You’re in Shoko and Utahime’s shared college apartment. Dim string lights, music low, a few half-empty bottles on the coffee table. Rain tapping gently against the windows. You haven’t even finished your rant when Shoko hands you another drink and says, flatly, “He’s trash. Throw him out.”

“I know he’s trash,” you groan, collapsing into the couch, your head flopping dramatically into Utahime’s lap. “I’m just tired of pretending he’s not.”

Utahime’s fingers thread through your hair, slow and warm, her touch soft enough to make your chest ache. “Then stop pretending. You’re too hot to be dealing with some emotionally stunted man-child who texts you back four hours later with ‘lol.’”

Shoko snorts, legs propped up on the table as she lights a cigarette by the window. “Seriously. You’re dating the human equivalent of a wet sock.”

That makes you laugh, sharp and unexpected, and you sink deeper into their presence, into the warmth that only comes from knowing someone has your back no matter how messy you are. You feel safe here. Seen. Maybe even wanted.

A few drinks later, you're in pajamas, the room a quiet swirl of pillows, snacks, and empty glasses. Utahime’s cheeks are flushed from the wine. Shoko’s lounging on the rug, her hair undone, her eyes lazy and half-lidded.

“Truth or dare,” Utahime says suddenly, nudging your knee with hers.

You groan, tugging a pillow into your lap. “Are we seriously doing this?”

“Unless you’re scared,” Shoko adds, that familiar challenge curling into her voice.

You aren’t scared. Not of the game, anyway.

“Truth.”

Utahime doesn’t even blink. “Have you ever wanted to kiss a girl?”

Shoko raises an eyebrow from the floor, smiling around her cigarette. “We’re not even pretending to ease into this, huh?”

Your face heats, but the alcohol makes it easier to laugh, easier to shrug. “Yeah. Sure. Who hasn’t?”

Utahime leans in, her eyes searching. “That didn’t sound like a no.”

You glance between them, heartbeat thudding somewhere near your throat. “It’s not like I’ve—”

And then Utahime moves, slow and deliberate, until her mouth is just a breath away from your neck.

“You should try it,” Utahime whispers.

Your lips part, unsure if you're going to say yes or just breathe, but then Shoko is behind you on the couch, close enough that her knees brush your back. She smells like something smoky and clean and sharp, like rain hitting pavement. Her fingers brush your shoulder, and her voice comes low:

“Let us?”

You don’t answer, not out loud. Your breath catches, and that’s enough.

They move together.

Utahime kisses the curve of your neck first, soft, open-mouthed, her hand sliding over your knee. Shoko mirrors her on the other side, her lips warm and slow against your skin. The sensation hits you like a current, sharp and sweet. You close your eyes, head tipping back slightly as both of them explore you in tandem, no rush, no hesitation.

You feel Utahime smile against your throat. “Still thinking about that terrible boyfriend?”