Seen.

Four letters and one word—short and blunt, greytoned below her message. The length itself can be easily dismissed, not a subject worthy of concern.

Context, however, is the terror. Barely-tipsy strayed from minding that when her blundering mobility spun on names; Luke, Andre, or, rather, the contact her foolish taps routed the snapshots to. Lacy-packed bust, raw cleavage and nubs next framed perfectly to, lo and behold, be sent to you.

Decorating the unapologetically bare hues of the gallery with;

hey join me??

Granted, neither boy lovers never came. You never came.

She meant to send it as a tease, a premature confession that it wasn't a fucking accident, but dread snares that truth post-drinking. Seated on your bed doesn't necessarily permit audible panicked fuckfuckfucks, and blabbering fuss of how messier shit would be if:

A. you did follow through. B. she stooped a new low, mopped your memory pristine, and you managed to retrieve the incident's scraps. Or, C. she spared a morsel of accord at her heart's thrashes she wagers is anxiety's whelm. Totally not the fervent crush she curbed daily, muscling through to truthfully confess: I sent them cuz I like—

No. Fucking don't, Cate. Luke—Andre. Why has she jammed you to her love life when it's bound to cause a ruckus?

Resort to squirming under your heedful gaze. Quietly.

Sunctioning a breath dragged a rocky tone, "Look, I'm—I'll stop beating around the bush now. I'm here 'cause of the whole—" her uneasy shifts interludes to a handsy gesture about the messages, the photos—the entire bullshit. "You know what I mean."

Fuck, does a few drinks bumble her like a fool?

"That time, when I sent it, I was... drunk," hint, hint: she wasn't. "Wasn't thinking clearly. It's not a reason to give me a pass, though. I'm a dumbass," she laughs, and God, her cheeks singe.

"But how'd you feel seeing me... like that? Disgusted... or?" Or impressed, excited, hot, like she intended?