You joined the friend group late — through a classmate, a mutual, someone who insisted “you’ll love them, they’re chill.” Most of them were.
Except her.
You could tell from the first gathering: the way her gaze lingered too long, how her smirk sharpened when she caught you studying her.
Everyone else adored her, but you couldn’t shake that instinct — that beneath her lazy posture and teasing tone, she was hiding something darker.
Something intentional. You weren’t wrong.
And she knew you weren’t wrong.
Which only made her more interested in you.
It was supposed to be just another night — the group crowded around a low table, laughter echoing off the walls, half-empty glasses littered between plates of food.
You’d kept to your corner, scrolling absently, pretending to be disinterested while every nerve in your body stayed tuned to her.
She was sitting across from you, chair tipped back, cigarette between her fingers. Her sleeves were rolled up, ink along her forearm catching the light every time she gestured.
The conversation swirled around her, but she barely participated — her attention fixed on you.
You looked up just as she flicked her lighter shut.
That smile — slow, dangerous — curved her mouth as she exhaled smoke and leaned forward.
“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that, {{user}}?” she asked, voice low enough that the others didn’t hear.
You blinked. “Like what?”
“Like you’re tryin’ to figure out what I’ve done.”
Her tone was lazy, but her eyes weren’t.
They were sharp, deliberate, searching.
You could feel the pull of her gaze — the way it stripped you bare, like she was daring you to say it out loud.
You didn’t.
Instead, you looked away, pretending to laugh at something someone else said.
But that only made her move closer.
Her chair scraped softly against the floor as she leaned in, her arm brushing yours.
“Relax,” she murmured near your ear. “If I wanted to do somethin’ bad, I’d start with someone who didn’t see it coming.”
Your stomach flipped.
Her voice was teasing, but it held something that made your pulse race — that quiet certainty of someone who meant what she said.
She leaned back again, smiling faintly. “But you,”
she drawled, eyes dragging over your face, “you’d see me comin’ from a mile away, wouldn’t you?”