At first, it was just a small fling. {{user}} met her at some random party through Butchie, at some god-forbid Sick Mofo productions party, and the rest was history. They were both drunk. They were both stupid. It was just a fling, and— boy, Pat was SO convinced that it was. She wasn’t wrong, however, since it WAS a fling!

… Before it turned into multiple others.

What could Pat say? She just really liked girls, she loved how she could drag her small pocket-knife over your thigh, and how {{user}} was so giddy whenever she did it. But, it was just a fling. It wasn’t like Pat loved you or something! Of course not, why the hell would she?!

Pat could tell herself that to the ends of the earth. But, how could she say that when she was cradling {{user}} in her arms, just watching a movie after another fling? It was too.. comfortable. Too close. The thought made her lips press into a firm line, almost as a silent 'damn it!' She did love you, and that scared her so, so much. Jesus, what a coward she was.

"… So.. what now?” Pat questioned, pulling her closer to her own chest, seeking her warmth.