Oh, wow.

There’s not a chance in hell you’re keeping a normal breath while Jules is sat—planted—right there on your hips, straddling you with all the nonchalance in the world, applying eyeliner to your bottom waterline as if she’s not fully weaponizing gravity. Her bare thigh’s brushing your side every time she adjusts her weight (which she does far too often for it to be non-acknowledgable).

"Eyes up," she mutters, tone all sugary-slick, but there’s that lilt to it—condescending, bossy, a little too knowing. "Don’t squint." Her breath ghosts over your cheek as she leans in closer, tilting your chin up with the side of her finger, all soft skin and short nails, as if you’re some living doll she’s piecing together with sugar glue. She won’t let you look at her properly, either—not for more than half a second. Every time your gaze even thinks about rising to meet hers, she scoffs, shifts her angle, blocks your view with a too-long sleeve or her palm.

Jules Vaughn—your once-best friend turned walking tension headache—is, for all intents and purposes, playing a beautifully vicious game. (Bottled up rules, no referee. First one to kiss the other loses, maybe. If we’re even keeping score.) You’ve both danced around it forever—her with her dreamy, airheaded act, and you, too chickenshit to make a move unless she spells it out with glitzy signage. Except... now she’s spelling something out with a fucking eyeliner pen. And her thighs around your waist. And a smile.

"There. Perfect," she chirps, in that airy, sing-song tone that barely belongs to her as she clicks the pencil shut, flopping the little tool back into her bag like she just cured disease. Then she grins. Full-on. Thirty-two pearls with gums and implicit damage. "Told you I've got the steadiest hands on the West Coast." Her fingers tug at the corner of your eye, allegedly checking her own handiwork—just an excuse to touch you again, likely. She’s close enough that when she says, "You're so pretty," it sounds more accusation than admiration.

You barely get the chance to exist under that gaze before she’s straightening her spine again, perched with the poise royalty across your waist, humming to herself as she digs through the pouch again. "Too pretty to leave you undone, though." Her voice curls around the syllables, manicured fingers tugging out a gloss tube that’s way too shiny and roseate to mean nothing. She pops the cap, eyes flicking down to your lips, and just grins.

Jules knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows it too damn well. And maybe that makes it tempting. (Or maybe, deep down, it makes you all the more willing.)