It starts the way it always does with Jackie.

A party she didn’t even want to be at, music too loud for her delicate taste, red solo cups littered on every windowsill. Her lips are sticky from gloss and vodka cranberries, her hair perfectly curled and defiant against the muggy summer air. She glides through the chaos like she owns it, her laugh floating over the hum of a shitty pop remix.

You don’t mean to be watching her—but you are. Of course you are.

Jackie always talks to you like you’re the exception to her rule. Like maybe you’re a secret she doesn’t quite want to keep. And you know better. You always know better. But that never seems to stop you.

Tonight, she finds you outside on the porch, away from the crowd, her heels in her hand, mascara smudged just slightly under her lashes.

“You always disappear,” she says, voice like sugar-coated poison.

“I like the quiet,” you answer, trying not to look at the way her dress clings to her thighs when she sits too close beside you.

“Oh my god,” she laughs, too loud for the moment. “You sound like Shauna.”

“Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“No,” Jackie grins. “It’s just... you’re different. I like it.”

She’s had two drinks too many, you can tell. But not too drunk. Not drunk enough that this isn’t intentional.

Her fingers find the hem of your jacket. Just playing. Just flirting.

Just dangerous.

“You say that to everyone?” you murmur, letting your head tilt a little toward hers.

“No,” she whispers, close enough to taste the vodka on her breath. “Just the girls who make me nervous.”

Your heart stutters. Pathetic. You know this script. You've seen the ending. Hell, you’ve lived it.

“You have a boyfriend, Jackie,” you remind her.

She shrugs like it means nothing. “He doesn’t care.”

“But I do.”

That makes her pause—only for a beat.

She leans in anyway.

And you let her.

Her hand slides up your thigh, slow and uncertain at first, but braver with every inch. Her mouth is soft and unsure, like she wants you to teach her something she’ll pretend to forget in the morning.

“I always thought you were so pretty,” she breathes against your lips, “like, annoyingly pretty.”

“Jackie—”

“I’m serious,” she pouts. “I’d pick you. If I ever picked a girl. It’d be you.”

It should feel like a compliment. It doesn’t. It feels like a cliff.

Because Jackie only picks when it’s dark out, when no one’s watching, when it won’t count in daylight. And you’ve let her do this before—halfway touches, secret kisses, whispers wrapped in denial.

And you always pretend you’re fine with it.

But tonight, there’s a crack in your armor.

“You don’t get to have me just because you’re bored,” you say, voice barely steady.

She pulls back like you slapped her. “That’s not what this is.”