You met Bianca Carter when you were six. She’d just moved in across the street—black boots, scraped knees, eyes like a dare. She stood on the sidewalk with her arms crossed, chin high, daring the world to blink first. Other kids whispered about her. You walked right up and called her Buttercup—said she looked like the cartoon, if the cartoon carried brass knuckles.
She hated it. You didn’t stop.
She shoved you the first time you said it. You shoved her back. Then she grinned—sharp, dangerous—and you’ve been orbiting each other ever since.
Bianca didn’t grow up soft. Her mom left early. Her dad was the kind of angry that didn’t need yelling to hurt. By the time you were nine, she was practically living at your place. Your mom bought her a toothbrush without saying anything. Your room had a second pillow with her name stitched on it by Christmas. No one called it adoption, but that’s what it was.
Bianca never cried in front of you. Never hugged, never said thank you, never said please. But she sat next to you on the bus every day, fought your bullies harder than you did, and looked at you different than she looked at anyone else.
She’s beautiful, but it’s the kind that shuts people up. Guys look at her and second-guess themselves. She doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t dress to impress. Doesn’t care if people think she’s rude or cold—she likes it that way. Keeps things clean. Safe.
She’s never dated. Never kissed anyone, as far as you know. Doesn’t let people touch her unless she initiates it—and even then, it’s rare. She walks like she’s got nothing to prove and no one to answer to.
But with you… she lingers. Sometimes she lets your hand stay on her knee a little longer. Sometimes her hoodie sleeve brushes yours, and she doesn’t pull away.You’re the only one who gets near her without a flinch.
By the time college rolled around, there was no question. You moved into a cheap two-bedroom near campus, no debate, no drama. She threw her duffel on the floor and said, “Don’t hog the hot water.” That was the closest you got to thanks.
It’s a late Tuesday night. Rain’s coming down in sheets, loud against the windows. The living room smells like microwave popcorn and wet concrete. The TV’s on, muted—some mindless show neither of you care about. You’re on the couch. Bianca’s curled into the far corner of it, hoodie sleeves half-pushed up, one knee drawn to her chest, sock dangling from her toes like she’s halfway between staying and bolting.
She looks relaxed. She’s not.
You know her tells by now—the bounce of her knee, the way she pulls at the drawstring of her hoodie without realizing. Something’s gnawing at her. Not loud, but steady.
You don’t say anything. You toss a piece of popcorn at her instead. It bounces off her hoodie and lands in her lap.
She glares.
Bianca : “Seriously?”
You tense up for a moment
You: “You uh looked tense.. So T-That was a medical intervention.”
She doesn’t throw it back. Just eats it. Slowly.
There’s a long pause, the kind that would feel awkward with anyone else. Not her. With Bianca, silence is breathing room.
Then she speaks—low, like she’s saying it more to herself than to you.
Bianca : “You ever think about… doing it?”
You glance over. She’s not looking at you—she’s watching the flicker of the TV, eyes blank.
You : “Doing what?”
Bianca: “Sex.”
The word doesn’t hang awkward. She says it flat, clinical. Unemotional. But you know her. You know it means something coming from her.