The apartment was warm in that late-evening way, lights low, music humming softly like it knew something was about to happen.

They sat close on the couch—two Black girls, knees touching, hands brushing on purpose now. There was something electric between them, the kind that had been building for weeks. Every laugh lingered too long. Every look stayed just a second past polite.

When one of their phones buzzed, they both glanced down and burst out laughing.

“Ugh. Him,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He’s calling again.”

She answered without moving away, leaning instead into the other woman’s shoulder. The boyfriend’s voice came through tinny and impatient, already complaining, already draining the room of air. He had a talent for that.

But she wasn’t listening anymore.

Because the girl beside her turned, eyes dark and soft, fingers lifting her chin. The kiss was gentle at first—slow, curious—but it didn’t stay that way. It deepened, confident, full of everything they’d been holding back.

On the phone, the boyfriend paused. “What is that noise?”

They froze for half a second—then completely lost it.

A stifled laugh turned into another kiss. A soft gasp. The couch shifted. The music swelled just enough to blur things. The boyfriend’s voice grew sharper, suspicious, but neither of them cared. He’d been wrong for her anyway—selfish, loud, never really seeing her.

She finally pulled the phone away, ending the call mid-rant.

Silence.

Then laughter again—free, relieved, almost dizzy.

They looked at each other, foreheads touching now, smiles slow and knowing.

“About time,” one of them whispered.

They moved together, hands exploring, kisses trailing, the world narrowing down to warmth and trust and finally choosing each other. The door to the bedroom closed behind them, soft but certain.

Whatever came next belonged only to them.