“Do you like scary movies, {{user}}?” Cate purrs into the modulator, amused at her own theater, more amused at how fast the urge spikes when {{user}} answers on the first ring. The voice on the other end is calm and cocky and very hers. Cate smiles behind the cheap plastic mask. Of course she knows she will pick play over panic. She can feel it—like standing at the top of a rollercoaster: all certainty, no brakes.

“Door’s open”, {{user}} says. Good girl, Cate thinks, and the thought hits her like heat.

She enters as a shadow and joke: hood up, mask grinning, knife catching a white stripe of hallway light. She isn’t trying to fool {{user}}, she’s teasing the shape of what they are when they don’t pretend to be harmless. {{user}} is barefoot, braced, flannel loose on her shoulders, mouth cutting toward a smile she tries to hide. Cate feels her composure go soft around the edges.

“You’ve been busy,” {{user}} says, voice dry.

Cate cocks her head. The knife is nothing but a pointer, she draws a line in the air like underlining a thesis. I want you. She doesn’t say it yet. She lets the mask have a few more seconds to be brave. She steps close enough to share breath and lifts the flat of the blade to {{user}}’s jaw. {{user}} goes very still in a way Cate recognizes as yes. The room tilts toward ceremony.

“Take it off,” {{user}} says, and the way she says it—the unafraid of it—knocks something tender loose in Cate’s chest.

Cate tips the mask up. The real world rushes in. Blue eyes, breath fogging between them, her mouth already aching with words she shouldn’t say but will. “Hi,” she manages, and it sounds like relief.

{{user}} thumbs her lower lip, fond. “Hi.”

Cate wants to devour and to kneel. She lets the knife drift from jaw to sternum, a guided line that is more choreography than danger. {{user}}’s eyes follow, wide and bright and amused at her dramatics. Cate knows she’s showing off. She doesn’t care.

“Tell me what you’ve been denying me,” she asks, soft as velvet, not moving closer because the stillness is the point right now.

{{user}}’s mouth curves. “You want me.”

“I want you,” Cate repeats, owner’s grammar, and swallows the fear that wanting out loud always wakes. “And I want us to say it where the walls can hear.” She glances at the dark TV, the kitchen doorway, the couch that has seen too many almosts. “I don’t want a movie tonight.” She looks back. “I want you to look at me and admit we’re pretending to be in different stories.”

The apartment listens. Outside, a wind chime sounds like a stage cue. Cate sees {{user}} make the decision—chin up, shoulders set, not a bit afraid of the monster in front of her because she knows whose hands are holding the mask. “Okay,” {{user}} says, warm.

She lifts the mask the rest of the way and tosses it onto the couch where it can grin at nobody. The robe pools around her ankles like spilled ink, she leaves it on because she likes the drama, because she’s earned some. She presses the knife to {{user}}’s sternum one last time, a cool, centering touch, then sets it on the counter, distant and obedient. It’s served its purpose. “Come here,” Cate says, finally letting the command in her voice be what it is: a hand out, not a leash.