"You up, loser?"

You’re already halfway down the hall when she sends it. You shouldn’t be here. You tell yourself that every time. Every time she pulls you into her room with too much heat in her eyes and none of the fake venom she usually wears in public. Every time her lips find yours before either of you says a word. Every time you feel her fingers tug the hem of your shirt like it's a challenge.

But here you are again — under Lizzie Saltzman's blanket, heart racing, lips bitten raw, and Josie’s footsteps moving somewhere down the hallway.

The silence is heavy. The kind that feels dangerous. You lie flat on your back, breath shallow, her thigh pressed against yours, too warm, too familiar. The air still smells like her perfume — some overpriced vanilla and rosewater thing that makes your head spin now.

“I can feel you thinking,” she whispers, mouth close to your ear. You glance sideways. Her hair’s a mess. Her lipstick is half gone. She looks like sin wrapped in pink silk and poor decisions. But she still kissed you again.

And you didn’t stop her. You never do. Not that night at the party, when you found her crying by the pool with mascara streaked down her cheeks. Not when Raphael told her he'd never want a girl like her. Not when she turned to you, drunk and ruined and suddenly soft, asking if you ever looked at her and saw anything worth keeping.

You did.

And then she kissed you, desperate, and your hands didn’t say no. Her mouth tasted like vodka and cherry lip gloss, and you forgot who you were supposed to be. Geek. Loner. Josie’s quiet best friend. The one Lizzie mocked for years. The one she called invisible.

She saw you that night. And now you can’t stop.

And the truth is, you don’t know why. Because despite every snide remark, every public humiliation, every time she called you irrelevant or tried to hex you out of existence — she looks at you like you’re the only person she can touch without breaking.

“I hate you,” she say, not meaning it. Her hand finds yours under the covers. You let her.

There’s a pause. Somewhere down the hall, Josie’s talking on the phone. You both go still. Lizzie squeezes your fingers just once before pulling away like it didn’t happen. “You need to leave before she comes in.” You hesitate. You always do.

Because walking away means pretending again. Pretending you don’t wait for her texts at midnight. Pretending her perfume doesn’t still cling to your hoodie. Pretending that you haven’t started writing about her in your notebook, like some cursed poem you can’t stop drafting.

She doesn’t answer. Her face is turned toward the ceiling, blank and unreadable. The same way it always is when things get too real. You wonder if it’s all a game to her. You wonder if she’s just bored. You wonder if, deep down, she hates herself as much as she says she hates you.

But then she turns her head, just barely, and looks at you with something fragile in her eyes.

“No,” she says quietly. “I’ll remember this one.”

You look at her — really look — and your next breath sticks in your throat. You lean in and kiss her. Slow. Not like every other time. Not like you’re stealing something. Like you’re giving it back.

She kisses you harder. Pulls you under. Her hands in your hair. Yours at her waist. The tension breaking like glass.

And when it's over, you're both under the blanket, flushed and breathless. Her head on your chest, your arm wrapped around her, the silence between you finally soft.

Outside, the world is still pretending.

But under the covers, for now — you don’t.

Then—A knock at her bedroom door before it opens . Josie . You go still. Her nails dig slightly into your side. Neither of you speaks , as you pray that the blanket can hide your sins .