Anon’s synopsis: You’re the quiet girl, known for dating the university’s popular quarterback, but youre secretly pulled toward his best friend: a strong, charismatic hockey player. She’s infamous for her hookups and late partying. Yet, lately, her attention has been entirely on you...(I had to crop half of the request cuz it’ll spoil the whole thing T_T )
Thank you so much for the request. <3 I hope you enjoy and this was what you expected from me. 💋💕🫂
Imagine 25: "I saw you stare from my peripheral, yeah...Find out how it feels to let go of everything, be free, when you're here with me" ❀✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊ moonlight - kali uchis ❀✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊
(University AU - introverted!reader - filmstudent!reader - slight slow burn - insert female love interest - infidelity and selfishness - reader has a boyfriend - use of y/n like once - wlw - smut w/ plot - switch!reader - 2 part story - added background character - proof read once :'D - 11.9k words )
You crouch behind the lens, shaping out the scene without blinking. The loud click of the shutter cuts through the cold air, capturing motion frozen in time. Your fingers fidget over the camera controls, adjusting focus on the center of the rink.
The assignment was simple: photograph the women's hockey team for the university's website. A straight forward job. Your professor handed you the sports roster, a few notes from the marketing department, and a deadline.
You arrive early, checking your camera settings while the players lace their skates and adjust their pads. The ice weirdly smells faintly of antifreeze and detergent, the cold air stings the inside of your nose. You stay near the boards, letting the edge of the plexiglass be your view.
She stands out immediately. Not just because she's captain, but because of the way her presence commands the frozen water she stand on. Her voice carries, low and steady, as she gathers her teammates into position. She glides around, stick under her arm. She's scanning the team with an judgy stare, focus enough to catch the smallest mistake.
"Lets go. Line up for the shot," she firmly calls without being harsh. A couple of girls laugh, moving too slowly, and she skates over to them quickly. Her voice drops, low enough you can't hear the words, but the effect is instant; they straighten, correcting their formation, stop fidgeting.
Your camera lifts almost without your permission. Through the viewfinder, she's a perfect photo: the stiffness of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin, the concentration in her eyes when she continues to adjust her teammate's stance. Your lens takes her in frame by frame. Gloves hands brushing frost bits from her jersey, the faint smile when someone finally does what she wants. Her eyes sweep across the rink, scanning and calculating.
She makes eye contact. Her gaze finds yours...or the camera's. You're looking at each other from the viewfinder. You don't look away...not until you realize you're just pointing the camera at them without doing anything.
Until she glides right in front of you.
You quietly exhale. Clear your throat, "Hey. I'm here--"
She speaks over you, looks at you, expression unreadable at first. "You're here to make us look good, right?"
"Y-yeah," you say, voice steady despite the sudden tightness in your chest. "I'm here for the website pictures. Just need some shots for the sport sections."
Her unreadable expression softens, she introduces herself, lets you know she's the captain. Offering a hand that's calloused from the stick. You shake it, aware of the contrast between your cool skin and the heat coming from her palm.
You give her your name, purposely straight foward.
Her gaze lingers on you longer than necessary, then she gestures towards the rink. "Alright, Y/n. Let's give you something worth putting on the internet."
Your morning is spent with you staring through the viewfinder. The scrapes of blades and the harsh slap the sticks give the pucks. Between shots, your eyes keep finding her, sometimes from behind the camera, sometimes when you're cleaning the lens and think she isn't watching.
Every photograph you take, you're trying to capture not only her image but the way she controls the air around her. The way she's so completely herself in the middle of everything. You tell yourself it's about the job: 'capture the dynamic energy of the captain and her team.'
There's something about her that absorbs everything, pulls everything else into focus. When she laughs, it's sudden and real, shaking off whatever tension.
You capture too much, you see more than the captain, more than the sporty chick. You capture the way her shoulders relax when no one's watching, the way her fingers brush her hair in a nervous tic. Capturing moments you don't want to forget, camera keeps clicking.
By the time you pack up your gear, you see people exiting the rink for lunch. She approaches, helmet in hand, cheeks flushed form the col and hard work.
She asks to see the photos:
"You got a good eye." she says quietly. "Maybe we'll see you around."
You watch her walk away with two other members. You let go of the air you didn't know you were holding.
That night you lie awake, the rink's cold air replaced by the warmness of your small apartment. Your mind replays her every move, the way she took control of her teammates, the tilt of her head when she caught you watching.
You drift into sleep, but she doesn't leave your mind.
❀-
The field is already buzzing when you arrive, the late afternoon sun reflects across the grass. Your camera hangs from your neck, heavy with weight of the day's work, but you float when you walk.
You spot your friend, Olivia, waiting near the sidelines, lens training alongside the football players, jogging.
"Liv!" You wave at her.
"Hey," she smiles. "You ready?" Olivia nods toward the center of the field where the quarterback is warming up, tossing the ball back and forth with ease.
She texted you earlier that day if you could take her place for this shoot. She was in charge of capturing the football team. You agreed because you "needed some Vitamin D," and because you had nothing else to do.
You take your place behind the lens, searching for the perfect shot. The quarterback moves effortlessly. every motion precise, eye glance confident. His eyes catches yours, he smiles: warm--genuine.
Later, when practice breaks and the players scatter, he approaches, hands in his pockets, that easy charm in his stance.
"Hey, you're the photographer? Or is it the other person?" His tone was soothing.
You nod, "I'm just taking over for a bit, she'll be back," you brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
"Oh...” silence. Then: “I'm Christopher," he says, offering you a hand. You take it, you're well mannered.
"Your camera is pretty cool. I'm sure you're like really good with them."
You chuckle, a little meekly. "Thanks."
You two talk for a bit. About your major in Film and why you chose it. And his focus on football, how he wants to be a professional. He is gentle and a little bit like you: unsure, quiet.
You know he's more confident though.
Especially when he leans in slightly, "Maybe I could take you out sometime? Off the field. I mean, if you're not busy."
Your heart skips, surprised and excited. You manage to smile. "I'd like that."
❀-
Months slipped by since those first shoots at the rink and on the field. You've gotten used to your new little routine: morning classes, afternoons hidden behind your lens, and evenings spent with Chris and his friends.
You find yourself walking the line between two words.
One side, there's Christopher and his friends. A cute-lovely tight knight group who welcomed you with open arms.
Christopher, himself, perfect in his role of Quarterback. His laugh bouncing off the walls, the weight of his arm around your shoulder in the quad.
You know his friends well enough to say hi, share a joke, or pass the popcorn during game nights. Well enough that they nod at you in passing, throw teasing jabs about your quietness. At first you didn't like the label of, "The QB's shy girlfriend," but you got used it. Even if sometimes you almost become invisible among the loud convo and easy friendship of the football team. It's a strange place for someone like you, quiet and careful. Yet, you fit neatly into their loud, confident world.
They grown used to your quiet presence. Chris friends like you because you don't demand attention, because your smile is soft but real, and you never embarrass Chris. During parties, you hang in the back, sipping soda on the sides. A silent observer of the loud music and reckless atmosphere. Your world feels ordered, predictable, and safe.
But then there's her: the hockey captain you dreamt of for a few days. Your boyfriend's best friend.
Everyone knows her. She's a genius in her sport. A force of nature who commands her team with a quick look and effort. Everyone respects her; professors greet her when she walks around campus or into class, teammates obey, and academic advisors praise her discipline. She's straight A student, an athelte through and through.
That's why the contradiction of her fascinates you. The other side of, the one the campus whispers about. Wild parties, casual hookups, stories that end up on the university's confession page. She's always been reckless, fearless, untamed...queen of the night you might say. Parties that go on forever, girls trailing after her like puppies. She is chasing excitement and someone is chasing her.
You find it impossible to make sense of those two images.
You watch from afar sometimes, catching her at the front of those parties, center of every curious girl's attention. Laughing loud, drink in hand, hair loose, eyes sparkling with fire...untouchable. The same fire you saw through the viewfinder during the rink photoshoot months ago, but somehow hotter, and chaotic.
You can't help but admire it. You wonder if maybe there's a part of you that craves a taste of that freedom. But you hide it quickly, because you know who you are. You like your silent evenings, your hand built world.
One night after your 2 P.M class, you find yourself sitting on the bus stop bench, gripping your bag, when you hear laughter across the parking lot. It's her walking in the distance with two girls, her arms thrown around their shoulders, her voice loud and alluring.
You catch her eye for a moment. She smirks, a flash of something ambiguous. Mixture of a challenge and secret mischief, maybe. You don't know, you look away quickly, heart thudding. Deep down you're starting to realize you WANT to know her better. Whatever is underneath the reputation. The beautiful mess no one gets to see.
❀-
The text from Chris appears on your phone late in the afternoon. Maybe around
7:15 P.M. [ Christopher: Hey babe, can you do me a favor? ]
He asked a simple question. To pick her up from practice...
7:16 P.M. [Christopher: I was hoping you could pick her up after. You're my two favorite people, gotta get you to get along, right?]
You stare at the message, your heart skipping just a bit. He doesn't say much more, but you can almost hear the hopeful tone behind the casual message.
You typed back quickly: 7:16 P.M. [You: Sure, I can do that:)]
Later, as the night began to settle over campus, you find yourself standing out the rink, the cold poking you through your jacket. The building is mostly empty now. Faint echos skates scraping ice and muffle thuds of sticks against the boards.
Pushing open the heavy door, you step inside the chill washing over you. Your breath fogs in the air as you make your way down the bleachers to the edge of the rink. And there she is, alone.
Her figure glides smoothly across the ice, movements precise but effortless. The fluorescent lights overhead created long shadows, framing her in a spotlight of determination.
You twitched to grab the camera forgotten at your side (Not your professional-project-necessary camera, but the camcorder you carry like they're keys) You're still, mesmerized.
Her breath clouds the air in pattern puffs as she continues the same sequence over and over. Swifts turns, sharp stops, direct power. Her face is concentrate, like a mask, but you catch the smallest curve of a smile when she nails a difficult move.
You don't want to interrupt and break this moment. You watch her skate, the way her eyes narrow slightly when she is pushing harder. Subtle trembles of exhaustion in her hands.
She senses you eventually, her sharp gaze looking up.
Your body wants to react but you keep it still, letting her have this moment. When she finally stops, she slides to the boards. You approach quietly giving her a small smile.
"Hey," you says softly. "Practice almost over?"
She shrugs, her usual confidence softened by fatigue. "Just finishing up."
You nod, suddenly aware of how close you are, how the smell of ice and sweat dance in the cold air between you.
Chris had said you two should get along.
Maybe this is the start of the low sort of routine.
Every few nights, he'll text:
[ Christopher: Hey can you grab her after practice?]
...and you find yourself back at the rink, leaning on the boards while the rest of the team leaves.
The first few pickups were quiet and polite nods. The occasional "thanks" before she slung her gear into the backseat.
As the weeks went by it became easier now. The awkwardness has thinned, replaced by short conversations about her day, about your classes, about how her car broke down and been working to get it fixed, or about nothing in particular. She lingers by the boards and teases you for always wearing the same scarf.
Tonight, practice runs later than ever. You wait at your usual spot, sitting by the boards (sometimes leaning on the railing) watching her skate the whole rink. She's faster than usual, hair messy under her helmet, movements more rough and calculated.
You mentally captures things about her: she never leaves her stick propped up on the bench without cleaning it, the faint red marks along her chin from the helmet strap, the crease between her eyebrows when she's thinking. Her mouth flips in that lopsided half smile you started to familiarize with. She skates towards you and stops so abruptly that a spray of ice dusts your jacket.
"You ever been out here?" she asks, leaning on her stick.
"Out here as in...the ice?" You tilt your head, blinking.
"No," she says dryly. "I meant the moon," she mimics you and tilts her head as well. Her smirk deepens when you roll your eyes. "Yes, the ice. Ever skated before?"
"Not since I was like...ten." You glance down at your sneakers. "And I'm not dressed appropriately for it."
"Sighh...That's a shame," she lightly says, yet her eyes studying you in a way the makes your chest feel tight. "You look like you're scared to step further than the boards."
"Pfft, I'm not scared."
"Oh really?" she challenges.
You scoff about to backpedal, before you can, she reaches over the railing and hooks her gloved fingers gently around your wrist. "Cm'on. One step in won't kill you."
A cold shock of her palm through the glove seeps into your skin. You hesitate, glancing toward the empty stands like someone might be watching, but she's already pulling you forward.
The second your shoes touches the slippery surface, it slide a little and you grab her arm instinctively. She laughs, not mockingly, brightly and genuinely. And she steadies you with both hands on your waist.
"You're fine. Just...lean onto me."
"That's easy for you to say," you mutter, your hands find her shoulders anyway, fingers curling into the padded fabric of her jersey.
For a while, she just pulls you slowly across the rink, wanting you to get used to the glide. The sound of your sneakers squeaking lightly against the ice is ridiculous, but she doesn't seem to care. Her smirk gets softer into something warmer.
"You're better at this than you think," she says, spinning you gently so you're facing the far end of the rink. "See...not so bad." She starts to skate backward slowly, pulling you along by your hands. Your sneakers squeak and slip but somehow she keeps you upright, guiding you in a slow awkward half circle.
You're laughing despite yourself, the air cold in your ribs. "This is so dumb."
"This," she's still smirking, "is you proving me right."
You roll your eyes, but the feeling growing in your chest betrays you. You almost feel steady until your toe catches on an uneven part, suddenly you're weightless for a second before landing flat on your back with a thud.
Her laughter bursts through the quiet, echoing across the empty rink. She skates over and crouches down besides you, still grinning, cheeks red from the cold and amusement.
"You okay?" she asks, not even pretending to hide the chuckle.
"Fine," you mumble, faking annoyance and pride. She continues to laugh and you can't help but try to hold back your own.
"Good." She holds out her hand, warm even through the glove. "Because that was the funniest shit I've ever seen."
You take her hand, letting her pull you back up and she doesn't let go right away. For a single frame, you're just standing there, breathing in the coldness, close enough to see the details in her eyes.
And then she skates backwards again, tugging you for another round.
❀-
That night, she insists on buying you food.
"I'm starving," she says as you both step out the rink, still a little giddy from your clumsy-sneaker-skating adventure. "And if you drive me home on an empty stomach...I'll probably pass out before I can even thank you."
You laugh, your cheeks ache from smiling, your palms are still tingling where they'd rested on her and you're cozier than you have any right to be in a building this cold.
"You don't need to thank me."
"Too bad. You're getting fries out of this whether you want them or not."
Fifteen minutes later, you're parked outside a 24 hour burger place. The smell of fast food filling the smell space of your car. She passes you a bag, the wrapper hot against your cold fingers. Your radio plays low; something with an easy steady beat, and the overhead light catches the edges of her damp hair where it's transforming to it's natural state--slightly from the melted ice.
You eat with the windows cracked just enough for the night air to cool the car. She's relaxed in the passenger seat, hoodie pulled over her head, one leg bent up against the dashboard in a way you would normally scold anyone else for, but you let her.
"You're quieter when you're off the ice," you tell her between bites.
She tilts her head at you. "Quieter good or quieter bad?"
"Good...quieter good," you admit. "You're easier to...I dunno...talk to."
A slow smile spreads across her face. "So you're saying you like me better now than when I'm yelling at my teammates."
You shake your head with a laugh. "That is so not what I said."
She's still smiling when she leans back, chewing on a fry. "I'm having fun," she says finally, voice softer now. "Haven't done something like this in..a while."
You don't answer right away, because you're having fun too. Too much fun for what this is supposed to be: picking up your boyfriend's best friend after practice.
Sitting in your car eating fast food and laughing at nonsense isn't a crime, but in your chest, it feels like it might be.
Her phone buzzes against her thigh. She glanced down at the screen and roll her eyes slightly, answering with a boring: "Hey."
The voice on the other end is muffled, but you hear the playfully flirty tone.
She leans back further in her seat, the hoodie shadowing her face as she says, "Nah, I'm not doing anything. Yea....mhm, yeah I can meet you in a bit." Her eyes flick towards you for the briefest second, then look away.
Your fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel even though the car is in park. You force a small smile when she hangs up, slipping her phone in her pocket.
"Ready?" you ask, your voice more preppier than you feel.
"Yeah. Sorry...early morning tomorrow," she says, as if that's all the call was about.
The drive to her apartment is quiet except for the hum of the tires and the low music. When you pull up, she thanks you again, grabbing her bag and flashing you that same smirk that made the rink feel warm hours ago.
"See you," she says, shutting the door.
You watch her walk under the streetlight until she disappears into the building, the paper bag of leftover fries and your half eaten burger cool on the passanger seat.
You sit there for a moment long, feeling the guilt creep in. Not because you did anything wrong, but because you WANTED to.
❀-
The frat house is full of the familiar social energy. With the music humming low from the speakers in the corners, laughter from the kitchen where the drinks are spread, and the scent of beer and pizza hanging in the air. You stand near the back wall, clutching your cup a little too intensely, trying to keep your energy light as Chris chats with a few guys about an upcoming game.
Around you, the crowns spins, something feel different.
Maybe it's how you feel a little smaller here. Like you're watching a film, while shrinking. A sitcom of how all the friends feel out of reach, enjoying their convos and inside jokes.
She's here too, but not alone. Leaning against the wall, fingers tangled in the hair of a woman... a sexy woman wearing red lipstick. The two of them move together like they're the only ones in the room, close, whispers that flip into quiet laughter.
Your heart drops when you catch her hand slip lower, tracing a line up the woman's thigh. The woman's fingers curls around her wrist, pulling her even closer. The energy between them is electric, shameless, and public.
You watch, feeling a knot form in your stomach. It's not jealous really, more like a small ache that run just under the surface when you're in a room full of noise but feel totally-completely alone.
Chris notices your silence and nudges your side. "Hey, you alright?" he asks, only you can hear him.
You force a smile. "Yea...just tired, I guess."
He doesn't push it.
Your eyes keep drifting back to the pair: her and the woman, exposing their voyeurism, P.D.A (public display of affection). They're so open and alive. You wonder if it were you on the place of the woman, if you could be so certain or free.
You sip your drink, hoping to drown inside with ease.
❀-
About forty minutes later, your nerves soften turning into a gentle sensation. You're definitely more tipsy than usual, enough to feel a little loose, but still have control of yourself. You take steps upstairs, leaning your head against the wall feeling the music pulsate from downstairs. A pressure building low in your abdomen: You need to pee.
"Go piss girl," you joke to yourself out loud, getting a side eye from a stranger.
The hallway upstairs is quieter, illuminated only by the dull glow of a few lamps and the moonlight through the windows. You step carefully, trying to keep your balance as the warmth in your cheeks deepens.
After you finish, you move toward the sink to wash your hands, your reflection looking a little flushed in the dirty-foggy-mirror. You notice the door door across the bathroom, slightly cracked open.
"Curiosity killed the cat," is the saying.
And right now, you were walking closer, drying your hands on your jeans. Soft sounds coming inside.
You take a peek:
There she was, sitting on the bed. Fingers moving slowly and expertly between the woman's legs. The woman's head is thrown back, eyes closed, lips apart in soft moans; her hips lift, grinding against her thighs.
Her lips on the woman's neck, teeth grazing as her hand moves faster, stroking. Moans from the woman are desperate for more, pulling her closer.
Your skin tingles, your ears are burning as you watch. A live porno, right in front of you, the sound and movement amplified. You are frozen, but burning with desire.
You keep watching, capturing her, eyes closed in pleasure, but when her gaze snaps open and lands on you, the slow, wicked smile that takes over her lips sends shiver down your spine.
Caught.
You don't know what to do, your heart pounds, a flood of desire, jealousy, confusion hits you all at once. You swallow hard and stumble downstairs. Covering your ears since the sound of their intimacy still rings in.
❀-
The next time you pull to the rink to pick her up, there's no teasing your scarf, no light banter. No emotion in her voice. She slips into your car, eye focused straight ahead, lips pressed in a thin line.
You don't ask whats wrong. You don't want to push.
The drive back is silent except for the engine's low hum and the few awkward re light stops. You both sit with a careful distance, the air between you charged but unspoken.
Later that week, Chris's frat house is loud again, another party. This time you find yourself there, pressed close to him in the dim light, his hands on your waist.
But the excitement you expected isn't there.
You do like Chris. You really do. But tonight as you sit beside him in the aftermath, your mind drifts elsewhere. To the cold rink. To her smile. To the fire you saw in her eyes.
You don't say anything. You close your eyes and just try to bury the questions deep inside you.
❀-
You've started to notice something:
The way she hardly ever laughs with Chris and their friends anymore. The way she slips away from the group early. Eyes distance and a bit pissed.
Tonight, when you pull up to the rink after practice, she's waiting outside, tying her sneakers. Her usual confident posture toned down. You smile, trying to keep everything light.
"Hey," you fidget you car keys, "do you mind if we make a quick stop on campus? I need to pick up some photos."
Her brows arches just for a second:
"Yeah," she says after a pause, voice low. "Sounds good."
You both settle into the car, the air between you tense but easier than before. As you drive towards campus, you can feel her relax just a little.
The darkroom is quiet, dimly red, stinking of chemicals and paper. You reach for your envelope of prints, and she watches, curious but quiet.
You hold them carefully, feeling a bit exposed without your camcorder or professional camera between your fingers. Just the results of it.
You clear your throat, trying to break the uncomfortable silence. "Uh, this is where the magic happens."
She smiles, a slow, easy curve of the lips. "Looks like it."
You shuffle your feet, trying to think of something else to say. "I don't come here much. Usually just drop off film and pick up prints."
"So...You come here often?"
She snorts quietly, leaning against the counter; which you deeply want to tell her to not, but you stay silent.
"Not really. Only when I get out of practice early and my ride stops here."
You chuckle softly, glad she didn't laugh at your awkward attempt at humor.
"Yeah, the darkroom's kinda intimidating," you admit. "I-It's like a secret club for people who know how to mix chemicals for pictures."
Her smile curves into something genuine, eyes softer. "You're pretty cute when you're nervous."
Your cheeks heat up, but you keep going, encouraged. "I'm usually better with a camera in my hands than words."
She steps closer, the space between you shrinking in the red light. "Well, I like the sound of your voice. Even if your stumble a bit."
For the first time in weeks, the tension eases. You talk about simple things, her practice, your classes, favorite music, and for a little while, the complicated shit melts away.
She catches your eyes and smirks. "Maybe we should hang out more. Outside the rink...and darkrooms."
You swallow, nodding. "Y-yeah. I'd like that."
❀-
The days after the darkroom visit blur. You start seeing her more, sometimes at the campus cafe between classes, sometimes on empty benches where you share music and talk about everything and nothing. The world outside the rink feels less like a labyrinth when you're with her.
One afternoon, she texts you from practice:
6 P.M [Her: come skate with me ]
You hesitate. Skating's never been your thing...especially the last time. Sneakers and ice do not mix well, and you'd probably fall flat on your face again.
She has a wide grin and bright eyes full with mischief. You just arrive and she's waiting by the boards...not in uniform, just casual clothes.
"Don't chicken out," she points a finger at you.
You laugh nervously, sitting next to her duffle bag, letting her help you strap on the skates. The cold bites at your cheeks as you wobble onto the ice.
You want your sneakers back.
She's patient, steadying you with gentle touches, teasing you when you stumble.
"Dude, you're not doing bad," she grins, skating around you effortlessly.
Those moments on the ice with laughter, your fingers brushing when she helps you balance. They feel like tiny acts of rebellion against the world you thought you knew.
The world with dull days that slips by, pulling at you.
You're still you. The quiet, easygoing girl who laughs at your boyfriend's jokes, who sits among his friends at parties, who smiles politely at the group chats and group texts where you're expected to play the part.
You notice how natural it all seems for the. Well, of course, the bond of years spent playing the same game is unspoken.
You try--laugh a little louder than usual, nod at conversations you barely follow and remind yourself to 'be fun, be easy, fit in.'
You aren't ignored or pushed out, no one is cruel or outright hostile. Yet, you're aware of the way you stand slightly apart. Like a character in a film, playing the role of the quarterback's girlfriend, a carefully written script you're now supposed to follow.
Some times, when Chris friends joke about "keeping her in line" or tease you about "being the good quiet girl," you smile feels too tight, your heart too heavy. You see the way they expect you to be: meek, shy, loyal, perfect, artsy....And you wonder who you're supposed to be when the night ends and you're alone.
With her...the captain of the women's hockey team: Everything feels different.
You're not pretending. There's not script, no expectations, no roles to play. Just moments stole between car rides, music shared, laughter with no caution.
What scares you the most is that:
...the world you live in is twice as big. One half you as 'Christopher's girl,' and the other, slowly, is beginning to see the real you...the one who skates on ice despite the lack of skill and fear, who listens, who dares to be messy and uncertain.
❀-
You step into her apartment, a small cozy space filled with mismatched furniture and smell of pine cleaner and something warm, maybe cinnamon from a candle burning low on the windowsill. The glow from the city lights filters through the curtains, creating shadows across the room.
She kicks off her shoes but the door, dropping her keys in a bowl on the table. The hum of a playlist murmurs in the background; Slow R&b, maybe. Slow, rhythmic and familiar.
You settle on the couch, your legs curling beneath you, the weight of the day beginning to lift. After a pause, you finally ask, voice gentle and curious:
"Hey...so I've been meaning to ask...why haven't you been hanging out with Christopher and the others lately?"
She looks up from the book in her lap, eyes steady but unreadable. For a moment, she doesn't answer. Then shrugs, voice casual but with hint of something deeper under, "I guess I'm just busy...And I need a break from them."
You nod slowly, sensing there's more she's not saying but not wanting to push. "Yeah?" you say softly.
She gives you a small, a little wry as if amused but the concern. "Nothing personal. Just...sometimes you have to step back to breathe."
You watch her for a moment, the way her shoulder tense ever so slightly, the look in her eyes. You want to ask more, to understand. Instead you reach out, brushing your fingers lightly over hers.
Her gaze drops to your lips and the image freezes. The room holds its breath. Then, without warning, she leans in: purposefully slow. Your heart thunders, caught between shock and desire.
Your lips meet hers, soft at first, testing the waters. The world narrows until there's nothing but the heat of her touch, the wildfire spreading through your body.
Pulling back you both blink, eyes wide.
"Oh no," you whisper, voice trembling. "What about Chris?"
She bites her lip, nodding. "Yeah....him."
But the, as if the question wasn't strong enough to hold you apart, her hand slides behind your neck, finger tangling in your hair.
Before you know it, you're kissing again. More deeper. More wild. Letting the tension and the moment drown out the worries, the guilt.
It's selfish.
It's reckless.
But right now, nothing else matters. Just the taste of her, the way her breathing hitches against yours, the desperation hidden in every touch.
For once, you give yourself permission to be selfish too.
❀-
It starts quietly, almost unknown at first.
On rare occasions when she's around everyone, a brush of her fingers lingers yours when she passes you a drink at Chris's place. The heat of her thigh pressing against yours on a too crowded couch. Her gaze lingering a breath too long across the table, the corner of her mouth lifting in the smallest, most troubling smile.
You tell yourself no one notices. You PRAY no one notices.
When she texts:
9:30 p.m. [ her: come over ]
You go. Slipping into her apartment feels like stepping into another life. The one where you're not the QB's quiet girlfriend, where the rules don't apply, where she's the only thing you have to answer to. Where she looks at you like you're not a quiet character playing any role in a film.
In public, it's stolen glances, her eyes meeting your across a room full of people, saying more in a second than anyone else could in an hour.
In private, it's her lips on yours before the door has even closed. The way she kisses you like she's memorizing you, like each time could be the last.
Between the touches, the gasps, the whispers pressed against your warm skin, there's something else growing: a knowing. She learns the way you stir your tea without looking. You learn the way she taps her pen twice before making a decision. She tells you about the first time she stepped onto the ice as a kid, hands trembling. You tell her how sometimes you feel like you're playing someone's role, and prefer to capture, rather than BE captured.
She always listens.
And you realize that somewhere in the middle of the lust and the danger, you're also building something you don't have words for yet.
But whenever Chris arms slides around your shoulders in front of everyone, you feel her eyes on you and you know she's thinking the same thing you are: that this can't last, but you're not ready to stop what you've just started.
❀-
You've never driven this far out of the city with her before, and the windy road seems to whisper it's own secrecy. She's got one hand on the whee, the other tapping along to some playlist you've been passing back and forth for weeks. Her sunglasses pushing her hair back, that lazy smile tugging at her mouth every time she glances at you.
Before you left, you smooth your dress (the burgundy one you bought right after she asked you out). You pretend you didn't spend extra time trying to tie the ribbon perfectly on your hair. But when she caught sight of you at the curb, her quiet whistle made your cheeks warm instantly.
The air is crisp and sweet, like cold water, except it wasn't cold. Her hand takes your hand and walks with you. She spreads the blanket out on a sunny patch of grass overlooking the drop: a view that goes on for miles, all rolling hills and valleys.
"You're spoiled," she says, opening the picnic basket she packed herself. "Not everyone gets the deluxe treatment."
You laugh, pulling your camcorder from your tote. "Gotta get this on record. Future gens need to know about the legendary hockey captain who makes a decent sandwich."
She grins and leans towards the camera. Her face taking up the who frame, blocking the view with her face. "Tell the people I'm amazing."
"I'm not lying on film."
She gasps, fake offended, and tosses a grape at you. It misses rolling into the grass, and she shakes her head. "Waste of a good grape, especially in this economy."
You film little snippets: between bites of food, her pretending to fall off the blanket for dramatic effect, her grabbing the camera talking into it, shielding her eyes from the sun like an explorer spotting civilization. She grabs your camera at one point and turns it on you. You blush.
"The talented film maker, behind the scenes." She stands up, looking at you through thew viewfinder. "Dark red dress, mountain background," she narrates. "The most beautiful view here, hand down."
You duck your head, smiling into your lap, but you cant hide the way your heart beating too fast.
When the food's gone, you both lie back on the blanket, the sun warm on your faces, fingers brushing in the grass. She turns her head toward you, her voice soft.
"Thanks for coming with me."
You glance at her, her expression is almost shy. "You didn't really give me a choice."
"Yeah..." she says, a slow smile spreading. "But you said yes."
The camcorder sits between you, still recording the mountain breeze and the sounds of your quiet laughter.
After laughing and bantering for a while, you raise the camera and kneel on the blanket. Capturing her frame against the skyline. The wind tugging your and her hair.
You think to yourself, you've never seen her look so unguarded.
She shifts, lowering her sunglasses, gaze steady on you, "You always filming me," she says half teasing.
"It's for...memories," you murmur, pressing the shutter again.
Her smirk deepens. "Memories, huh?" She sits up, leaning toward you until her shadow falls across your lap. Her finger trail over the edge of the camera, then gently push it down. "Or maybe you're into something else."
"What?" you furrow your brows.
"Voyeurism." The word floats, thick and slow. "You film everything...and---" her stops to sharpen her smile,"--that one time, you peeked at me with that girl."
Your cheeks flare hot instantly, like she's just reached inside your brain and projected the memory into display. "I...that wasn't---."
"Wasn't what?" she interrupts, leaning in so her breath brushes your ear. "Wasn't you watching me? Watching her?"
The world flips a bit: sky too blue, the grass too her, she's too close.
"You liked it," say says, matter of fact. "You still think about it?"
You swallow your meekness turnt ten percent. You can't lie. "...S-some times."
her eyes narrow, darken, like you've given her permission without meaning to. She pushes the camera fully aside, her hand coming up to cup your jaw, tilting your face towards her. The first kiss is deep, un hurried. Something thicker, heavier, fed by the openness of the mountain...nothing compared to the frantic stolen moments in her apartment.
When she pulls back just enough to speak, her thumb brushes your lower lip. "Then watch me now."
You look around, completely isolated. Looking at the birds as if they have cameras: "O-out here?"
She grins, wicked: "Out here."
Her gaze lowers to your mouth. "You've been filming me all day," she murmurs, thumb brushing your lip. "Guess it's only fair I give you something worth watching."
Before you can ask, she shifts her weight, lowering you gently onto the blanket. The burgundy dress rides up your thighs, the fabric tickles against your skin. You glance towards your camcorder on the grass. It's aimed towards you, the tiny red light winking. You didn't turn it off.
Your pulse skips. "Wait it's still--"
"I know," she answers, smirk curving her lips. "Now be good and let me see you."
She kneels between your legs: running her hands up your calves, slow, like she's savoring the path. The drag of her fingertips over your skin sends shivers straight down. She pushes the dress higher, bunching it at your waist until your panties are the only thing between her and the wetness.
Her eyes lock with yours as she hooks her fingers into the waistband and pulls them down. The cool air hits your bare skin, and feel yours clench around nothing.
She settles on her stomach, her hands sliding up to separate apart your thighs. She blows over you, teasing: "Pretty," she whispers like it's a secret just for her.
The her is on you, one long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit. Your back arches instantly, she hums at your reaction, mouth already moving with purpose. Dragging over you in deliberately, patterned strokes.
The blanket rustles under you as your hips twitch. You scoot back a bit, your legs threaten to close, but she's firm one arm curling over your stomach to hold you still. "Stay," she says softly against your skin, the word vibrating through you.
Your fingers find her hair, clutching without thinking as her mouth works you, her tongue circling, pressing, flicking just enough to make your toes curl under you ruffle ankle socks. Every so often, she pulls back to watch you. lips coated with you, pupils blown wide.
Her eyes are lenses, you're in front of the camera now;
"You like when I look at you?" she asks, and you can only whimper in answer.
Her kisses your thigh and dives back in, her focus narrowing until the world is just wet warmness of her mouth and the mountain breeze against your flushed skin. She sucks your clit gently, then harder, just enough pressure to your thighs tremble.
The camera is still rolling. You can't stop thinking about it, about you seeing it later. That thought pushes you closer, faster.
She feels it, the way your muscles tense, and she doesn't stop. Her tongue moves faster, her arm pressing you down when your hips jerks. Your breath turns ragged, breaking into high desperate moans, until you shatter beneath her. The pleasure crashing through you and you can't stop.
She stays there through it all, licking you through the aftershocks until you're trembling and over sensitive, pushing weakly at her shoulder.
When she finally crawls up next to you, her lips shin and her smile is almost smug. She kisses you, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.
"Now that," she says, brushing your hair from your face, "...is worth filming."
❀-
You're behind the camera, adjusting focus for your short film project, trying to lose yourself in the world you're creating. The studio is dusty, sunlight filters through tall windows. The projectors fills the room with it's buzz.
Actors move into place, reciting lines with a big degree of conviction, and you stay focused on capturing every detail. From the hallway, voices enter, light, giggly, gossipy. You pause, lens half raised, and your eyes catch movement outside the frame.
Two girls from the drama department are chatting, waiting for their turn to audition. Their conversation is careless, loud enough to catch your attention.
"I swear, I'm gonna get with her no matter what it takes," one says, voice full of pride.
"Who?" the second girl asks.
"You know her! She's the hockey captain, I heard she's into girls."
The second girl giggles, biting her lip. "Oh yeah. But she's kinda selective though. Turned me down last week. Can you believe it?"
Your heart beats when you hear her name.
They don't notice you watching from the shadows, heavy camera forgotten in your hands.
"She's like, the hottest thing on campus...when it comes to girls," the first girl continues. "Last year, everyone seemed to get a piece. Everyone still wants a piece. But nah, she's holding out for someone better, I guess."
You tuck the camera under your arm and step back, letting the girls pass by, their laughter ringing sharp and careless.
Your chest tightens with something you can't name: protectiveness, jealously, fear? Because out here, away from the rink and the mountain.
Her world is a spotlight...same with Chris; and you are just trying to stay behind the scenes.
Later that night you sit on your desk. Your computer breathing gently, the camcorder sitting next to you. Tonight, you're determined to clear space, move footage onto your USB, keep things organized.
Clicking through files, thumbnails flicker past: candid shots of friends, a few practice pictures, anything really. Then one file catches your eyes, a timestamp from the mountain picnic a few days ago. All the thumbnails were similar from that day...but this video wasn't one minute long or a few seconds. You hesitate, heart already pounding.
You double click. The screen flickers to life.
The footage's not perfectly focused (which triggers your perfectionist side a bit), but the sound are unmistakable: your breath stuttering, the soft drag of fabric, the faint rustle of grass. You see yourself, hip shifting, the curve of your dress riding up and her hands moving over you, gentle but sure.
You feel shame. From neck up, heat floods.
Your phone buzzed a few minutes ago, a message from your boyfriend.
10:00 P.M. [Christopher: Hey, just checking in. How's your night?]
Your fingers tremble. the world narrows to just that notification and you're shaking in guilt. Without thinking, you press pause, then tap the delete icon. The file disappears with a quick confirmation beep. You breathe out slowly, the room suddenly too silent, too still.
The memory lingers: a secret kept safe for now, but at what cost?
❀-
They days blur between your film project and Christopher's training schedule. When you're not behind the camera, you're usually in the editing room, headphones on, fingers stiff from cutting up clips. When he's not in class, he's on the field, running drills in the heat until his shirt is plastered to his back.
You try to keep in touch.
TRY
Quick texts between takes. A couple of voice messages before bed. The occasional lunch squeezed into both your calendars. It's not that either of you stopping caring, you just keep missing each other in the gaps.
Sometimes you watch the three dots of him typing, only for the message to disappear. Sometimes you do the same.
When you do talk, it's fine. Comfortable, but there's a subtle disconnection under everything.
The evening starts with a gentle hum of excitement beneath you skin as Chris pulls up to the fancy restaurant in a black car that gleams under the streetlights. The city feels different tonight: softer, wrapped in warm glows from the street lamps lining the sidewalk.
He steps out first, opening your door with a smile that reaches his eyes. "Ready?" he asks, voice low and easy.
You nod, smoothing your well tailored trousers, feeling a mix of nerves and something else, anticipation, maybe. The inside of the restaurant is even more beautiful than you expected: deep mahogany tables, candlelights casting shadows on the walls, the faint clink of cutlery and glasses, murmurs of other couples.
Christopher guides you to a table by the window, where the city lights extend out like a glittery blanket beneath you. The waiter arrives swiftly, and as menus are passed. You catch Chris's gaze, warm, attentive like you're the only person in the room.
Conversation flows easily at first, stories from his football season, your film project, the silly things that makes you laugh. You sip your wine carefully, feeling (guilty), lightheaded but good caught up in the moment.
After dinner, Chris suggests a walk. You stroll through quiet streets, hands brushing until he finally slides his fingers into yours.
Eventually, he takes you back to his place: the frat house. You get the familiar greeting as you step inside. The house is surprisingly quiet for a weekend. Nonethless, it was still a world away from the intimacy of the restaurant.
He pulls you aside, into an even quieter room. His hands find you waist, fingers tracing slow patterns on your skin. His eyes search yours, asking without words.
He starts to kiss you, and touch you softly. You kiss back but feel your stomach drop. Your eyes are open while his are closed. He pushed you down gently on the bed, getting on top of you.
Your heart races, but you pull back slightly, voice soft but firm. "Chris...I need to tell you something."
He nods, concern flashes across his face.
"I'm...I'm a virgin."
"I don't wanna rush anything. Especially not with you..." The words were fragile and heavy. "O-or anyone really..." you added quickly.
His expressions mix: surprise, maybe a little hesitation, but the softens returns.
"That's okay," he says quietly. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for."
You breathe out, relief washing over you.
He leans in to kiss you, slow and gentle, like he's thanking you for trusting him.
And you feel sick to your stomach. Not because you were lying, no you truly are a virgin...But because you didn't want to have sex with him.
❀-
Coffee is being sold by the vendor across the street. The park smells of wet leaves. You adjust the camcorder strap on your shoulder, the tripod digging into your other stand. Your classmates: Kevin and Maia are already fussing over their notes. They hover near the actors discussing angles in loud, confident voices. They're not unkind, but they speak over you without realizing, their words moving fast enough to leave no space for yours.
"I think if we start with the wide shot here..." you start. Your voice careful, but Maia is already mid sentence, pointing toward the far bench.
You go quiet again, the suggestion just drifting in the air. You've been on sets like this before, where you're not exactly unwanted, just overlooked.
She's leaning against a lamppost a few feet away, sunglasses hiding her eyes, hands in her varsity jackets pockets. Watching. You'd invited her to see the scene come together, one hand is because of pride, the other is wanting her near you.
Kevin laughs at something Maia says, then waves at you to start recording. You obey, slipping behind the lens, framing the shot just right despite them not listening.
You focus on the viewfinder, doing your job, keeping your voice even when you ask the actors to shift a little to the left.
You're halfway through another take when Kevin starts giving the actor advice you already explained earlier WORD FOR WORD, except now its HIS IDEA.
From the corner of your eye, you catch the smallest movement. She was now sitting on a bench...well she was until she stands and take sone step forward.
"I think she already suggested that," she says lightly, nodding towards you.
Kevin blinks, then looks at you like he's only just remembered you're here. "Oh. Yeah. Right. Good call."
It's not much but it settles everything.
Later when the others are rearranging props, she leans in so only you can hear. "You've got a good eye," she murmurs. "You need to stand up for yourself." Her tone is the softest you've ever heard it. The kind of soft tone that makes your chest ache.
"I mean it's fine..." you shrug, eyes on your camera.
"No it's not," it didn't feel like scolding, her tone. was the same. "You're one with the best talent here. Don't let them forget that." You two still kept a safe distance that can be interpreted as friendship.
You nod, not sure you can do it, but when Maia starts rearranging the actors again, you find yourself stepping in (a little hesitate).
"Wait...the light's not right," you say, louder than you thought possible. "If we move them two steps to the left, we can actually still catch it."
They pause, exchange a glance and an agreeing shrug. They actually do it.
You look at her shyly and smile. She smiles back from the sidelines, small but it's all for you.
You film until the sky goes deep blue and your breath fogs in the air. The last scene plays, and you know...you KNOW, it's exactly how you pictured it; and wanted it this morning.
❀-
The bass hits you before you even step inside. It's the kind of beat that you can literally feel in your bones, vibrates up through the sole of your shoes. Neon lights flicker across the dancer in flashes of pink and bright blue.
You're walking between Chris and her, the heat of too many bodies pressed close already makes you overwhelmed. Christ has one arm loosely around your waist as you all squeeze through to the V.I.P section the guys managed to sang. A semi circle booth hidden away just enough to breathe properly.
Chris stays comfortably around your you as your group talks a bit. She slides into the seat across from you, dark wide jeans ripped at the knees, a fitted black shirt clinging to her braless frame. Her hair's a little messy, damp at the ends like she'd just showered after practice and pulled up here.
She looks unfairly good.
The whole crew is here. Drinks clinks against the table, laughter shouts over the music, and with in minutes, people are scattering towards the dance floor or. the bar.
Everyone notice it right away: the absence..difference.
Normally, she disappears in places like this. The life of the night. She's the one who was the main character of the stories you've heard about. Dancing with strangers, kissing girls under flashing strobe lights, vanishing for twenty minutes to return with lipstick smudged and a smug grin.
But tonight? She stays in the booth, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat, eyes scanning the crowd but not lingering on anyone. There's no calculated seduction in her posture, no hungry searching for a hookup.
One of their friends, Quinn leans across the table towards her, grinning. "Not gonna pick out your victim for the night?" she teases over the thumping music.
She smirks, lifting her glass for a sip. "Not feeling it," she says simply.
Less than 15 minutes later when Chris and another male friend return with more drinks, they slide in and their eyes are wide.
"Yo, you're actually just sitting?" Mason (the friend distributing the drinks) calls over the music laughing. "Did hell freeze or something?"
She rolls her eyes, shrugging. "Guess, I'm sustaining myself."
"Sustaining yourself?" another chimes in, mock shock in his face. "Since when do you not leave the club with someone?"
They all exchange looks of surprise and curiosity. Then laughter around the table, but she just sips away. Her eyes flicking to yours for the briefest moment. You feel it like electricity on your fingertips, a spark that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
Chris doesn't seem to notice the exchange, leaning in to ask if you want a drink. You nod, giving him your order. Your gaze, on the other hand, strays back to her.
They all eventually let it drop.
As the night wears on, people dance, drink disappear, and the booth empties and fills and empties. She gets up to go to the bar only at first. You get up a few times, once because one of their girl friends dragged you on the dance floor; another time you got up yourself to stretch your legs.
She never moves toward the dance floor with anyone who isn't in your group. When someone: a tall girl in a sparkling top leans over to ask if she wants to dance, she smiles politely but shakes her head.
You catch the way Mason's eyebrow rise, curiosity all over his face... "Damn, you're for real on a dry streak, eh?" Mason nudges your shoulder, it was only you three on the booth.
"Maybe I'm just not into random girls tonight," she so smooth, not breaking eye contact with you. Your cheeks heat and you're grateful for the cover of the dim lights.
You stand up a couple of minutes later. To the restroom, that is warmer than it should be, thick with the smell of vanilla body spray and hookah. The music from the club outside is muffled, just a dull, persistent beat under the chatter of women fixing themselves and hyping each other up.
You look look the women in the mirror, adjusting their dresses. You're not used to wearing something like this, like the woman: short, dark, revealing, clings in ways you're still not sure you can pull off. Deep neckline showing just enough skin to make you hyperaware of every glance in your direction.
But you have to admit to yourself, you looked good. You check yourself out through the mirror.
You look right besides you. She was there, you kew it. She close enough that her arm brushes your, catch the faint smell of her cologne beneath the smell of the restroom.
She's checking you out through the mirror.
You knew, she knew, you looked good, since the tie you first entered the club and her gaze dropped, smiling like she wanted to say something.
Her hand ghosts against the small of your back like she's guiding you. Then she tilts her head toward the far end, "C'mon."
You don't think, just follow. The stall door clicks shut behind you, and the air feels instantly closer. The bass shakes the stall faintly. She's leaning back against the door eyes dropping briefly to curve of your dress before meeting yours again. The space between you is almost nonexistent.
"Well," she murmurs, glancing around, "at least it's not one of those horror movies bathrooms." Her smirk is lazy, teasing, but there's an undertone in her voice that makes your stomach twist.
You giggle and look around the stall. It was surprisingly cleaner than expected, no suspicious puddles or toilet paper stuck to the floor.
Before you can think of something clever to say, she leans in and kisses you. Lips are warm, tasting like the cocktail she had earlier, and then the kiss depends, her hand cupping the back of your neck.
You've kissed her before, of-fucking-course, but here in this tiny stall, with stranger just feet away, it feels hotter, heavier.
Without thinking, you press forward, your hands finding her hips. You let your hands slip lower, fingers brushing over the front of her jeans. You feel her gasp just slightly against your mouth as you put pressure.
You've been with girls before...kinda...a handful; yet you were still not as experienced... and none of those girls were like her. Your palm presses more firmly, rubbing slow over the denim. She groans, the sound vibrating against your lips.
"You tryna start somethin' here, princess?" she murmurs, her voice husky and quiet.
You explain yourself in stutters. "I dunno what ...I mean I do but....you know I'm not sure how...ugh."
She smiles and leans closer, her warm hands from your body down to the waistband of her jeans. With a slow, deliberate pull, she unbuttons and lowers them just enough to reveal the curve of her hip and the edge of her black underwear.
Her fingers find yours, guiding your hand down until your palm brushes over her underwear. "I'll teach you," you can feel the outline of her through the thin fabric.
"Here," she whispers, low and teasing. You trace the line, your other hand grazes the soft curve of her hip. She sighs softly, encouraging you, finger tighten around yours to lead the movement.
She takes your finger, feeling the subtle swell. She shifts slightly, pulling her underwear to her side, just enough to expose more skin.
"Now...keep the pace...y'know gentle," she instructs softly, "...use your fingers to find my clit." You blush, hesitate, but then move as she guides them, brushing and circling the sensitiveness with increasing confidence.
She's warm and wet, and your head is spinning. You glance towards the door of the stall, as if it's going to open wide and expose you both. You with your hands in her pants and her fingers around your wrist.
"Relax. Just...follow me." She is patient with you.
"Right here?" you question. Your fingers are being guided so your index and middle finger slide along her folds.
"Slow...don't rush," she whispers. You slide inside her, shallow at first, feeling the tight warmth around you.
Her hips shift forward. "Two finger...yeah, that's it baby. Keep them together..." her own finger press you closer, making you feel the slipperiness.
"Curl your fingers a little...mhm, right there." Her voice is barely a whisper, laced with encouragement and want.
Her fingers move with more certainty now, curling just as she guided. The wet warmth around you deepens, every slight motion sending shivers up your arm. She breathes out a low moan, her shivers vibrating against your wrist.
Her hips press harder against your hand, grinding slowly in time with your touch. You feel the slipperiness spread beneath your fingers, your nerves melting away under the weight of her want and trust. Her other hand slips around your neck, fingers weaving through your hair, pulling you closer in a gentle yet insistent grip.
The small space makes everything feel bigger: the soft moans she lets slip, your own uneven breathing. The risk of being caught, the closeness, the secrecy makes your pulse go faster, the adrenaline taking over your body.
You trace your fingers inside her, finding the spots that make her hips jerk and her breathing hitch. "You're doing so good," she murmurs.
She shifts, grinding harder now, guiding your hand with hers; both teaching and needing. You can hear your heart beating, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment and the softness of her skin beneath your touch.
"You feel good." You rest your forehead against hers.
"God, YOU feel so good," she whispers, voice breaking.
You lean in, your lips brushing hers in a slow, feral kiss. Tongues swirl, teeth nibble lightly, and you lose yourself in the softness of her mouth.
Her hands tighten around your wrists gently, pulling your fingers just a little deeper, and she shivers, a quiet, desperate sound escaping her lips.
She clenches around your fingers, a soft gasp breaking past her lips as her body jerks once, twice, then melts against you. Her thighs tremble, her nails digging lightly into your arm as she rides it out, pressing her forehead into your shoulder. You can feel her heartbeat pounding against your chest.
Slowly, her breathing evens out. She pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and there’s that slow, almost cocky curve to her mouth. She takes your hand, guiding it gently away from her, and you watch as she pulls a tissue from the dispenser to wipe herself. Then with deliberate care, takes another to clean your fingers. She flushes the tissues away, smoothing down her top as if the past few minutes never happened.
You're still, eyes a bit widen, lips ajar, head spinning. She looks at you with an unreadable expression before she smirks softly and says, "Give it a minute, then come out." She slips out the stall, disappears.
When you finally push out of the bathroom and squeeze through the dance floor, the table comes into view.
Chris is there, leaning back in his seat, that big smile breaking across his face when he spots you. He pulls you into his side and presses a kiss to your lips. And you let him, your head STILL spinning from the bathroom.
But before you can even think, a shadow falls over the table. You look up and there she is.
Her
Hair a little messy, (your) lipstick smudge faintly at the corners, jeans unbuttoned like she barely bothered to fix them before walking back. Her gaze briefly focuses from you to Chris, slow and a bit bothered. She nonchalantly drops into a seat like nothing’s out of place. Like you two weren’t just in the bathroom stall touching each other.
Mason lets out a knowing laugh, shaking his head. “Knew you couldn’t help yourself,” he say. The others laugh in agreement, glancing at her with a mix of teasing and admiration.
She just smirks, leaning back in her chair, eyes locked on you in a way that makes your skin burn. The whole table might as well not exist.
❀-
No matter how busy things get, you can feel the change more and more.
Chris and her still hang out…kinda, it’s not the same. Their usual easy banter has become into awkward silences and clipped exchanges. Where they used to shove each other in the hallway and laugh about it, now they just exchange nods, like strangers with history.
It’s not about you (you know that much). There’s something else under the surface. Something they’re not saying. And it’s making everything more fragile.
You notice it most when you’re with her. She’s always been intense, but lately, there’s an edge to her attention: the way her gaze lingers too long, the way her hands fist when Chris joins the group and you’re still standing beside her. She doesn’t touch you in public, doesn’t give herself away, but she’s there. Always close enough that you can feel her body warmth.
Once, during a movie night at the frat house, you slide onto the couch next to Chris, and before you can even get comfortable, she’s settling into the other side of you. Her arm drapes casually along the back of the couch, her fingers brushing the top of your shoulder as she reaches for the popcorn. She’s looking at the T.V, but you know she’s watching Chris in her periphery.
Chris, for his part, seems… tired. Distracted. His laughs don’t come as easily anymore, and when his eyes go towards her, there’s no warmth there, just something unreadable, maybe even resentful.
The tension between them sits heavily THICK. And even though you try to pretend you’re not caught in the middle, you can feel it. Your arms being pulled in both directions, the way she watches you like she’s daring you to move closer, the way Chris hesitates like he’s already lost something.
One evening:
Chris is sprawled on your couch, his shoes off, tapping the heel of one socked foot against the cushion like he’s burning off energy. The late afternoon light slants through the blinds, making his face shadow gold stripes.
You’re sitting cross legged on the other end of the couch, your laptop open on your knees, pretending to focus on your editing software while he talks.
“I don’t get her sometimes,” he says, leaning his head back against the cushion. “We’ve known each other forever, right? And it’s always been like…” He waves a hand between you, like the gesture will find the word for him. “…like we’re siblings, in a messed-up, competitive way. We fight, we make up, we try to outdo each other. It’s… whatever. That’s just us.”
You hum in acknowledgment, eyes flicking toward him over the edge of your screen.
“But lately…” he sits forward, elbows on his knees, the movement sharp with frustration. “She’s different. I don’t know if she’s pissed at me, or just… pulling away. And I don’t know why. I feel like she’s just… shutting me out.”
You close the laptop a little, giving him more attention. “Maybe it’s not about you,” you suggest, careful with your tone. Inside guiltless fills.
Chris huffs. “It’s always about me and her. That’s the problem. We can’t just…” He breaks off, shaking his head. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. You probably think we’re both idiots.”
You let out a soft laugh. “A little.”
That earns you a half-smile, but it doesn’t last long. He leans back again, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just… I don’t want to lose that. She’s like…”
He pauses, searching for the right word again. “She’s like my other half in a totally non-romantic, totally ‘I’d push her into a pool’ kind of way. And I don’t know what I did to make her act like this.”
You want to tell him that you’ve seen the way she looks at you. That whatever’s happening between them might not have anything to do with sibling rivalry and everything to do with the things you and she don’t talk about. But instead, you just nod, murmuring something vague about how maybe they just need time.
Chris sighs, sinking deeper into the couch, but you can feel his eyes on you for a moment before he finally looks away.
4 days later
You’re lying shoulder to shoulder on your bed, your phone propped up between you and her as some weird ass YouTube video plays: a guy attempting to do life hacks. The sound is tinny from the speaker, the glow of the screen bouncing off the ceiling.
She is half watching, half tracing absentminded shapes along the back of your hand with the pad of her thumb. Every now and then she laughs under her breath, not quite in sync with the video, like her mind is elsewhere.
A notification banner slides down from the top of your phone screen.
6:26 P.M.
[Christopher: You free tomorrow? Practice got cancelled.]
You feel her thumb still against your skin. She glances at the text without saying anything at first, but her jaw tenses.
You swipe the notification away, pressing play again on the video, but she’s not looking at the screen anymore.
“I hate that guy sometimes,” she says finally, the words low and flat.
You glance at her. “The YouTuber?”
She doesn’t answer.
“oh…..Chris…”
She doesn’t look at you, her eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “Yea. Is like… no matter what I do, I’m always second to him in someone’s eyes…in everyones!” She gives a short, humorless laugh.
“Hell, even my own parents liked him better when we were kids. He was the golden boy. Football, good grades, charm cranked up to eleven. Everyone loved…loveshim.”
You shift slightly so you’re facing her more, but you don’t interrupt.
“And I thought I didn’t care. Like, whatever! He can have his spotlight, I’ll do my thing. But it’s different with you.” She finally looks at you, eyes with emotion even in the dim light. “With you, it’s like… I can feel it. Everytime he’s around. Everytime he texts you. I’m… there, but I’m not first. Not the way I want to be.”
Your breath hitches. You’re not sure if she’s accusing you or just spilling something she’s been holding onto.
She notices the hesitation in your face and smirks faintly, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.”Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you. I just…” She shrugs, but her grip on your hand tightens. “I don’t like feeling like the understudy in my own damn life.”
The video on your phone continues in the background, a burst of laughter from the YouTuber, but neither of you are watching anymore.
Here’s Part Two
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A/N: I had to break it into two parts. Already written the full thing and once I was on my Google docs and realized how long it was. Whew! I just wanted to say this one THIS ONE took long. Had to be my longest. Started August 10th @ 5pm. Ended August 18 @ 10am. Important note: main character isn’t meant to be a good person, none of the characters really.
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