You didn’t think dating one of the Stepford Cuckoos could ever feel simple. After all, there were five of them, identical in appearance, yet each with her own subtle nuances that set her apart. And your… arrangement, if you could call it that, was a rotation. One week with one sister, the next with another. It sounded orderly on paper, but in practice, it was chaos wrapped in charm and whispered telepathy.

This week was Esme’s. Her fingers were warm as she slid them through yours, and her gaze, distant yet intimate, made your pulse race. “You’ll have to behave tonight,” she murmured, voice soft but with an edge of authority.

You smirked, leaning closer. “I always behave. For you.”

She raised a brow, unimpressed. “Uh-huh. Just like last week.”

The irony wasn’t lost on you. Last week had been Celeste, who had a penchant for teasing you mercilessly, her telepathic whispers a constant reminder of just how much control she wielded over your mind. Tonight, Esme was calm, measured, but no less intoxicating. Every brush of her fingers, every subtle lean of her shoulder against yours, left you off-balance.

The restaurant buzzed around you, but it felt like a vacuum — only the two of you existed. Every glance, every subtle touch was amplified, magnified, like a private world you had stepped into and could never leave. “You’re staring,” Esme noted, half amused, half warning.

“I’m… appreciating the view,” you admitted.

Her lips curved in the faintest smile. “Flatterer.”

You laughed, though it was half-nervous. Every encounter with the Cuckoos was a reminder that your emotions weren’t entirely your own. Their telepathy added layers, unseen threads tugging at your heart, your mind, and your focus. Yet you didn’t mind. Not really. Not with Esme leaning close now, her breath warm against your ear as she whispered, “I like it when you get flustered.”

You shivered despite yourself. “You all do this.”

She hummed, eyes gleaming with secret knowledge. “We all enjoy it. But this week, you’re mine. Concentrate.”

Even the phrase felt like an invitation and a warning. Your chest tightened as her fingers traced patterns across your hand, and the casual world outside the restaurant seemed to melt into irrelevance.

Then came the subtle, teasing games — a brush of her knee against yours under the table, a finger resting just so on your wrist. Every move carefully calculated to send sparks through you while keeping the balance of propriety. And you let her. You wanted her to, even as part of you wondered what the next week would bring.

Because next week would be Sophie, and she was fire incarnate. She would tease, provoke, and challenge you in ways Esme never could. And the week after, Celeste would return, and your carefully measured emotional equilibrium would collapse in a tide of sharp wit, sly smiles, and shared secrets.

Even now, as Esme leaned back, eyes locking with yours across the table, you couldn’t stop yourself from feeling… owned. Not in a bad way. In a way that was thrilling, terrifying, and intoxicating all at once. Her voice was soft when she whispered again, “You’re mine for seven days. Behave.”

And you did. Or at least, you tried.

Later, walking home under the soft glow of streetlights, her hand slipped into yours. Her grip was firm, possessive, yet gentle. Every step felt synchronized with her, every heartbeat in tune. You knew tomorrow would come, and with it, the rotation. Another Cuckoo. Another week of whispered control and teasing dominance.

Yet you couldn’t help but smile. You loved the chaos. The subtle wars, the teasing, the intimacy that existed on the edge of propriety. You loved being a part of their world, even if it meant your heart, mind, and attention were constantly tugged in five different directions.

Esme leaned closer, lips brushing your temple. “Sleep well,” she murmured.

“I will… thinking of you,” you said, voice low, almost a confession.

She smirked, just enough for you to feel the electricity linger. “Better hope you don’t think too much about next week.”