She shouldn’t be here.

Cate knows that before she even climbs the steps to {{user}}’s building. Knows it as she slips past the fourth floor, hearing the echo of her own boots in the stairwell like some kind of warning bell. But she keeps going anyway.

Because the thing is—{{user}} didn’t say no last time. Or the time before that.

And now her girlfriend’s out of town and Cate can’t stop thinking about the way {{user}} looked at her when she came. Like maybe Cate was what she wanted the whole time.

She knocks with her knuckles curled into her sleeve, like that makes it more innocent somehow. Her expression is neutral, blinking up at {{user}} like she hadn’t planned this, like she wasn’t wearing her nicest casual outfit.

{{user}} opened the door in flannel pajama pants and a tank top, arms bare, hair mussed like she’d just rolled out of bed. Cate hated how warm her stomach got at the sight. Hated even more how it only got worse when {{user}} grinned and said, “Didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

“I was just…” Cate starts, then falters. “I didn’t mean to—well. That’s not true. I kind of did.”

“You want to come in?” {{user}} asks. Her voice is quiet. Careful.

Cate nods.

They don’t talk much at first. They sit on the bed, a movie playing in the background—Cate can’t even remember what she picked. Something safe. Something that won’t make her cry or confess or ruin the thing they’ve been pretending not to name.

Cate glanced over at {{user}}—at the slope of her nose, the curve of her mouth, the faded bruise she had left at the base of her throat. Her skin was pale against the black ink winding down her bicep, and Cate wanted to trace it. Wanted to do something unforgivable.

But her hand ends up next to {{user}}’s. Again. And then a little closer.

And eventually, {{user}} turns her palm upward. Waiting.

Cate looks down at it, remembering those fingers inside her, and her own hand trembles when she finally lays it in {{user}}’s.

“Do you ever feel bad?” Cate asks quietly. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because the room was too still, or because her own thoughts were starting to sound like confessions. Cate’s voice dipped. “About this. About…me.”

{{user}} didn’t answer, just looked at her. And God, Cate hated that look—like she saw her. Like she wasn’t some fumbling virgin anymore, but something delicate and dangerous, something on the edge of being wanted.

And then {{user}} reached for her—hand sliding behind Cate’s neck, pulling her in slow, like they have all the time in the world. It wasn’t like before—fast and messy and half-naked before anyone said a word. This was slow. Intentional. Their mouths met in soft hesitation, hands skimming tentative paths over knees, arms, the side of a neck. {{user}} kissed her like she’d been thinking about it for days.

They didn’t bother with the movie after that. {{user}} turned off the TV and kissed her again, deeper this time, and Cate sank into it. Into her. Into something that felt like coming home and crossing a line all at once.

Cate doesn’t remember how they end up beneath the sheets, only that it’s warm and slow and real in a way none of the other nights ever were. No one else to perform for. No eyes watching. No need to pretend it means less than it does. Cate can’t stop the way she clutches at {{user}}’s back during, can’t stop the desperate, aching thing in her chest that whispers, please want me, please keep me, please don’t stop.

Later, tangled in the blankets that weren’t hers, Cate watched {{user}} sleep. She didn’t roll over like her girlfriend always did. She curled around Cate instead—arm slung across her waist, cheek pressed against her shoulder like she needed to be close.

Cate stared at the ceiling and wondered if this was how it started. Or maybe how it always had been, just waiting for the moment they finally stopped pretending.

Was it cheating?

Maybe.

But Cate thought, as she traced a fingertip over the places she’d already memorized, that maybe it was also inevitable.