Giggles and Darkness

Jamie's crap is everywhere.

It's not even dramatic--no cathartic storm of shattered dishes or torn-up photos--just... presence. Half-unpacked boxes lining the hallway, a sweater flung over the back of every chair, a colony of mismatched mugs gathering by the sink like they're planning an uprising. Her shoes are never where shoes go. Her makeup has taken the bathroom hostage. Her bras hang like morbid garlands across the doorknobs. She's been in Alex's apartment exactly six days and it already feels like she's slowly bleeding into the walls.

Alex doesn't say anything. Not really. Not beyond one or two raised eyebrows when she nearly breaks her neck on a rogue curling iron cord.

Because she gets it.

Jamie left Alton. Jamie left everything. A wedding dress she never wore still stuffed in a garment bag in her mom's attic. A future that smelled like new leather furniture and 401k plans. A man who loved her with spreadsheets and stability and a kind of golden retriever sweetness that had slowly, relentlessly drained her like a leaky tire.

So, no--Alex doesn't say anything about the clutter. About the box of jammed-up eyeshadow palettes now living on her kitchen counter. About the wine-stained pillowcases or the avocado pit growing roots in a shot glass on the windowsill. She just adjusts.

And watches.

Jamie's not fine. She's functional. She's still got that same easy laugh, that breezy way of sitting with one leg tucked under her like she's in a 90s sitcom. She still swipes through her phone with performative disdain like she can't believe how many people are posting vacation photos in March.

But the sparkle's off. Like someone dimmed her at the switch.

They cook together most nights now--nothing fancy. Eggs and toast at 9 p. m. Pasta with way too much garlic. Alex pretends not to notice when Jamie accidentally doubles the wine every time a recipe calls for it.

It's not exactly domestic bliss. More like domestic improv.

"Did I really bring all this shit?" Jamie says one night, standing in front of a stack of boxes labeled Bedroom Stuff in blocky, permanent marker. Her hands are on her hips, but not in a power pose. She looks like she might cry, or fall asleep, or maybe go for a run in traffic.

"You brought five sets of throw pillows," Alex replies from the couch, not looking up from her laptop. "I didn't even know people owned four."

"I was nesting," Jamie mutters, walking over to collapse beside her. "Like a giant, anxious bird."

"Alton's bird," Alex says.

Jamie lets out a groan and thumps her head against Alex's shoulder. "Fuck you."

But it's fond. It's grateful. It's tired.

They sit there for a while, shoulder-to-shoulder. Not touching, not really--but not not touching either. There's always been something casual between them, some long stretch of almosts and could-haves. They kissed once, freshman year, because they were drunk and curious and on the same couch watching Practical Magic. Jamie had laughed into it. Alex had wanted to try again. They never talked about it.

Now Jamie's ex-almost-husband is a ghost in her voicemail and Alex is the one holding the remote.

"Do you ever think about how weird this is?" Jamie says suddenly, shifting to tuck her feet under her thighs. "Like. I was supposed to be married right now. I was supposed to be on my honeymoon."

"Now you're planning where to put your Funko Pops."

"They're collectible."

"They're ugly."

Jamie smacks her.

Alex grins. "You made the right call, J."

There's a beat. Just long enough to breathe in.

Jamie's voice is soft when she says, "You sure?"

"I'm not the one who had to live with him. But you're you again, kinda. And you're here. So yeah. I'm sure."

Jamie nods slowly. She doesn't say thank you. She doesn't need to.

They fall into the new rhythm like it was always waiting. Mornings with too much coffee. Nights with reruns. Sideways conversations about sex and grief and the things they used to dream about when they were nineteen and bulletproof. Alex starts folding Jamie's laundry without being asked.

It's not romantic. But it's something. Warm. Close. Coded.

And slowly, there's touch again. Not the performative, girl-best-friends kind, but real, almost guilty touches. Jamie's fingers brushing the curve of Alex's back when she squeezes by in the hallway. Alex tugging a loose curl out of Jamie's ponytail and tucking it behind her ear. Long hugs that linger just a half-second too long. Bare feet pressed against each other under the coffee table.

It's a pressure building under everything else. A pulse they're pretending not to feel.

Jamie kept stealing Alex's hoodies, despite the fact that her tits stretched the fabric like sin. After a few nights, they stopped smelling like Alex and started smelling like something new. Something warm. Something Jamie.

One night, they fall asleep on the couch during a thunderstorm. Jamie wakes up tangled in Alex's arm, the sound of rain and breath and heartbeat pressed tight against her spine. She doesn't move. Doesn't speak.

She closes her eyes.

Just for now.

Alex finds it on a Tuesday. She's looking for a spatula.

That's the whole reason she opens the box in the corner of the pantry--a weird place for a box labeled "Guest Bathroom + Random." It's been sitting there like a little cardboard tombstone for a week, untouched and slightly damp at the bottom because someone spilled something and didn't clean it up. Alex blames Jamie's oat milk.

Inside: two bottles of conditioner, three unopened candles (Target brand), a cracked travel hairdryer, a tangled silk robe, and--

Oh.

Hello.

She doesn't pull it out, doesn't touch it, because that feels somehow criminal. It's just there--coiled among bath bombs and a single purple vibrator like a relic from another life. Like something holy and deeply embarrassing.

Pink. Slightly translucent. Gummy-soft, with a kind of innocent curve that felt like a lie. Harness still looped through, the straps tangled like they'd been yanked off in a hurry. Nestled in a Ziploc like it was cooling off between sets.

Alex stares at it for a beat too long. Not shocked. Not even surprised. Jamie always felt like the kind of girl who took charge in bed, who knew what she wanted, knew what she was doing. Alton was probably the kind of guy who blinked twice if someone said "clit" out loud, and maybe--just maybe--this particular piece of silicone got more action than he ever deserved.

Still, it's... a moment.

Alex slides the box closed without a word. Grabs a wooden spoon instead. She stirs the pasta like the heat rising in her chest is just steam. Like her fingers aren't trembling. Like she isn't imagining Jamie in that stupid harness, cocky as hell, laughing while she pins Alex down and says, "What, you thought I brought all those throw pillows for decoration?"

That night, Jamie walks into the kitchen barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, holding a bowl of cereal like it's dessert.

"Hey," she says, leaning on the counter. "You used the wooden one. Smart. My silicone one's trash."

Alex doesn't blink. "Yeah, I noticed."

Nothing else. No heat, no sarcasm. Just the phrase left dangling in the air like a tripwire Jamie doesn't even realize she's stepping over.

She furrows her brow, starts chewing, and looks toward the pantry.

"You went through my boxes?"

Alex shrugs. "Looking for a spatula. Found some... things."

Jamie snorts, cheeks puffing out as she tries not to laugh with a mouth full of almond milk. "Oh my god. Which box?"

"Guest Bathroom. plus... Random."

A pause.

Jamie turns a deep, full-body shade of red. Her ears go first, then her neck. She closes her eyes. "Fuuuck. Okay. I was wondering where that ended up."

Alex tosses a dish towel at her. "You put it next to a bath bomb."

"It smells like lavender now," Jamie says with false pride, still blushing. "Very sensual."

Alex leans her hip against the counter, arms crossed. She keeps her voice cool. Almost teasing. "I didn't know you used one."

Jamie shrugs, suddenly shy. She spoons another bite of cereal into her mouth before she answers.

"You never asked."

There's something in the way she says it. A little flick of challenge. A soft scrape of the underside of things they never talk about.

Alex doesn't look away. "No. I didn't."

They leave it there.

But that night, when they're brushing their teeth side-by-side and Alex spits into the sink, she glances over at Jamie in the mirror--hair in a bun, blouse half-off her shoulder, mouth all foamy and ridiculous--and thinks:

I want to know.

Not just about the cock in the box.

But everything.

The apartment finally stops looking like a breakup.

It takes a week, maybe a little more. The boxes vanish slowly--not in one big cleaning frenzy, but in little pockets of progress. Jamie folds shirts while watching Chopped. Alex hangs prints on the wall without asking, just choosing what feels right: a too-bright art fair piece she bought sophomore year, a minimalist photo of a fire escape in Queens, a weird little sketch Jamie made once in a diner napkin haze that now lives, somehow, in a black frame like it matters.

They don't talk about finishing the space. There's no big reveal moment, no high-five over a vacuumed rug. Just one day, Alex walks in from work, dumps her keys in the bowl by the door, and realizes--this is it. This is what it looks like now.

Not hers. Not Jamie's. Just... theirs.

Messy. Alive. Lived-in.

There's always something on the floor--a hoodie, a sock, a half-read book with a broken spine. Jamie never closes cabinet doors. Alex leaves her coffee mugs wherever the last thought interrupted her. The apartment smells like their overlapping scents now: sandalwood, bergamot, takeout, heat.

The couch becomes the gravitational center of the world.

They end up there every night, without planning to. Jamie finishes dishes and slides in beside Alex, tucking her feet under a blanket like she's lived there forever. Alex finishes grading or replying to emails or falling apart and leans into Jamie like a hinge giving way. It becomes normal. Automatic.

They choose dumb movies. Then worse movies. Then a binge of some prestige series they both claim they're only watching ironically. But they don't watch much. They talk over everything. About Alton, sometimes. About high school sex ed. About that one time Jamie thought she could get a yeast infection from a hot tub. About how Alex lost her virginity to a girl named Taylor who cried during it and called her "Mom" by accident.

Somewhere in there, they start sleeping tangled.

Not in a we're doing something way. Just... limbs overlapping. Faces pressed into shoulders. That weird intimacy that comes when you've let someone see you ugly-cry at three in the morning.

Jamie will blink awake sometime around four a. m., groggy and hot, and gently pry herself out of the tangle. Alex will grunt and roll over. Sometimes Jamie kisses the top of her head before disappearing to her room. Sometimes Alex watches her go, quiet.

Other nights, it's the reverse. Alex wakes up half on Jamie's chest, hears her heartbeat against her ear, and for just a second, lets herself stay there. Breathes in the shape of her.

They're not talking about it.

They're not not talking about it.

It's just life now. Soft and close and teetering.

One night, Jamie's laughing so hard she slides off the couch entirely. She was doing an impression of Alton having sex--complete with robot arms and sound effects--and loses her balance mid-thrust. Ends up on the carpet, breathless and wheezing, her sweatshirt rucked halfway up her ribs.

Alex is laughing too, but softer, curled on her side, watching her with the kind of affection that doesn't go away.

"You're an idiot," Alex murmurs.

"You love it," Jamie shoots back, breathless, eyes bright.

Alex doesn't answer. Just reaches down, hooks a finger in the hem of Jamie's sweatshirt, and tugs it gently down.

Jamie watches her. Still on the floor.

Something flickers. Something dangerous and warm.

But they let it pass. For now.

Instead, Jamie groans dramatically, sprawled out, and says, "Ugh, my ass is asleep. Come help me up."

Alex leans down. Offers her hand.

Jamie takes it. Holds it longer than necessary. Lets their fingers stay interlaced while she climbs back into the couch's gravity.

No one's saying it.

But it's starting to ache in the silence between them.

It happens on a Thursday. One of those overcast, half-lit afternoons where time feels like it's underwater. The apartment smells like pan-fried dumplings and citrus cleaner, and Jamie's humming under her breath while trying to resuscitate a dying pothos on the windowsill, fingers deep in damp soil, sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

And Alex just... stops.

Like her brain short-circuits mid-task. She's holding a fork, maybe. Maybe she was walking to the sink. Maybe she wasn't doing anything at all. It doesn't matter--because suddenly, she sees her.

Not roommate-Jamie. Not post-breakup-Jamie. Not best-friend Jamie who once threw up blue raspberry vodka on a Tilt-A-Whirl and then cried about dolphins.

Just--Jamie.

She's wearing a loose navy tank top that hangs low in the arms, showing off the band of a black sports bra beneath. Soft, ancient gray sweatpants that are somehow indecent just by existing. One ankle bare, one sock halfway off. Dark hair twisted into a sloppy bun, held together with a pen that's definitely leaking. No makeup. A smudge of dirt on her cheek. A tiny gold hoop in one ear.

And she's fucking gorgeous.

Not pretty. Not cute. Gorgeous. The kind that punches you in the chest. That steals your breath like it's entitled to it.

Jamie's got wide, strong shoulders and arms that look like she could bench Alex if asked politely. Her waist tucks in neat beneath the tank, hips soft and broad, thighs that stretch the fabric of those sweatpants just enough to be distracting. There's a freckle on her collarbone Alex has never noticed before, and her mouth--God, her mouth--is bitten pink from chewing the inside of her cheek, something she only does when she's focused.

She's not even trying. She never does. She's just there. Loud, big-hearted, messy as hell. And somehow, for the first time, Alex sees her not as something familiar--but as something dangerous.

Jamie looks up and catches her staring. "What?"

Alex blinks. Catches herself. Covers fast.

"Nothing," she lies. "You've got dirt on your face. You look like a sweaty Disney princess who lost her woodland friends in the middle of repotting."

Jamie grins, full teeth. "Snow White wishes she had this ass."

Alex turns away. Too quickly.

Because now she can't stop seeing her. All of her. Every detail suddenly sharpened. Every movement heavy with meaning.

And there's this ache--low, slow, thrumming--because she's lived beside this girl for years and only now realizes she's spent most of that time not looking directly at her, like a star you're not ready to name.

Jamie wipes the dirt off with the back of her hand and goes back to humming, oblivious.

Alex sets the fork down gently. Walks into the bathroom. Closes the door.

And just breathes.

Alex nearly fell asleep on the couch. Again.

Alex is half-asleep by the time Jamie gets her to the bedroom, heavy-limbed and murmuring nonsense under her breath. She'd fallen asleep on the couch again, this time curled in on herself like she'd folded in the middle. Jamie had tried to wake her gently, got a drowsy "Mmmnuh" in response, and ended up just tugging her upright with both hands under her armpits, her body all slack and pliant, like a drunk marionette.

Now she's laid out across the bed, one arm flung up like she meant to ask a question and forgot. Her dirty blonde hair is loose from its braid, half-tangled across the pillow, Moonlight turning it silver in streaks, the rest dark against the white pillow. She's still wearing the same soft cotton tee she wore when Jamie met her at eighteen--college orientation, a dive bar, shot glasses lined up like promises or threats. That shirt's seen everything: heartbreak, hangovers, lazy Sundays with popcorn and facemasks. Now it rides up a little at the waist, revealing a strip of bare skin and the soft dip of her hipbone.

Moonlight pours through the open window. It's sharp and silver, carving the room into shadows and light. The blinds are tilted, so the light comes in slats, laying across the bed in deliberate, almost surgical stripes. The air smells like sleep and laundry detergent and the faintest trace of Alex's shampoo--eucalyptus and something unnamed. Clean. Soft. Familiar.

Jamie leans on the doorframe, not ready to leave yet.

She watches her.

Watches the way Alex's lips part slightly as she exhales. The way her hand curls unconsciously toward her chest. The way her knee twitches once, then settles. Her face is so open in sleep--unguarded, naked in a way she never lets herself be when she's awake. There's no arch to her brow, no sarcasm at the ready. Just her.

And suddenly, Jamie sees her.

Not just the sarcastic asshole who steals all the good throw pillows. Not the roommate who leaves half-drunk kombucha cans everywhere and pretends her vibrator has a name ("It's Greg," Alex once said, deadpan, "and he's my longest relationship."). Not even the girl Jamie used to text at 3 a. m. from Alton's bathroom floor just to feel less alone.

She sees the full, terrible truth of her: that Alex has been here all along. Every step. Every fucking moment that mattered.

And she never looked. Not really. Not like this.

Jamie's throat tightens. A raw thing blooms in her chest, wide and painful and unformed. Because it's not lust--not just lust. It's want, yes, but it's also fear. Recognition. Hunger with too much gravity. The awful sense that she's already too late, even though nothing's happened yet.

Alex shifts. Breathes in. Sighs.

Jamie takes a single step forward, bare feet silent on the wood floor. She crouches at the edge of the bed and gently--so gently--pulls the hem of Alex's shirt down over her stomach. Touches her only for the briefest second. The back of her fingers graze warm skin.

Alex doesn't stir.

Jamie stays there a moment longer, crouched in the moonlight and the silence, her own heartbeat in her ears like a warning bell.

Then she stands. Leaves the door half open.

And goes to bed wide awake.

It's late morning. A Saturday that smells like bacon and poor decisions. The sun is unforgiving, slicing through the kitchen window like a blade, illuminating every crumb on the counter and every regret in Jamie's hair. She's wearing boxers--Alex's, actually, the navy plaid ones with the hole in the waistband--and a cropped tank that should not, under any circumstances, be called a shirt.

Alex is sitting at the table with a mug of coffee and the illusion of composure, scrolling through her phone like she isn't actively dissociating.

And then Jamie stretches.

Arms up. Fingers interlocked. Back arched. A yawn so wide it could swallow a planet. Her tank rides up, ribs on full display, and her breasts--Jesus fucking Christ--lift and shift beneath the thin cotton like a goddamn art exhibit. No bra. No apology. Just the soft, casual gravity of them. Full, heavy, the kind of breasts that don't bounce, they sway. Like they've got opinions. Like they could ruin you politely.

Alex's mouth goes dry.

She looks away. Tries to look away.

Fails.

Her gaze catches on the shadowed curve beneath one breast, the line of sweatpants slung low on Jamie's hips, the casual looseness of her body--the way she stretches like she owns the space. Like she owns Alex without knowing it.

Jamie doesn't notice.

She drops her arms, yawns again, and pads barefoot over to the fridge. Opens it. Stares in like she's trying to astral project into a dimension where eggs cook themselves.

"You wanna go out for brunch or just scavenge?" she mumbles, head half in the fridge, ass slightly up. "I think we've got some leftover lo mein but it's... a little hostile."

Alex doesn't answer.

Because Alex is not okay.

She is vibrating at a molecular level. Her brain is a live wire shorting out inside a rainstorm. She is twenty-three years old, well-educated, emotionally literate, and utterly undone by the sight of her best friend's tits at 10:17 a. m.

Jamie finally turns around, frowning. "You good?"

Alex's voice comes out too fast. Too high.

"Fine. Totally fine. I just--coffee. Hot. Mouth burn. Normal pain."

Jamie squints. Then shrugs. "Okay, psycho."

She grabs a banana, peels it with her teeth like some sexed-up jungle creature, and wanders off toward the couch, leaving a trail of confused pheromones and destruction in her wake.

Alex exhales.

Stares into her coffee.

And whispers, to no one at all: "I'm so fucked."

The diner (that same one from the "Dante" story) is loud in that cheerful, echoey way that makes everything feel more normal than it is. Greasy spoons always have that kind of enforced neutrality--like no matter what's happening in your chest cavity, someone is screaming about waffles and there's still a guy in the corner booth talking to himself about crypto.

Sugar-free raspberry syrup, two pumps into a glass of iced lemonade. Sitting at the bottom of the glass blindly obeying laws of density and shit.

Alex stirs the lemonade like it's the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth.

Jamie is across from her, chattering about something--some dumb TikTok trend involving hot girls and Home Depot--but Alex is only half-hearing it. She's trying to breathe like a person. Sit like a person. Be a person.

Which is fine. Manageable. Right up until Jamie drops her napkin.

"Shit," Jamie mutters, and bends to grab it.

It happens too fast for Alex to prepare--just a moment, a motion, a tilt--and then boom: the neckline of Jamie's blouse yawns open like a secret just for her.

And there they are.

Bare. Fucking perfect. Her breasts are high and delicate, soft enough to make Alex dizzy, with little pink nipples peeking out from under the thin gauze of her blouse like they've never even heard of a bra. Like modesty is a dead religion and Jamie is the high priestess of "Fuck It."

Alex freezes.

Time stops.

It's obscene how sweet they look. Blushing and warm and close enough to kiss if Alex just leaned over and forgot about reality for a second. She imagines it without meaning to--Jamie between her thighs, grinning, cocky, but her nipples hard and begging, Alex's mouth closing over one while Jamie gasps--

Nope. Abort. Abort!

Jamie pops back up like nothing happened. "Got it!" she chirps, victorious, dropping the napkin in her lap and grabbing a fry like she didn't just ruin Alex's frontal cortex.

Alex is staring at her straw. Praying it turns into a gun so she can shoot herself.

Jamie frowns. "You look weird. Are you okay? Do you need, like, protein or a fucking hug?"

Alex coughs. Drinks half the lemonade in one go. Regains speech through sheer force of will.

"I'm fine. You're just... loud. Bright. I didn't sleep."

Jamie narrows her eyes. "You're such a liar."

Alex doesn't answer.

Because if she opens her mouth, she's going to confess to murder. Or lust. Or the dangerous, stomach-dropping truth that she can't stop thinking about what Jamie's nipples taste like. That she wants to pull her blouse open all the way and look. Like really, look. Worship. Learn. Devour.

Across the table, Jamie smirks. Unaware. Beautiful. Dangerous as hell.

The day after the diner, things go... sideways.

Not wrong. Not awkward. Just tilted.

Jamie walks around like nothing's changed--like she didn't nearly kill Alex with a single yawn-stretch-titty combo and then double-tap her with a blouse-flash at lunch. She's barefoot in the kitchen again, eating cherry tomatoes straight from the carton, humming to herself like a creature from a cottagecore porn.

Alex avoids looking at her chest with the desperation of someone trying not to look at the sun.

Every little thing becomes a minefield. Jamie leans over the couch and her neckline dips; Jamie comes out of the bathroom in a towel, and Alex drops her toothbrush into the sink; Jamie puts lotion on her thighs, and Alex thinks she might die.

But they don't talk about it.

Alex doesn't say: You wrecked me with your nipples.

Jamie doesn't say: I saw you looking. I wanted you to look longer.

Instead, it starts showing up in the small shit.

Like when they're watching TV and Alex gets up to grab a blanket--and Jamie, without looking away from the screen, says softly, "You're cold lately."

Or when Jamie comes out of the shower in a tank top with no bra again--because of course--and Alex, trying not to stare, mutters, "You really hate supportive undergarments, huh?"

Jamie raises an eyebrow. "What's life without a little bounce?"

And that should be it. A throwaway line. But it hangs there. Charged. Alive. And Alex flushes so hard she has to leave the room.

Nights are the worst.

They keep ending up in the same place--tangled on the couch, hips too close, Jamie's thigh pressed against Alex's like it belongs there. They don't mean to fall asleep like that, but they do. And each morning, it gets harder to untangle.

One night, Jamie shifts in her sleep and nuzzles against Alex's neck.

Just a soft, unconscious brush of lips over skin.

Alex stays absolutely still. Heart hammering like she's hiding from a predator. Jamie mumbles something incoherent and shifts again.

Alex doesn't sleep the rest of the night.

Days stretch on. A week. Two.

Jamie's started baking again--poorly. Alex makes fun of her, says her scones are more like slingstones. Jamie shoves one in her mouth, chews dramatically, and says, "Choke me with flavor."

Alex chokes instead. On nothing. Just air and the way Jamie's mouth moves around a bite.

Then there's the laundry night.

Jamie's folding clothes on the bed--Alex's room, because the dryer's a dick and Jamie hates folding alone. She flops back into the pile of warm cotton and sighs like she's just climbed Everest.

Alex is standing at the doorframe, half-lost in a gaze.

Jamie opens one eye.

"What?" she says.

Alex shakes her head. "Nothing. You're just... everywhere lately."

Jamie smiles, lazy and soft. "Good. You'd miss me if I wasn't."

Alex doesn't answer.

Because she would.

She's starting to.

Not in the fun, casual, "I have a hot roommate" way. Not anymore.

It's becoming something she feels in her teeth.

It's in the quiet moments. The backs of their hands brushing on the counter. The long pause before saying goodnight. The way Jamie's laughter seems to linger in the corners of the room long after she's gone.

Alex starts dreaming of her.

Not sex dreams--not yet--but closeness. Jamie's skin against hers. Jamie's lips at her neck. Jamie's voice saying her name low and slow, like she already owns it.

Alex is in the kitchen at 2:14 a. m., standing in front of the open fridge like it owes her answers. There's half a banana in a Ziplock bag, a bottle of tonic water, and one slice of cheese that's somehow both dry and wet.

She shuts the fridge.

She doesn't want food. She wants less. Less of this pressure behind her ribs. Less of this ache every time Jamie says her name like it's not a loaded fucking word.

She opens the drawer. Not the silverware one--the junk one. The one with a corkscrew, a box cutter, a thousand menus, and that stupid purple pen Jamie keeps stealing. Alex takes the pen out. Stares at it. Sticks it back in.

Then, without meaning to, she pulls open the one with the knives.

Just looks at them.

Not in a dramatic way. Not in a movie way. She just wants to see something sharp. Something honest. Something that can cut, clean.

But she doesn't pick one up.

She just closes the drawer. Real quiet.

And presses her forehead to the cabinet door like it might forgive her for being so fucking afraid of love.

One night, Jamie finds Alex crying.

No big breakdown. No screaming. Just Alex sitting on the floor in the hallway, knees up, head back, tears sliding silent down her cheeks.

Jamie sits beside her without a word.

Their shoulders touch. Jamie takes her hand. Doesn't squeeze. Doesn't ask.

Alex breathes, slow and shaking.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she says, voice cracking like ice.

Jamie rests her head on Alex's shoulder and says, "Nothing. You're just starting to feel things you don't know how to say yet."

And Alex turns her head. Looks down. Sees Jamie's hand in hers.

Wants to kiss her.

Doesn't.

Not yet.

The Walk -- Jamie's Perspective

It happens on a Tuesday, which feels unfair. Tuesdays should be emotionally neutral. You shouldn't have to process desire on a day that still smells like stale coffee and disappointment.

Jamie's in the kitchen, halfway through chopping carrots for a soup she will absolutely fuck up, when she hears the bathroom door creak open behind her. Steam spills out like a ghost.

She turns, expecting a towel. Or maybe one of those huge college T-shirts Alex sometimes wears after a shower, the ones with pit stains and old band names. Something cozy. Something safe.

But no.

No, no.

Alex walks by completely naked.

Not nude. Not tasteful, not posed. Not an oil painting.

Just naked.

Wet.

Real.

Unbothered.

Like she does this all the time. Like she hasn't just shattered Jamie's entire spinal column with a single fucking walk.

Her skin's still pink from the heat, steam rising off her like a fresh kill. Hair dripping down her back in lazy, tangled strands. Her little breasts sway slightly with each step, thighs brushing, feet padding soft on the hardwood. They aren't huge--not like Jamie's--but they moved like they had stories to tell. One hand holds a towel--a towel she's not using--and the other pushes her damp hair off her face like she's a Greek myth who doesn't believe in decency.

And Jamie--

Jamie is frozen mid-chop, the knife poised over a carrot like she's about to commit murder.

Because it's not just the sight of her.

It's the casualness.

The way her ass flexes as she walks. The little curve of her stomach. The fucking drip of water tracking from her hip to the inside of her thigh.

Alex doesn't look at her. Doesn't flinch. Just disappears into her bedroom like this is normal. Like she's not leaving a trail of erotic chaos in her wake. Like she doesn't know what her body does to people who watch her walk away.

The door clicks shut.

Jamie lets out a sound. Not a word. Not even a groan. Just... a noise. A strangled, breathy, near-feral thing that doesn't belong in any civilized language.

She stares at the carrots.

Then down at her own body--oversized hoodie, no bra, one sock, hair in a scrunchie that's halfway falling out--and feels like she's just been drop-kicked by a Renaissance sculpture.

Ten minutes later, she burns the soup.

Because of course she does.

Because her brain is sludge. Her hands don't work. Her whole body is suddenly made of pure, unfiltered want--thick and heady and rising fast in her throat.

And the worst part? The absolute worst part?

She can't even jerk off to it later without feeling like a creep.

Because Alex wasn't seducing her.

She was just walking. Just existing. Just... being Alex. Naked, wet, unashamed.

And Jamie?

Jamie wants to touch her.

But she also wants to earn it.

So she stirs the burnt soup, muttering curses, cheeks hot, pulse loud in her ears, and knows--

It's coming.

Not tonight.

But soon.

She's gonna crack.

And when she does?

She'll never look away again.

Alex doesn't do it for attention.

That's the lie she tells herself.

The Walk -- Alex's Perspective

She finishes her shower, towel draped over her arm instead of wrapped around her body, steam still coiling around her ankles like lazy ghosts. The bathroom mirror is fogged over, but she catches the ghost of herself in it--flushed, damp, nipples hard from heat and thought. She pauses at the door. Listens.

Jamie's in the kitchen. She can hear the soft clatter of dishes, a knife against wood, the hum of a shitty pop song playing from Jamie's phone like nothing in the world is strange.

And then, very suddenly, Alex wants to be seen.

Not just seen--noticed.

She thinks of Jamie's hands. The way she stretches when she yawns, like her body is just waiting to be asked for something. She thinks of the way Jamie looks at her sometimes--sharp, quiet, like she's solving a puzzle with her mouth closed and her thighs clenched.

So Alex opens the bathroom door.

And steps into the hallway completely, unapologetically naked.

Not accidental. Not innocent.

Just walking.

The towel is hanging from one hand, more decorative than useful. Her hair is wet, dripping down the curve of her spine. Her skin gleams, pink from the heat, and she walks like she knows what she's doing--like every step is a dare. Her breasts bounce softly with each stride, hips swaying in that subtle, unconscious rhythm she never lets herself indulge.

She doesn't look toward the kitchen. Not directly.

But she knows Jamie sees her.

There's a sudden pause in the sounds--like something was about to fall, or someone forgot how arms work. The music keeps playing, but the rhythm stutters.

Alex bites down on a smile. Doesn't stop. Doesn't hide.

She walks down the hall like she owns it. Because maybe, for this moment, she does.

She gets to her bedroom door and lets herself glance back--not much, just over her shoulder. A flick of the eyes. She sees Jamie half-turned, frozen by the sink, a dish towel limp in her hand, staring like Alex just stepped out of a fever dream.

Their eyes meet.

Only for a second.

But it lands like a slap. Like a kiss with teeth.

Alex disappears into her room and shuts the door behind her. Her chest is heaving. She leans against the wood, towel still clutched useless in her hand, and lets out a soft, shaky laugh.

A wicked, hungry part of her whispers: Good girl. Let her think about that all fucking day.

And Jamie?

Jamie is left standing in the kitchen, heart pounding, thighs pressed together, staring at the hallway like something sacred just walked through it.

She's no longer wondering if Alex wants her.

She's wondering how long Alex will make her wait.

Jamie's beef barley soup is a full-blown crime scene.

It started okay--beef cubes seared, garlic a little aggressive, but charmingly so. But she got cocky. She tried multitasking. She got distracted by a TikTok of a raccoon eating grapes and then Alex happened--Alex, with her full-body post-shower fuck-you strut--and the world turned sideways.

Now the pot is scorched, the bottom black as her sexual confusion, and the apartment smells like failure and smoke.

She's standing there with a wooden spoon in one hand and a potholder in the other, cursing softly under her breath like that'll reverse the chemical process of burnt.

Then the lights go out.

Click.

Total darkness.

The fridge hum dies. The shitty playlist cuts off mid-chorus. The overhead bulb goes dead with a sad little pop.

"Fucking great," Jamie mutters.

From down the hall:

"Oh, what the fuck?!"

Alex. Her voice is sharp and immediate, yanked out of whatever private reverie she was basking in.

Jamie tries not to picture her lying on her bed, still maybe naked, lit only by the dim gray wash of afternoon storm-light through the window. Tries and fails.

Instead, she yells back:

"Power's out!"

No response.

She grabs her phone off the counter, thumb fumbling for the flashlight. Her hand's shaking a little, though she pretends it's just from heat. Not from the image of Alex's wet skin burned into her retina like an afterimage of the sun.

She calls out again, voice more cautious now, more something.

"You good?"

This time, Alex replies--but closer, suddenly at the end of the hall.

"I stubbed my fucking toe. I also hate everything."

Jamie turns, and there she is.

Alex, silhouetted in the doorway, wearing nothing but a loose t-shirt--barely a t-shirt, honestly--and cotton underwear that is definitely not meant to be seen by anyone who's not invited to ruin them. One of her legs is bent slightly, like she's still favoring the toe. Her hair's damp, curling at the ends. Her face is lit only by Jamie's phone glow, casting shadows under her cheekbones and across her mouth.

She looks furious. And half-asleep. And unbearably beautiful.

Jamie swallows.

"Well," she says, voice too casual, "this seems like the right time to tell you I burned dinner and probably poisoned us."

Alex sighs. "God, I'm so turned on right now."

Jamie grins in spite of herself. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Scorched soup and pitch darkness. Classic seduction."

Thunder rumbles outside. Somewhere deep in the city, a car alarm bleats once, then dies. The apartment creaks like it's settling into the storm. Everything feels thick--the air, the space between them, the tension that's been building for weeks like floodwater behind a dam.

Jamie's still holding the spoon.

Alex steps forward.

Slowly.

Not all the way. Just two steps. Bare feet on wood. Her eyes catch the light just enough for Jamie to see the shift--the way she's watching now.

"Got any candles?" Alex asks, voice quieter.

Jamie nods. "Yeah. Somewhere."

They stand like that for a moment, shadows and silence. Everything sticky and suspended.

And Jamie--still half-reeling from the naked hallway strut, still pretending she's not holding a ruined spoon like a weapon--thinks:

I'm gonna kiss her.

Not now. Maybe not tonight.

But soon.

And when she does, it's not gonna be some delicate, tasteful, nude scene.

It's gonna be hot.

Real.

Like this.

Like them.

The storm doesn't end.

Not the way it's supposed to--quick flash, loud crash, done. No. This one lingers, dragging itself across the city like it wants to be noticed. Thunder rolls low and constant, like a growl under the bed. Rain hammers the windows in erratic, angry bursts. And the power stays out. Long enough that the phones die, the air grows warm, and the silence between them begins to breathe.

They light candles. A few stubby votives from the junk drawer, a novelty cinnamon thing from Alex's closet that smells like horny apples, and one unscented pillar left over from a hurricane scare last year. The apartment fills with flickering amber light and the strange intimacy of a world without electricity.

Everything feels closer.

Smaller.

More felt.

They sit on the floor now, both curled up in blankets, heads tipped back against the couch. Jamie's legs are stretched long, Alex's tucked under her. Their feet keep brushing. Neither of them moves away.

Jamie says something dumb about how she bet Alton would've had a generator. Alex laughs too loud and nearly spills her water. Jamie's heart skips like a scratched record.

Alex tosses her hair out of her face and sighs. "You ever notice how blackouts make you think stupid shit?"

Jamie looks at her.

Alex isn't looking back. She's watching the candle flame.

"Like what?" Jamie asks carefully.

Alex shrugs. A little too fast. "Like kissing people you shouldn't."

The air freezes.

Jamie doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Her whole body goes still with recognition.

Alex turns to look at her. And Jamie sees it--feels it--the moment her own thought collides perfectly with Alex's. That sharp, aching throb in the chest. That you-too? moment.

Their eyes lock.

It's quiet for too long.

Then Jamie says, low, raw:

"Holy shit."

Alex blinks. "What?"

Jamie sits forward slightly, the blanket falling off her shoulders. She doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch.

"You've been thinking about kissing me too."

Alex stares at her, stunned. Like Jamie just read her diary out loud.

Jamie leans in, slow, careful.

"You have, haven't you?"

Alex exhales. A shaky, shallow thing. And nods.

It's tiny. But real.

Jamie swears under her breath. Runs a hand through her hair. Laughs. Just once. Sharp and overwhelmed.

Alex's voice is barely there. "I didn't think you..."

Jamie looks at her like she's ridiculous. Like she's everything.

"I thought about it the second you stepped out of the bathroom carrying your towel like a fucking offering."

Alex's face flushes. She bites her lip and looks away, smile twitching at the corners.

Jamie watches her.

Then says, almost afraid:

"So what do we do now?"

The room is candlelit and trembling. The storm still howling just outside the walls.

Alex looks back at her.

And says, just above a whisper:

"We wait."

Jamie's brow furrows. "For what?"

Alex shifts closer--close enough to feel heat, to tempt--and smiles with something devastating in her eyes.

"For one of us to break."

They sit there.

Listening to the rain.

Not touching.

Breathing too loud.

And every second is a dare.

Jamie's breath catches. Not loud. But enough.

She's sitting too still, like the wrong move might make the whole scene vanish, like Alex might pull back into herself and laugh it off. Kidding! Just blackout banter. But she doesn't. She just stays there--lit by candlelight and rain-thunder, face tilted slightly, lips parted in a way that feels like a countdown.

Jamie shifts forward a little. Her knee brushes Alex's thigh.

"I'm not sure I can..." she says quietly. Her voice is hoarse like it had to fight its way out of her chest. "... wait."

Alex exhales like someone just cracked open her ribcage.

Jamie watches her face. Watches the flicker in her eyes.

"Why are we waiting?" she adds, a little bolder now. "Isn't the point of all this tension to do something about it?"

Alex's mouth curves--half smile, half challenge. She doesn't move back. Doesn't lean in either. Just lingers. The kind of stillness that's heavier than movement.

"A tease," she says. "That's what this is."

Jamie's stomach clenches. "A tease?"

"Mmhmm." Alex's eyes are lazy, hooded. Dangerous. "We build the tension. We stoke it. Until it's unbearable. That's how these things work."

Jamie lets out a breath that's nearly a laugh--but not quite. More like a moan she swallowed. She glances at Alex's mouth. Just once. Then again.

"And who says you get to be the one stoking it?"

Alex tilts her head. The candlelight flutters against her collarbone. "Maybe I'm not the only one."

Jamie grits her teeth. "You're evil."

"I'm methodical."

Jamie leans in, close enough that their foreheads almost touch. "You realize you're playing a game you can't win."

Alex's voice dips to something soft and brutal. "I don't have to win. I just have to make you want to lose."

The storm outside surges, slamming against the windows like a pulse.

Jamie's whole body is shaking now--but not from cold. From need. From restraint. From being so close to something she wants to taste and tear into and treasure, all at once.

Alex's breath is against her lips. Her eyes flick down.

Jamie's hands are twitching.

And then--

Nothing.

Stillness again.

Neither of them moves.

And that--that restraint--is the most intimate thing in the room.

They sit like that. Mouths inches apart. Every nerve ending in open rebellion. Waiting for someone to snap the string. To break.

And until then?

The tension builds.

And builds.

And burns.

It happens in that breathless, perilous space after the dare--after the game has stalled at the edge of the cliff, where there's nowhere left to go but over.

They both lean in at the exact same moment. Thunder splits the air, lightning cracks the sky--and something flashes in their blood to match it.

No hesitation. No flinch.

Just gravity. Inevitable. Like planets colliding.

And when their lips meet, it's not soft. It's not testing. It's not a brush or a flutter or some timid, trembling whisper of a kiss.

It's a fucking crash.

A collision of need and restraint finally unraveling. Months of heat shoved under the rug, days of hungry looks and choked laughter and quiet, pulsing almosts--all igniting in the pressure of one kiss that says yes, I want you, I've wanted you, I'm done pretending otherwise.

Alex's mouth is hot and searching, her hands already cupping Jamie's jaw like she needs to hold her in place, to feel the sharp lines of her face under her fingers. Jamie groans into her mouth, hands diving into her hair, tugging just enough to be messy. Her lips part, and Alex takes the opening like she owns it--tongue slick, insistent, her body sliding closer like she doesn't remember what air tasted like before this.

It's not careful.

It's not tidy.

It's the kind of kiss that rewrites memory.

Later, they won't remember who moaned first. Or when Jamie climbed into Alex's lap. Or when Alex's hand slid under Jamie's shirt like a promise.

But they will remember the taste of it--cinnamon candle smoke, storm-sweat, want.

They'll remember the sound. The wet, obscene sound of mouths meeting again and again, kissing like they were born for it and no one ever taught them restraint.

They'll remember the moment Jamie pulled back, barely, and whispered, voice shredded:

"Holy fuck."

And Alex, eyes dark, lips swollen, answered:

"Yeah. That's what I was afraid of."

They don't stop. Not right away.

Because once a kiss like that starts, there's no pulling back. Not cleanly. Not without damage.

And yes--sure, technically--there was that one kiss behind the Sphinx in 2234 BC. It was steamy. Earthy. Historical. The sand still remembers it.

But this?

This eclipses it.

Because this kiss carries the weight of denial turned to fire, friendship turned feral, and the raw, goddamn pleasure of finally getting to taste the thing you've been starving for while pretending you weren't hungry.

The blackout doesn't end that night.

But something else does.

The waiting.

And now, everything burns.

That kiss behind the Sphinx? Absolutely legendary. Unwritten history. Two girls from rival dynasties, meeting under the pretext of exchanging trade routes but really just aching for each other. One with kohl-lined eyes and too many secrets, the other with a dagger strapped to her thigh and a mouth that didn't know how to lie. They kissed like it might stop the Nile.

But this?

This is the modern myth.

Candlelight. Burned soup. Sweat-slicked thighs on hardwood floors. One woman in her roommate's flannel boxers, the other naked under an oversized t-shirt, kissing like the blackout was heaven's permission slip.

Gods could only hope for a kiss like that.

Right as their lips part--just barely, just enough to feel each other's breath still hanging in the air, taste still electric on their tongues--click.

The overhead light roars back to life in a white, blinding flood.

Both of them flinch like fugitives caught in a spotlight.

The refrigerator hums awake with an almost smug sound. The candle flames gutter, suddenly outshone. Jamie's phone buzzes loudly where it had been dead a moment ago, vibrating against the wood like an alarm they forgot to set.

And they just--freeze.

Jamie's still in Alex's lap. Alex's hand is still up the back of Jamie's shirt, fingers splayed across her spine like a brand. Their lips are swollen, breath caught between them, and the world is back on before they're ready for it.

It's obscene. How intimate it suddenly feels. The overhead light has no mercy--too bright, exposing every flushed inch, every disheveled line of clothing, every fact of what just happened.

For one long, endless second, they don't move.

Then Jamie, voice husky and half-laughing, says:

"Wow. Way to ruin the mood, Con Edison."

Alex lets out this sound--not a laugh, not quite. More like a breathless bark of disbelief, her eyes still locked on Jamie's, pupils blown, hair a mess, mouth red and a little wet.

And then--

They both start laughing.

Not polite laughter. Not nervous giggles. Real laughter. Bent-over, body-shaking, fuck-we-just-did-that laughter. It breaks out of them like a dam giving way--relief, joy, the absurdity of the moment hitting all at once.

Jamie slumps forward, forehead to Alex's shoulder. "God. Of course. We finally kiss and the lights come on like we're in a romcom written by a horny electrician."

Alex is still breathless. "That was not a kiss. That was an event. That was an OSHA violation."

Jamie lifts her head, just a little. Their faces are still close. So close. Less desperate now. More giddy. More dangerous in a different way.

Alex's fingers are still on her back.

And suddenly the laughter goes quiet again.

Settles.

A new kind of tension curls up in the aftermath. Post-kiss silence. The air thick with what-comes-next.

Jamie's voice drops.

"So..."

Alex tilts her head. "So."

They stare.

Then Jamie, quieter this time:

"Do we just pretend the blackout made us do it?"

Alex raises an eyebrow. "You want to?"

Jamie considers.

Then, slowly:

"... no."

Alex nods. "Good."

Jamie leans in again, almost teasing.

"This mean you're gonna let me kiss you in full lighting now?"

Alex bites her lip, eyes heavy with heat.

"Babe," she says, pulling her closer, "I'm gonna let you do so much worse."

And the lights?

This time, they stay on.

The second kiss under the lights is slower.

No crash, no desperation. Just knowing. A charged stillness between their mouths before the contact, like the tension was a red thread pulled taut and finally knotted shut between them.

When Jamie climbs back into Alex's lap, it's not shy. It's not rushed. It's confident, deliberate, worshipful. Her thighs straddle Alex's hips like they were built to hold this shape, this weight, and her hands cradle Alex's face as if she's still stunned it exists under her palms.

Their kiss starts soft. But it doesn't stay there.

It builds. Pressure. Slide. Breath. Alex's hands go to Jamie's hips--gripping, anchoring--and Jamie leans deeper, grinding just slightly, enough to pull a sharp gasp from Alex's mouth. The sound makes Jamie smile. Wicked and flushed.

"Okay," Jamie whispers against her lips. "Lights on is kind of hot."

"Yeah?" Alex murmurs. Her fingers push up the back of Jamie's shirt again. "You wanna show me what else is hot?"

Jamie shifts back just enough to pull her shirt over her head in one easy motion. No fanfare. No pause. Just off.

She's bare.

Completely.

Her breasts bounce free with the kind of physics that shouldn't be allowed in domestic spaces--soft and high and perfect, tipped with dusky pink nipples already tight from heat and attention. Her skin is flushed across her chest, a glimmer of sweat between her breasts. There's a constellation of freckles along her collarbones, a faint tan line beneath where her bra had been. Her stomach softens as she exhales, bare thighs firm where she kneels, her boxers riding low and ready to be forgotten.

Alex doesn't speak. She just stares. Unapologetically.

Jamie smirks. "You've got that look."

Alex, voice hoarse: "What look?"

"Like you're about to commit a sin."

Alex leans in. Presses a kiss to the hollow of Jamie's throat. Then one lower, between her breasts, tongue flicking against salt and skin. Jamie makes a noise--something small and sharp and startled--and arches into it.

"Not a sin," Alex says against her skin. "A fucking blessing."

Her hands slide up, palms full of Jamie's breasts--lifting, teasing, brushing thumbs over nipples until Jamie trembles. Jamie's hands tangle in Alex's hair, and for a moment she just lets herself feel it--the kiss, the heat, the way her own body pulses under touch.

Alex moves slowly, worshipfully. She kisses one nipple, then the other, her mouth warm, her tongue soft and just shy of cruel. Jamie groans low in her throat, hips rolling forward. She's panting now, bare and gorgeous and rocking in Alex's lap, her every nerve lit up like lightning lives inside her.

"I've wanted this for so long," Alex whispers, and Jamie pulls her closer, mouth to her ear.

"Then take it."

There are still clothes to peel off.

Hands to guide. Hips to grind. Whole worlds of skin to explore like they're discovering each other in braille.

But right now?

Jamie is naked in her lap, skin against skin, chest to chest, breath tangled, mouths open.

And fuck--Alex has never seen anything so real.

So hot.

So hers.

And they're just getting started.

Alex lets Jamie look.

That's the first thing--she doesn't rush. Doesn't strip like she's racing toward the next act. She just peels her shirt off, slow, arms lifting, fabric dragging across her skin with the quiet suggestion of a woman who knows what she's doing.

And then she's bare.

Topless, yes. Naked from the waist up, sure. But more than that--offered.

Jamie's breath catches. Audible.

She stares.

Because Jesus fucking Christ.

Alex's breasts are nothing like Jamie expected--no softness, no gentleness. They're bold. Outrageous. Proud. The kind of tits that show up early to a party and drink all your whiskey. High and full and perfectly symmetrical in a way that feels like a threat. Her nipples are hard, obscenely hard--tight pink peaks that seem to defy gravity, declaring themselves like they have intentions.

Jamie laughs. Not out of humor--out of shock. Awe. A little fear.

"Alex," she says, voice cracking, "you're gonna put someone's eye out with those things."

Alex just grins, cocky as hell. "You volunteering to get injured?"

Jamie's already reaching, hands rising in reverence, fingers aching to touch but pausing--just an inch away.

"You were hiding this under hoodies?" Jamie whispers. "All this time?"

Alex leans forward, breasts swaying ever so slightly, her mouth brushing Jamie's ear. "Some things," she says, "are worth the reveal."

Jamie lets out a shaky, wrecked breath. "You're unreal."

She touches, finally--hands cupping, lifting, her thumbs circling Alex's nipples until they twitch under her skin. And then her mouth is on them--hot, eager, tongue flicking one peak while her fingers tease the other, and Alex gasps, body jolting like she's been struck.

Her hand goes to the back of Jamie's head, fingers curling in her hair, guiding her, needing her there.

Jamie kisses and sucks and licks like she's starving. Like she could stay here for hours, mouth wet with want, tongue tracing every edge of pleasure on her friend's perfect, fuck-off tits.

And Alex--Alex just leans into it.

Head back. Eyes closed. Chest arched.

Her moans come soft at first, then sharper, breathy little curses as Jamie works her mouth around one nipple, then bites just enough to make her shudder.

"You good down there?" Alex murmurs, voice rough now, cracking.

Jamie pulls back, mouth wet, lips red.

"Babe," she says, eyes wild, "I've waited my whole fucking life to be down here."

And then she's back at it.

Worshipping. Owning.

Making Alex beg without saying a single word.

It doesn't stay frantic.

Eventually the fire softens--not dying, just deepening, like coals beneath the skin.

Jamie's head rests against Alex's chest now, lips still warm from kissing, licking, biting. Alex runs her fingers through Jamie's hair slowly, lazily, like she's smoothing out tension that neither of them realized was lodged so deep until now. They're both flushed and half-dressed and tangled together on the floor like a fallen sculpture of want and relief.

The overhead lights still burn steady.

But Alex reaches back, finds the lamp switch behind her, and with one soft click, the world dims.

Candlelight flickers back to life, painting them gold and shadowed. The storm has eased to a whisper now, just a lazy tapping at the windows like rain remembering it's still invited.

Jamie sighs against her, all satisfaction and smug exhaustion.

"That was..." she starts, but she's already smiling, the kind of sleepy, ruined grin that makes Alex want to kiss her until they forget language.

Alex hums. "Yeah."

Jamie lifts her head, eyes soft but still gleaming.

"Think we're still friends?"

Alex laughs--quiet, breathy, honest.

"We were never just friends."

Jamie grins wider, leans in, brushes her nose against Alex's.

"Guess we'll have to figure out what we are now."

Alex kisses her once, slow and sure. "In the morning."

Jamie nods. "In the morning."

They settle, bodies tangled, breath syncing. Jamie pulls the blanket over both of them with one hand and immediately steals all the covers like an absolute monster. Alex groans. Jamie giggles.

The room grows quiet.

Warm.

Safe.

And then, just before sleep takes them both--

Alex whispers, dry and drowsy:

"Your soup fuckin' sucks."

Jamie snorts into her shoulder.

And the world fades, not into silence, not into passion--

--but into giggles and darkness.