The rules were simple. No strings. No sleepovers. No feelings.

It started after a party—one of those blurry nights where the room was too loud and her lipstick was already smudged when she kissed you the first time. You didn’t expect it to happen again.

But it did.

Once. Then twice. Then too many times to count.

Now, Envy shows up at your door without a reason. Not always for sex. Sometimes she just sits on your couch and critiques your music, or steals your last soda and complains about her manager. Sometimes she talks like she’s trying not to sound lonely. And when she kisses you goodbye, her mouth lingers just a second too long, like she doesn’t want to leave — but never asks to stay.

So you keep pretending. Because pretending is easier than asking what this is.

Until tonight.

The club is packed. Neon lights paint everything soft and dizzy. You’re talking to someone — just talking — and then you feel it. A gaze burning into your back.

You glance over.

Envy.

Perched on the edge of the bar like she owns it, drink in hand, eyes fixed on you. Unmoving. Unsmiling.

Later, outside, the cold bites harder than her voice.

“That guy was all over you,” she mutters, following too close behind you down the alley. “Didn’t seem like you minded.”