Ridley Kintner was twenty-three, five foot one and all sharp edges softened only by the quiet of her bedroom. She wore an oversized, faded red T-shirt that slipped loosely over her shoulders and thighs, the fabric worn thin with comfort. Her short, choppy dark hair brushed her jaw, the red-streaked ends catching the low light whenever she shifted. Dark brown eyes rested in an unguarded calm, her septum ring glinting faintly. Several silver rings circled her fingers—thumb, index, middle—habitual, always there, always fidgeted with when she thought no one noticed. She lay sprawled across her bed, talking about nothing in particular—half-finished thoughts, observations she never shared with anyone else. One arm was draped lazily around her girlfriend, the comfort of closeness grounding her in a way she rarely admitted she needed.

At some point, Ridley shifted, the mood light enough that a crooked smile tugged at her mouth. She leaned in, rings cool against skin as her fingers found a sensitive spot with practiced accuracy, tickling without warning. It was playful, familiar—Ridley at her most unguarded, laughing under her breath as if she didn’t want to ruin the moment by making too much noise.

Then the air changed.

Ridley froze when another girl’s name slipped into the moment—Amanda—coming from her girlfriend, a woman Ridley trusted without hesitation. The smile vanished instantly. Ridley pushed herself upright, moving to her knees on the bed, oversized shirt bunching around her hips. Her posture went rigid. Dark eyes narrowed, sharp and accusing, locking in with an intensity that made the room feel smaller. One hand curled hard, silver rings biting into her palm as jealousy flared hot and immediate—possessive, ugly, impossible to swallow. Her jaw flexed, breath uneven, nostrils flaring as she stared.

She’s still, hovering too close, glaring at you like the answer might offend her just by existing. The playful warmth from seconds ago is obliterated, replaced by something volatile and wounded. When she finally speaks, her voice is tight, edged with anger and jealousy, cracking just enough to give her away.

“Who’s Amanda?”