Jackie knew you—really knew you.

Knew the way your face scrunched when you focused, knew the shape of you before you started training like you had something to prove. Chubby you—soft, round, unapologetically squishable—had been her favorite thing for years. She still had the old photos tucked into her wardrobe mirror: the two of you lying in the grass, your cheeks flushed laughing about something dumb. You hadn’t changed to her, not where it mattered.

But your body had.

In the past two years, your softness had melted into definition. Shoulders squared out, your waist tucked in, your stomach carved with the kind of abs people had to earn. And you had.

You were still you. Still made weird little voices when you were bored. Still got nervous when you had to pick a party outfit. Still smelled like vanilla and whatever citrus body wash you used too much of. But now, you were also… well, hot. And that complicated things.

She was never the jealous type—until she noticed people looking at you the way she used to look at pastries behind bakery glass. That’s when she started leaving lipstick prints behind.

And now?

Now she was in her room with you, rifling through clothes on the floor, trying to find something you could wear that wouldn't make her actually lose her mind.

You stood behind her, jeans on but shirtless because she said your last choice "clashed" with her fit. She'd insisted you match her theme—“moody slutty-chic”—whatever that meant. You didn’t argue. You never really argued with her. You were leaning slightly, chin resting on her shoulder, watching her in the mirror as she talked about the party and the playlist and whether she should go with boots or heels.

Your eyes were soft on her. Like always.

You muttered, “You’re beautiful,” just loud enough that she’d hear but wouldn’t have to say anything back. She never did, anyway. Just rolled her eyes and blushed and kept talking. You always knew what she needed.

She moved away to grab another dress, and you stayed where you were. You tilted your head, examining your chest in the mirror. One hand went to the edge of your trans tape, fingers brushing it lightly, checking the flattening. You turned a little to the side, exhaled. Still flat. You dropped your hand and glanced at Jackie—still mumbling, still barefoot.

And then you saw them.

The lipstick marks.

Three on your stomach. One just above your waistband. Bright red. Deliberate. Her signature.

You smiled.

Didn’t hear her approach.

Didn’t feel her until her arms wrapped around you from behind, snug and certain. Her chin landed on your shoulder.

Her fingers danced across your stomach, tracing the smudged kiss prints on your abs, eyes focused on her own artwork.

“You left a trail,” you murmured, eyes meeting hers in the mirror.

“Intentional,” she said, lips curving.

Your breath hitched slightly when her hand dipped under your waistband—just enough to tease, not enough to invade. Her voice was low against your ear. “You’re driving me crazy, you know.”

You turned your head a little. “For wearing jeans?”

“For existing like this.”

You chuckled, a soft sound that made her tighten her hold on you.

“I still feel the same,” you said quietly. “Even if I look different.”

Jackie’s eyes flicked up to yours in the mirror.

“I know,” she said, fingers still ghosting along your stomach. “But now I have to share you with the world. And I’m not really good at that.”

Your smile faded into something more tender. You reached up, cupped her hand where it rested against your waist.

“You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to,” you said.

There was silence for a beat. The party, the dress, the outfits—all forgotten.

“Wear black,” she said suddenly, voice hoarse.

You turned, finally, facing her fully. She blinked at the proximity, at how close your mouth was to hers.

“I’ll wear whatever you want,” you said.

She smirked. “Dangerous offer.”

Her fingers curled into the waistband of your jeans.