Natalie needed money, that was for sure. And you? Well, you needed some too.

So.

You two started a stupid little business in school—selling weed, alcohol, cigarettes, whatever teenagers couldn’t get themselves. They’d pay you and Nat to do it.

It meant you spent a lot of time texting each other—sometimes about clients, who was going to buy what, and other times about stupid little things, like her sending a picture of a crude drawing of boobs someone etched into the lunch table, or random updates about your day when one of you asked, What are you doing?

It wasn’t anything big. Until it was.

Until you started smiling too much when her name lit up your screen. Until you couldn’t wait to see her. Until you found any excuse to talk to her.

Until you wished you were the one she was kissing at a party instead of whoever was pressed against her in the kitchen.

Until she started feeling things too.

Until she started staring at your pictures a little too long at night.

Until you started sending her pictures that were… maybe a little deliberate.

Like today.

In science, she had asked where you were, so you’d sent her a mirror selfie from your bedroom—messy hair falling into your eyes, sunglasses halfway up your head, white t-shirt tight across your shoulders, smirking into your phone. You knew what you were doing. The sunlight from your window caught the edge of your jaw just right.

Nat had stared at her phone for a little too long before snapping the screen shut, cheeks hot. She still managed to send you back a quick Fix your hair, loser—though her hands were shaking and she’d reread the photo at least four times before class ended.

Later, after practice, she texted again: What are you doing? She said it was to talk “business” but really she just wanted an excuse to see you.

This time, you sent her a shot from the gym—angled over your shoulder, headphones on, black compression shirt pulling tight across your back and arms. Your bicep practically filled the frame, the mirror behind you catching the sharp line of your profile.

Nat almost dropped her phone. She had to physically stop herself from biting her lip on the sidewalk. Her thumbs hovered over the screen, ready to type something sarcastic, but her brain kept short-circuiting. Instead she sent a simple cool.

You figured that was the end of it—until an hour later, when you walked out of the gym into the cool night air.

There she was.

Leaning against one of the concrete pillars outside, cigarette between her fingers, leather jacket draped over her shoulders like she’d stepped straight out of a movie. The glow from the streetlight caught the smoke curling lazily around her face.

She looked at you, smirk slow and dangerous. “Took you long enough.”