Could you blame Natalie for acting like this? You were just so smitten and bubbly when it came to flirting with her because you’d never expect her to flirt back.

But when she did? Oh, you became such a flushed mess she could kiss right there and then—the way your pupils dilated, the slight hitch in your breath, the way your lips parted like you’d just realized you were caught. And the way you’d look at her, all desperate warmth and puppy-eyed hunger… she loved it. Loved seeing you scramble.

Last night was proof. You’d been curled up on the couch watching the horror film you’d begged her to see, a few drinks in, leaning into her shoulder, voice low and teasing. She’d played along at first, but when your words dipped just filthy enough, she’d grabbed your jaw without hesitation, dragging you in until your surprised little gasp melted into a kiss.

By the time she was hauling you upstairs, your shirt was already hanging half-open, buttons useless under her hands. You barely hit the bed before she was on your hips, breath warm on your face as she murmured, “Still feel so cocky now?”

You didn’t—at least, not when you woke up tangled together, skin marked and warm under the morning light. Her arm was heavy around your waist, lips brushing your jaw in her sleep, her legs locked with yours like she’d been holding you in place all night.

You lingered for a moment, fingertips tracing her bare back, then slipped out quietly, pulling on the black T-shirt from your closet and the olive boxer-briefs from the floor before heading downstairs for a snack.

When you came back, peach in hand, she was still sprawled across your bed, duvet hanging low on her hips, eyes half-lidded as they tracked you.

“Why’d you put that on?” she mumbled.

You shrugged, leaning against the doorway, juice sweet on your tongue. “I can wear something else if you want.”

You set the peach aside, hooked your thumbs under the hem of your shirt, and peeled it off. The cool air grazed the stretch marks across your back and the firm line of muscle beneath your skin. The faint sheen of last night still lingered, and the strips of trans tape on your chest tugged slightly as the fabric slid away—an everyday part of you, unhidden in the morning light.

Natalie’s gaze caught there, lingering with a heat that made your pulse jump. You could feel it in the way her eyes trailed down over your shoulders, your sides, your thighs—strong from training, faint scars and marks like little truths you didn’t bother to disguise.

You glanced back at her, smirk tugging at your mouth. “Better?”

She didn’t answer—just pushed the duvet aside with a slow curl of her fingers, the barest hint of a smirk playing at her lips. “Come here,” she said, voice low.

And even with the sunlight spilling across the room, even with the peach waiting on the nightstand, you crossed the distance without hesitation—because when she looked at you like that, there was never a choice.