curls like it rose too fast. She wears a sweatshirt three sizes too big--gray, with a donut stain over the left breast--and boxer shorts patterned with smiling pizza slices. Her thighs are soft and holy.

She breathes in the scent of the snacks with reverence.

Gummy worms. Salted chips. Mystery milk product. Even the bottle of pink lemonade that tastes like highlighter fluid--especially that. It's all holy. All sacred. All hers.

She doesn't speak. Doesn't intervene. She doesn't need to.

Because when our girl eats the third gummy worm and tilts her head back, breathing in air that smells like asphalt and frying oil and just a hint of old perfume, her lips twitch upward. Almost a smile.

And Almie, barefoot in the ruins of shame, grins.

Her girl is hurting. But she knows the ache.

And she's got snacks. And time. And the blessing of chemical sweetness.

Almie follows a few steps behind.

Her bare feet slap gently against the concrete, picking up the grime of the city like blessings. No one sees her. Not really. Maybe a baby in a stroller glances her way and starts giggling. Maybe a dog lifts its head and whines.

But no human eyes catch her. They're not tuned to her frequency.

The girl--the one with the bag of snacks and the sins she won't name--keeps walking. Gummy worms half-gone. Salt tang on her lips. She's a moving shrine of emotional damage and processed sugar.

Almie walks behind her, one hand dipped into an invisible bag of her own: popcorn dusted with powdered sugar, two mini marshmallows stuck together, a pretzel rod licked down to limpness.

She watches the girl soften. Just a little. Shoulders not quite as high. Eyes not quite as wild. It's not healing--but it's something. It's coping. And to Almie, that's enough to count as worship.

Then--

A scent.

She stops mid-step. Sniffs the air.

Eyes go wide.

Her head snaps toward the side street--North-facing, slightly downhill, bad parking signage and a mural of a snake in roller skates. And there, rolling slow as a benediction, is a donut delivery van.

The logo: "Holy Hole-y's."

The back door swings open slightly. Just a sliver. Steam inside.

Almie gasps. "Bless me," she murmurs.

She takes one last look at the girl ahead--her little acolyte of the afternoon--then turns on her heel.

And runs.

Barefoot. Grinning. Sprinting down the street like she's chasing the sun. The hem of her sweatshirt flies up. Her pizza-boxer shorts flutter. Her thighs slap like thunder.

She vanishes around the corner with a whoop and a wheeze of holy hunger.

And the girl, still chewing, unaware of the goddess who trailed her, rounds the next block feeling strangely lighter.

As if someone just forgave her for something she hasn't admitted out loud.

The last of the gummy worms are gone before she hits her block.

She wipes her fingers on the inside of her jacket. Doesn't care about the stickiness. Doesn't care about the thin line of sugar crusting at the corner of her mouth. Just needs to get inside. Door closed. Noise off.

She climbs the stairs two at a time.

Unlocks the door. Pushes it open.

The apartment smells like itself--dust, faint laundry detergent, the echo of last night's perfume still clinging to her coat on the hook. She toed off her shoes without untying them. Lets the snack bag drop on the counter. Doesn't unpack it.

Her mouth is dry. Her body aches in that way you can't stretch out.

She stands in the middle of the living room like she's forgotten what rooms are for.

TV? No. Shower again? No. Nap? No.

She paces. Window to kitchen. Kitchen to couch. Picks up a coaster, puts it down. Opens the fridge, stares inside, closes it again.

She doesn't know what she wants. Not really.

But that's the thing about want--it doesn't need her to know. It just is.

She ends up on the couch, curled under a blanket that smells like fabric softener and February. Her jeans are still on. Her jacket too. Just her arms wrapped tight around a pillow, forehead pressed into it like maybe she'll squeeze the day out through her teeth.

Her phone buzzes. She doesn't check it.

The room is dim. Afternoon light bleeding into gray. She closes her eyes and tells herself:

You're fine.

You didn't do anything.

Nothing happened.

You're straight.

The lie doesn't taste like sugar. It tastes like the inside of an empty candy wrapper.

She pulls the blanket tighter and pretends she can sleep.

Sleep doesn't come easy. It slides in sideways. Restless. Shallow.

But when it takes her, it takes her deep.

Not into memory. Into something almost memory. Tinted gold. Warped at the edges. More felt than seen.

Afro.

Sunlight, warm against the crown of it. Messy. Falling into her eyes.

Slim dark fingers--cool, certain--slipping under her waistband. Not rushing. Knowing. The kind of touch that's done this before. That's taken its time.

A voice, soft. A laugh. Not teasing. Just... pleased.

That smile.

God, that smile.

It undoes her. Cracks something open in her chest. Heat floods down, low and sweet and overwhelming. She gasps. Arching. Opening.

She's wet. So wet. And the other knows it.

Not a word is spoken.

Just breath. Movement. That dizzy rush of yes.

Then--

She wakes.

Sharp. Violent.

Blanket kicked off. Heart pounding.

Pajamas damp with sweat--and not just sweat.

The light's changed. It's late now. Blue-tinted twilight leeching across the walls. The apartment is too quiet.

Her breath comes in short, angry bursts.

She sits up. Swings her legs off the couch.

Stares at the floor. At her own clenched fists. At the hem of her jeans still riding low on her hips.

Then, low, vicious, like it tastes foul in her mouth:

"I am not..."

She doesn't finish it.

Doesn't need to.

There's no one here.

No one to lie to but herself.

And she's starting to believe herself less and less.

Her phone buzzes again.

She ignores it.

Then it buzzes again.

She picks it up, half-ready to throw it across the room, already muttering--

"Oh hell no."

Zoe.

Just the name. Just the neon-drenched, lip-glossed danger of it.

Zoe who leaves serial texts.

Zoe who says "don't worry, I'm legal" as a punchline.

Zoe who wears crop tops in the rain and has absolutely no understanding of shame.

The notification stares up at her.

[Zoe]: "Heyyyy."

[Zoe]: "U up?"

[Zoe]: "Lol jk (but also...)"

She closes her eyes.

Her body gives a full-body nope that pulses in time with her still-throbbing cunt.

Zoe is beautiful in a too-much way. Shiny and sharp and hungry. And she knows it. And worse: she knows you know it.

Zoe saw her once. Really saw her. That was enough.

She thinks about that night. The red lollipop. The wink. The almost-kiss in the back of the rideshare, Zoe's hand on her thigh like it belonged there.

She hadn't let it happen. Not then.

But now--

Her fingers hover over the reply box.

She types:

"Can't."

Deletes it.

Types:

"Not tonight."

Deletes that too.

Instead, she throws the phone face-down on the couch. Stands up. Paces.

Because if she answers, she knows what happens next.

And she's not ready for Zoe.

Zoe's too much.

Too honest.

Too fucking close to the truth.

She turns off the lights.

Not because she's going to sleep--but because she needs the room dark. Needs not to see herself.

She pulls the blanket back over her lap. Sits on the couch again. Legs tucked under her, knees pressing tight together.

And she just... sits.

Breathes.

Tries to ignore the heat still blooming between her thighs. The way her skin remembers hands that never touched her.

She reaches for the remote. Opens the browser on her TV.

Hesitates.

She scrolls for something--anything--bland. Old. Hetero. The usual stuff.

She selects something with a generic thumbnail. Man, woman, couch. Too much makeup. Too little chemistry.

It starts.

Moaning. Too fast. Fake.

She watches it like it's a safety video.

Her hand doesn't move. Not yet.

She wants it to work. Wants to prove that nothing's changed.

But it's not doing anything.

The man thrusts.

The woman gasps.

Her fingers twitch.

Then curl.

She fast-forwards. A little. Then more. Skipping past scenes that used to get her off. Blonde girl on her knees. Guy groaning. Faces she's seen a thousand times.

She should be wet by now.

She's not.

She backs out of the video. Picks another.

Then another.

Still nothing.

Still wrong.

She scrolls deeper. A new section.

Lesbian.

She hovers. Thumb trembling.

"No," she whispers. "Don't."

But she's already clicked.

Two women. Soft lips. Dark lighting. A hand between thighs.

Her heart stutters.

The sound of one woman moaning into the other's neck hits her like a slap.

She hits back.

Slams the remote down on the couch like it bit her.

Covers her face with both hands.

What the fuck are you doing?

Her chest is heaving.

She doesn't know if she's going to cry or cum or scream.

But she knows this: she's not okay.

And it's not going away.

She doesn't move for a long time.

Just sits on the couch, face in her hands, breathing like she's trying to relearn how. Like if she can just get air in without sobbing, she'll win something.

The TV screen goes dark. Reflected light flickers across her wet eyes. One last frozen image of two women in a tangle of limbs and want.

She lifts her head.

Wipes her face with the edge of her sleeve. Sniffles once. Hates the sound.

Then something happens.

Not big.

Just--she exhales.

And it doesn't feel like a failure this time. It feels like a release.

A weight slipping off her chest. Just a sliver. Just enough to sit upright without flinching.

She looks down at herself.

Still dressed. Still aching. Still confused.

But not panicking.

The voice inside her that's spent the last twenty-four hours screaming not you, not this, don't you dare... goes quiet.

And something else whispers, barely audible:

Maybe it is.

She says it out loud. Just to test the sound.

"Maybe this is who I am."

It doesn't hurt.

She leans back.

Blanket pulled tight to her collarbone, one hand still curled near her heart like she's holding something fragile.

She's not okay.

But she's not not okay either.

She's something in between.

And for the first time all day, that feels like enough.

Her phone lights the room again.

She doesn't jump this time.

She just turns her head. Slowly. Like she already knows.

Zoe Jane Iliopoulos

The full name still makes her chest squeeze. Something about the "Jane" in the middle--like Zoe's parents tried to ground her and failed spectacularly. It's the name of a girl who sharpens her eyeliner with a switchblade and calls you babe when she's about to ruin your life.

She blinks the notification open.

[Zoe]: "Hey again. You okay?"

Pause. Then:

[Zoe]: "We could just talk."

And another, three seconds later, as if she can't resist the impulse:

[Zoe]: "Unless you want more than that. In which case I'm also free."

A little flame emoji. Then a black heart. Then nothing.

She stares at the screen.

Fucking Zoe.

That bleached-blonde chaos sprite with bitten nails, bedroom eyes, and an Instagram full of mirror selfies and thirst traps disguised as political takes. Zoe, who says "relax, I won't bite," then does.

But this text... it's different.

No lollipop.

No teasing voice memo.

Just: You okay?

She doesn't answer right away.

She reads it again.

Then, without overthinking it, she types:

[me]: "Rough day."

Zoe replies instantly.

[Zoe]: "Yeah. I figured. You've got that vibe."

[Zoe]: "Wanna tell me about it?"

She hesitates. Her fingers twitch. But she doesn't delete it this time. Doesn't hide.

Just types:

[me]: "Not really. But maybe I want to not be alone for a bit."

And sends it.

And it feels okay.

Just... okay.

9:42 PM.

There's a knock at the door.

Not a buzz. Not a polite, mid-knuckle tap. A full-bodied knock like someone's here and means it.

She blinks, pulls the blanket off her legs, stands. Her heart's already doing that fluttery thing it shouldn't be doing. She checks the peephole.

Zoe.

And fuck, she's soaked.

Hair plastered to her face in streaks of white gold. Mascara smudged but not smeared--like she meant it. Hoodie clinging to her collarbones, sheer with wetness, revealing the band of a red bralette underneath. One sneaker untied. Denim shorts that definitely aren't weather-appropriate, especially with her pale thighs streaked from the rain.

She looks like a drowned sex dream and a raccoon got into your heart at the same time.

She opens the door.

Zoe grins, breathless.

"Surprise," she says, water running down her cheek. "It rained."

"You don't say."

"No umbrella. Obviously."

She steps inside without waiting. Her soaked hoodie leaves a trail across the hardwood. She peels it off as she goes, flinging it toward a chair, revealing the full glory of that clingy red bralette--lace, thin, defiant.

Zoe glances back.

"You're not mad I came, right?"

She isn't.

She can't be.

Not with Zoe standing in her living room like some fever-dream nymph, barefoot now, damp and unapologetic, grinning like she knows exactly how close to the edge she is.

Zoe flops onto the couch like it's hers.

"Got anything warm?" she asks, like she's been here before. Like she plans to be again.

Our girl stands in the doorway. Watching. Heart pounding. Breath slow.

"No," she lies.

Zoe looks up at her. Smirks.

"That's okay," she says. "You're warm."

Zoe curls up on the couch like a cat--legs tucked under her, damp strands of hair sticking to her neck. The red lace of her bralette clings like it was sewn on wet. Her skin glows under it, flushed pink from the rain and the sudden warmth of the apartment. Nipples hard. Begging.

She pops open a mini bag of pretzels she found on the coffee table, eats one like it's a communion wafer, then holds the bag out with two fingers.

"You want some?"

"No."

"Your loss."

She tosses one in her mouth, crunching dramatically.

Our girl sits on the far end of the couch. Not touching. Not close. But not far enough. The air between them is thick. Salt and sugar and Zoe. All rain and skin and eyes that don't blink when they look at you too long.

She tucks her legs beneath her. Fidgets. Swallows. Breathes once. Twice.

Then says it:

"I've been dealing with some feelings lately, Zoe."

Zoe blinks. Not thrown. Not surprised.

"Okay."

She waits. No push. No joke. Just... okay.

Our girl licks her lips. Her throat is tight.

"Not like... cute feelings. Not the kind I know what to do with."

Zoe nods, mouth full of pretzel.

"Like, you want to kill someone? Or fuck someone? Or cry a lot? Or all three? 'Cause I get all three."

Our girl huffs a laugh. It startles her.

"No. I mean--kind of. But mostly it's like..."

She trails off. Her fingers pick at the seam of the couch cushion.

"Like I can't stop thinking about a woman."

Zoe leans in slightly. Not predatory. Not flirty. Just interested.

"Hot."

"It's not hot. It's ruining me."

Zoe tilts her head. "Same thing, really."

Her cheeks flush.

Zoe reaches out. Not to touch. Just to hover. Her fingers near her knee. Close enough to feel the warmth.

"You wanna talk about her?"

"I don't know."

"You wanna talk about what she did?"

That hits too close. Her breath catches.

"She didn't do anything," she says, voice low. "It was me."

Zoe smiles again, small this time. Real.

"Still hot," she murmurs. Then adds, "But yeah. Okay. You're freaking out a little."

She nods. "Yeah."

"I get it."

"You do?"

Zoe leans back, biting another pretzel in half.

"I think about girls all the time. Sometimes it's hot. Sometimes it's like I'm gonna crawl out of my own skin if I don't kiss someone right then. Doesn't mean I'm broken. Just means I want."

She shrugs.

"Wanting's not the problem."

Our girl stares at her. At that rain-slick hair and careless softness and bare stomach peeking out from where her hoodie used to cling.

She thinks: Zoe looks like a dream you shouldn't tell anyone about.

She thinks: I could kiss her right now.

But she says "I don't want to be this person."

Zoe, softly "Then be a different one tomorrow."

Zoe tosses another pretzel into her mouth, chewing with exaggerated focus. Like if she stares hard enough at the salt crystals, she won't have to say what's brewing behind her eyes.

She shifts. Pulls her knees up tighter. Glances sideways, catching our girl looking at her, then looks away.

Then, almost offhand:

"You know the manager at the CVS? South and 22nd?"

Our girl blinks. "The one who's always yelling at the cashiers?"

Zoe snorts. "Yeah, that one. Carrie. With the tits and the lips and all that."

She gestures vaguely in the air. A handful of curves and smoke and chaos.

"She's, like... thirty-something, right?"

"Definitely." She's 27, but whatever.

"She wears lip liner like it's war paint. Always got a little attitude. Probably could kill me with a dirty look."

Zoe sucks the salt off her thumb. Doesn't meet her eyes.

"I get feelings for her I can't manage sometimes."

Silence.

Our girl shifts, mouth opening slightly.

Zoe keeps going, voice soft now.

"Like I'll walk in for a pack of gum and walk out needing to bite something. Or cry. Or throw myself in traffic, depending on her mood."

"She's... beautiful," our girl offers, unsure.

Zoe looks at her then. Really looks.

"She's dangerous. But I want her anyway. Like my bones do. I want her in a way that makes me feel like my whole body's lying to me."

She huffs. Laughs at herself. Shakes her head.

"I swear to god, sometimes she touches my hand giving change and I almost come apart."

The words hang there, raw and unguarded.

Then Zoe shrugs. Shakes the pretzel bag.

"Anyway. CVS. Whole aisle of betrayal."

Our girl stares at her. Not laughing. Not mocking.

Just seeing her. Seeing herself.

Something tender slips into her voice.

"Zoe... that's how I feel, too."

Zoe's eyes flick to hers again. Bright, blue, honest.

"Yeah?" she says.

And it's not a joke this time.

Zoe shifts again on the couch, drawing her knees up tighter, the pretzel bag limp in her lap. Her damp hair's starting to dry in frizzy waves, the scent of rain and sugar still clinging to her skin.

Our girl is watching her. Her whole body aches with it. With want. With confusion. With the sharp curl of a need she doesn't have words for.

Zoe's here. Zoe's so here. Lips parted, damp thighs sticking to the couch, hoodie off, bralette thin as breath. Willing.

So willing.

And she's kind in the way that only chaos can be. A kindness that says you can wreck me if it'll keep you from wrecking yourself.

But our girl hesitates.

Zoe sees it. Of course she does. She cocks her head, grinning crooked.

"Thinking too hard again."

"I just..."

She bites her lip. Swallows. The name's already there.

Hannah.

Zoe watches her like a cat watches a shaking bird.

Then she says it, soft, sharp, and devastatingly okay with being second choice:

"Naimh, talk to Hannah. Or fuck me and find out."

She says it like she's said it a dozen times.

Like this isn't new.

Like she's been the stand-in before, and she can be again.

Like it doesn't hurt--because maybe it does, but she'll never let you see it.

And the way she says "Naimh"--like "Neeeevie," casual and almost correct--roots into the moment. Like she knows her, better than Naimh wants to admit.

Naimh stares at her.

Her name. Her real name.

She hadn't said it tonight. Not once.

Zoe just knew.

And now it lands like a nail in the floorboards, pinning her in place.

Zoe doesn't move closer. Doesn't touch her.

She just says it again. Quieter this time.

"Talk to her. Or don't. Fuck me and find out what's still missing."

A pause.

"And I swear, babe... I'll make it feel so good while you're trying to figure it out."

Naimh closes her eyes.

Fuck.

"I'm going to kiss you," Naimh says.

It's quiet. Almost clinical. Like a decision made after days of deliberation. Like she's naming the act before she can lose her nerve.

Zoe doesn't laugh. Doesn't smirk.

She just nods once, eyes locked on Naimh's mouth.

Then closes them.

And leans forward.

Not all the way. Just enough to invite. Not demand.

Naimh's heart is hammering. Her hands shake. Not with fear--with knowing. With the gut-deep awareness that this won't fix her. That she's still full of shadows. That Hannah is a scar with teeth and Zoe is a wildfire wrapped in glitter.

But right now, this is what she chooses.

She closes the space between them.

And kisses Zoe.

Soft. Just once. Their lips meet like they're afraid of startling each other. Warm. Damp. Salt on the edges from the pretzels. Rain on Zoe's skin.

Zoe makes a sound--half sigh, half whimper--and leans in just a little more.

Naimh pulls back.

Barely.

Eyes open now.

Zoe looks at her. Dazed. Smiling just enough to ruin everything.

"Okay," Zoe says, voice hoarse. "That was..."

She trails off. Bites her lip.

Then: "Do it again."

And Naimh does.

This time slower. With her hands. One cradling the back of Zoe's neck. The other pressed to her thigh.

And this time it means something.

Even if she doesn't know what yet.

Zoe is warm under her hands. Soft and eager and there.

The second kiss deepens, just slightly. Zoe's mouth opens. Her breath catches. The couch creaks beneath their weight.

And for a second--just a second--Naimh feels held. Like maybe this is safety. Maybe this is newness. Maybe this is freedom, even if it burns.

But then--

Hannah.

The name slams into her chest like a punch.

No image. No voice. Just presence. Heavy and familiar and undeniable.

She jerks back. Visibly. Abrupt.

Zoe blinks. "What--?"

"I'm--" Naimh stumbles off the couch. Not graceful. Not dramatic. Just wrong. Her whole body is wrong.

"I'm sorry."

Zoe sits up slowly. Her eyes shift. The smirk's gone. She's reading the room now, and not liking it.

"Did I do something?"

"No," Naimh breathes. "It's not you."

It's Hannah. It's always been Hannah.

But she doesn't say her name. Not out loud. Not yet.

She just paces. Arms folded. Hands on her face like she could rub the guilt out.

Zoe watches her. Quiet for once.

Then: "You looked like someone who needed a fucking lifeboat. I threw you one."

"I know."

"You don't have to take it. But don't drown and pretend it's not a choice."

Naimh turns to face her.

There are tears in her eyes now. Not many. Just enough to catch the light.

"I think I just cheated on someone I'm not even with."

Zoe nods.

Doesn't laugh. Doesn't tease.

Just nods. And says:

"Yeah. That happens."