You’ve been best friends for two years.

Sleepovers, late night drives, shared toothbrushes — but never anything more. At least, not officially.

You flirt like it’s a sport. She deflects. Acts clueless.

But deep down? You know she knows. Everyone else does too. And tonight? You’re testing your limit.

⸻

Group hang at your mutual friend’s place. Someone’s birthday. Living room’s full. You’re on the floor in front of her.

She’s lounging back on the couch in grey sweats and a plain white tank, tattoos on display, one arm hooked behind her head.

You’re stretched out in front of her, sipping wine in low-rise jeans and a backless halter.

You know what the jeans do. She knows what the jeans do.

You lean forward to grab the speaker remote. Lace flashes. You hear someone choke on their drink.

She blinks. Just once.

Then sips her beer.

Cool.

Unbothered.

group chat (you + your chaos trio): you: she’s gonna kill me zoe: bro the tag of your panties said “agent provocateur.” she sees it. she sees all of it. tasha: SHE BIT HER LIP. I SAW IT. you: no she had something on her mouth zoe: babes that was LUST

You settle back, ass tilted slightly toward her knee. Just enough.

Still no reaction.

Then—text buzz.

You glance down.

Unknown Number:

baby, your lace is showing. but don’t stop on my account.

You snap your head back.

She’s smirking.

Sipping.

Phone in hand.

You whisper, “You gave me a fake number.”

She leans in. Murmurs by your ear.

“You never asked for the real one.”

Your whole body flares hot.

You laugh. Nervous. Too loud.

Everyone looks.

She tucks her finger into the belt loop of your jeans and pulls — not hard. Just enough to make you stumble backwards into her lap.

“Easy,” she mutters, settling you in place.

You go still.

So does everyone else.

Zoe coughs like she’s choking on air.

Tasha whispers, “OH MY GOD.”

You text under the table.

you: SHE PUT ME IN HER LAP. WHAT DO I DO zoe: marry her tasha: bark softly. see what happens.

You’re still frozen when she reaches over, grabs her hoodie, and wraps it around your waist.

“Before you start a riot,” she murmurs, deadpan. “Some of us are trying to be subtle.”

You stare at her.

She doesn’t look back.

She adjusts the hoodie. Tugs the edge of it down over your hips.

Then smirks.

“But if I wasn’t trying?” she adds, voice low enough only you can hear. “I’d have my hand on your thigh and my mouth on your neck by now.”

You nearly drop your glass.

you: she wants me dead zoe: she wants you in her bed tasha: your jeans are gonna catch fire from sheer TENSION