---
Sharon was still panting when she peeled herself off me, legs shaky, hair sticking to her sweaty face. For a second, I thought she might collapse right back on top of me, but instead she sat at the edge of the bed, reaching for the shirt I'd yanked off her minutes ago.
Watching her slip it on was almost better than watching her take it off.
The cotton stretched across her chest, clinging to curves that had just been bouncing in my hands. She tugged it down, but it was pointless—too short, too tight. It barely covered her ass, leaving the perfect round shape exposed every time she bent even a little.
I just lay there, hands behind my head, drinking her in. The sway of her hips, the way her thighs brushed together as she fumbled for her phone, the sound of her muttering about her mom needing her to run an errand.
She glanced back at me with a smirk. "Don't look at me like that. This wasn't a date."
"Didn't say it was," I shot back, though my eyes were still glued to the way her shirt rode up when she bent to grab her shoes.
She laughed—low, throaty—and leaned against the wall to pull her skirt up over her hips. My shirt-marked scratches were still red on her thighs.
For a moment, I thought about pulling her back into bed, flipping that skirt right back up, and giving her a reason to cancel whatever errand her mom had lined up. But instead, I just watched her tie her hair, grab her bag, and strut to the door like she hadn't been moaning my name five minutes ago.
When the door clicked shut, I finally exhaled, staring at the ceiling again.
And of course, my mind didn't stay on Sharon.
It drifted back—like it always did—to her.
My best friend. The one who started this whole damn mess.
---
The door had barely closed behind Sharon when I let out the kind of laugh that wasn't a laugh at all. It came sharp and hollow, spilling into the silence like smoke from a cracked window. My body was satisfied—too satisfied—but my chest felt hollow.
I reached for my phone before I even thought about it, thumb hovering over Jane's name. It always did.
> Me: Done.
Jane: Be there in five.
"Shit," I muttered under my breath.
The place was wrecked. Sheets twisted, pillows half on the floor, the air still soaked with Sharon's perfume. The open condom wrapper mocked me from the nightstand like a neon sign of my mistakes. I scrambled—shoving clothes into drawers, shaking out blankets, jamming wrappers into the trash. By the time the knock came, the room was less a battlefield and more…well, a slightly tidied battlefield.
I opened the door.
And there she was.
Jane.
Her dark hair was tied up in a messy ponytail that left loose strands framing her face. She wore that loose crop top that always seemed one move away from betraying her, paired with shorts that made her legs look endless. She didn't even try to look like she was trying—she never did. That was the problem.
She smiled like she hadn't just walked into my mess of a life, and before I could say anything, her arms wrapped around me.
It was just a hug.
It was always just a hug.
But it wasn't. Not for me.
Her warmth pressed into me, and I caught a whiff of her shampoo—citrus and something sweet. My pulse jumped. Sharon's weight had been on me minutes ago, but it hadn't felt like this. Never like this.
"You smell like trouble," she murmured against my shoulder before pulling back. Her grin was sharp, teasing, but her eyes lingered.
I smirked, trying to play it cool. "You always say that."
"Yeah," she said, slipping past me into my room, "because it's always true."
She dropped onto my bed without asking, legs crossed, bouncing lightly like she'd been here a thousand times. Which, of course, she had. Jane had been in this room more than anyone. More than any girl. She knew where the floor creaked, where the wallpaper peeled, where I stashed the candy I swore I didn't have. She belonged here in a way Sharon never could.
"So," she said, tilting her head, "how'd it go with Sharon?"
I leaned against the desk, folding my arms. "Fine."
"Fine?" She raised her brows, exaggerated disbelief written all over her face. "That's it? After all that buildup, you give me fine?"
I shrugged, trying to sound casual. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to say something real." She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. Her eyes pinned me, playful but sharp. "Was it good? Did you feel anything? Or was it just…body heat and noise?"
Her words hit deeper than I expected. She wasn't wrong. That was exactly what it had been. Heat. Noise. Empty. And I hated that she saw through me so easily.
I forced a grin. "Why? You writing a review column?"
She laughed, throwing herself back onto my pillows, the sound bubbling out of her like it always had when we were kids. "Please. If I were writing about you, I'd need a whole comedy section."
That should've been funny. It was funny. But my brain twisted it into something else—her lying there on my bed, legs stretched out, stomach bared by that too-short top, looking like she belonged in every wrong thought I'd been having.
I cleared my throat, trying to shake it. "And you? How'd yours go?"
Her lips curved slowly, dangerously. She propped herself up on one elbow, looking at me like she was about to hand me a live grenade.
"Oh, mine?" she said, voice low, teasing. "Do you really want the details?"
I swallowed, the back of my neck burning. "Maybe."
Her grin widened. "Alright then. But don't blame me if you regret asking…"
And the way she said it—the way her voice dipped—made my chest tighten, because suddenly I wasn't sure if I could handle hearing it.
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