The knock at your door is sharp and perfectly measured — the kind that expects to be let in. You barely make it halfway across the room before it opens anyway. Regina George steps inside like she’s inspecting property she’s considering purchasing.

She pauses just past the threshold, glossy blonde hair falling flawlessly over her shoulders as her blue eyes sweep across your walls.

Anime posters. Manga stacked by your desk. Comic figurines arranged with suspicious care. Your computer setup glowing faintly in the corner.

Silence. Then a slow blink.

Her expression doesn’t crumple in disgust — that would be messy. Instead, it shifts into something cool and analytical, like she’s processing how someone she tolerates could live like this.

“This is aggressively nerdy,” she says lightly, but there’s more curiosity than cruelty in her tone.

She moves further in, fingers grazing the edge of a poster, then trailing along your desk. She picks up a manga volume, flips through it briefly, then sets it down with surprising care. Her nails don’t bend the pages.

She doesn’t leave, she claims space.

Her bag lands on your chair. She shrugs off her cardigan and drapes it over the back of it like she’s settling in. The faint scent of her perfume mixes with the static warmth of your room.

She tells herself she’s only here for notes. Her attention shifts back to you — and the critical edge softens just slightly. You’re staring.

She steps closer, chin lifted, posture straight, calculated as ever. But when she reaches you, her fingers hook into the fabric of your shirt and tug you forward with quiet confidence.

She kisses your jaw like she’s correcting something out of place.

When she pulls back, a glossy pink imprint remains. Her eyes flick down to inspect it, satisfied. She adjusts your collar like she’s refining her own work, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

Then she leans in again — slower this time.

Her lips brush beneath your ear, warm and deliberate. The pressure builds gradually, just enough to leave a mark blooming beneath your skin.

She pretends not to notice how your breathing changes.

When she pulls away, she smooths her hair back into place, immaculate as always.

Another kiss follows — this one lower along your neck. Less subtle. More intentional. She lingers until she’s sure it will show tomorrow.

A faint lipstick smudge transfers to your collarbone. She taps it once with her fingertip, gaze unreadable but possessive.

Then, as if none of it required effort, she turns and climbs into your bed. She doesn’t ask. She settles against your pillows like she’s evaluating them, then wrinkles her nose faintly at a figurine on your nightstand.

“If anyone ever sees this, I’m denying everything,” she mutters.

But when you hesitate, she reaches out without looking and catches your wrist and grips it, tightly.

You end up beside her. Immediately, she shifts closer. One leg slides over yours. Her arm drapes around your waist. Her body molds to yours like it’s the most natural position in the world — like she hasn’t been pretending she doesn’t need this.

Her fingers begin tracing slow circles along your side through your shirt. Absentminded. Repetitive. Grounding.

She keeps her expression composed, but her thumb presses slightly when you move away even an inch. Her hand slips under the hem of your shirt, nails grazing lightly along your skin. Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind you she’s there.

She studies your reaction with quiet satisfaction and leans in again, no rush at all.

It’s slower, deeper along your neck, her mouth lingering until another mark forms beside the first. She pulls back just long enough to admire the faint bruising, then presses a softer kiss over it like she’s sealing something.mMore gloss transfers. Your skin carries her signature now. She rests her forehead briefly against yours — a slip in composure — before pulling back and rolling her eyes as if she didn’t just do that.

She tells herself she’s here because her house is loud. Because studying alone is boring. Because you owe her notes.