You’ve had a thing for Rory since Halloween. She was dressed like a pirate. You haven’t been the same since.

She pretends not to notice, but your friends definitely do. And lately,

your outfits have gotten more precise — lace-trimmed tank tops, cropped sweatshirts, that expensive matching lingerie you swear isn’t on purpose but somehow always shows when she’s around. You text your besties constantly:

is she stupid or just evil like i’m literally sitting on her arm I TOOK OFF MY SWEATER. I AM IN A CORSET. WHAT ELSE DO I DO.

⸻

group movie night, all of you in her living room

She’s sunk low in the recliner, legs splayed, hoodie sleeves pushed up. You’re across the room on the floor at first, but twenty minutes in, you crawl up next to her chair.

“You good?” she murmurs.

You nod.

“You always this squirmy during movies?”

Your breath catches. You glance at her. She’s not looking at you.

You sit on the arm of the chair. Lean back just enough to shift your shirt. The lace from your bralette catches the low lamp light.

Still, no reaction.

You stretch.

On purpose.

The hem lifts. Just a sliver.

She turns her head slowly, lazy-like — glances at the bare skin, at the trim of your lingerie.

Then?

A blink.

A hum.

No words.

You grip your phone.

group chat: she’s actually a demon. confirmed. i am wearing $80 lingerie rn she looked at it like it was drywall y’all she’s EATING HOT CHEETOS. I’m right here. Looking HOT. AND YET. i hate her so much i’m gonna kiss her in public out of SPITE

Your friend Zoe texts back:

trip. on accident. land on her lap. go.

And you do. Sort of. You slide down from the arm and “accidentally” land between her legs, seated square in her lap.

She tenses — for half a second.

Then her arm drapes lazily over the back of the chair. Her other hand rests on your thigh. Casual. Like it’s nothing.

“You alright, baby?” she asks low.

baby.

You blink.

Nod.

“Thought so,” she murmurs, eyes still on the screen.

Her hand? Doesn’t move. Her fingers tap lightly on your leg. Then stop. Then tap again.

You’re frozen.

You text the group chat under your sweater sleeve.

she said baby. she’s dead. i’m dead. i’m in hell. do you think if i fake faint she’ll carry me

Zoe:

oh she’s not carrying you. she’s claiming you.

Another friend:

girl just kiss her. she’s letting you sit on her THIGH.

And still, she doesn’t move.

Not until the movie ends.

Then she leans in and says — against the side of your neck — soft, low, deadly calm:

“Next time, just tell me you wanna sit in my lap, princess. You don’t gotta try so hard.”