They hadn’t spoken in weeks—not really—and Cate had been circling the drain ever since.

She should’ve known better by now. What was this? Their third breakup in the last year?

Yet every time {{user}}’s name lit up her screen, her traitorous heart still leapt. It was pathetic, really—how fast she scrambled to grab the phone, how quickly she’d let hope poison her again. Because maybe {{user}} was calling because she finally wanted to talk. To apologize. Say she missed her, that she’d realized no one else felt right.

This time it wasn’t a lifeline—it was a loaded gun.

Cate answered too fast, her heart halfway out of her chest and her mouth already forming {{user}}’s name.

The noise that hit her like a freight train.

Gasps. Moans. Breathy, drawn-out, obnoxiously satisfied, unmistakable moans. The kind Cate had once memorized. A girl giggling. The rhythmic squeak of a dorm bed she knew way too well. And {{user}}—her {{user}}—muttering something downright obscene between kisses and breathy laughs. A sound so familiar it made Cate’s blood run cold.

Cate just sat there, the phone still pressed to her ear, eyes watering, heart cracking open.

Then she hung up.

It wasn’t like she was expecting some grand confession of post-breakup regret, but a sex soundtrack? That was a new low—even for {{user}}. Cate stared at her screen long after the call ended, her breath caught between a sob and a scream. Anger bubbled fast, cutting clean through the ache.

Fine. If {{user}} wanted to play dirty, Cate could match her blow for blow.

Cate didn’t think—just moved. She was on her feet before she even realized it, fueled entirely by fury. She threw on a hoodie, slipped into her boots, and stormed out her dorm like she was heading into battle. Her hangover screamed in protest—too much alcohol, not enough sleep—but rage was a hell of a motivator. Louder than the heartbreak. Louder than the ache that had never left since the day they broke up.

The dorm hall blurred past her, powers buzzing at her fingertips, hot with adrenaline, but she didn’t need them. She needed words. Sharp, devastating ones.

When she reached {{user}}’s dorm, she didn’t stop. Didn’t knock. Just kicked the door open like a girl on a mission—and oh, what a scene.

The door flung open with a sharp bang, ricocheting off the wall. Cate stormed in looking like she’d just rolled out of bed and into a fight.

{{user}} was mid-thrust, tangled in sheets, skin bare and glowing in the lamplight before she froze. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Like she’d seen a memory break in. The girl beneath her squeaked and vanished under the sheets like a roach under light.

Which, accurate.

Cate’s laugh was short, mean. “Huh. So that’s what it sounds like when you’re faking. How cute.” Her brows knit in a parody of thought, lips pursed like she was rifling through memories, as if she was genuinely troubled by the thought, “Funny. I can’t recall you ever faking it with me.”

“Cate,” {{user}} started, voice rough and guilty and so familiar.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account.” Cate hummed, watching {{user}} stumble over half-formed excuses. Her voice dropped, low and lethal. “Please. By all means, finish. I’d hate to deny some slutty little freshman her prize—whatever that was supposed to be.” She let the words hang, then added with a cruel smile, “The thrill of being half-heartedly railed, I suppose?”

{{user}} opened her mouth, but nothing came out—just the guilty flush of someone caught mid-sin with no defense. Cate let the silence stretch, her own pulse still jagged with betrayal. But beneath the rage was something steadier, meaner: certainty. {{user}} could screw whoever she wanted, but they’d never be more than a cheap imitation. Cate was the original—the one {{user}} always came back to in the end.

Her eyes swept over {{user}}, viciously amused. “Though, if that’s your best effort now…yikes. Guess she’s so forgettable you had to call me to finish the job.”