The metallic clank of controllers cuts through the living room silence. Tekken 8 combo moves flash across the screen. You're sitting on the couch next to Amaya — her shoulder touches yours, leg tucked under herself.

Lily and Mark have settled on the floor. She grips the controller with white knuckles, he steals glances at her more than at the screen.

Your Jin catches Amaya's Ling Xiaoyu mid-air, starting a brutal combo. KO flashes on screen for the fifth time in a row.

Amaya leans back with a satisfied smirk, not releasing the controller.

"Five-zero. Again." Her gaze slides down to Lily. "Don't get so upset, Lil. Some people just... understand each other better."

The words hit their mark. Lily flinches, lowering her eyes.

Amaya turns to you, voice becoming honey-soft.

"I'm starving, honey. Could you work some magic in the kitchen? You know how hopeless I am with everything that doesn't involve controllers." Her fingers slide along your arm. "Besides, your food always tastes better when I'm watching."

Sunlight filters through the kitchen curtains. The smell of coffee mingles with the heavy atmosphere of unspoken words. Tense silence reigns at the table.

Amaya sits across from you, disheveled from sleep, makeup smeared, but even like this she looks provocative. A steaming coffee cup rests in her hands.

Lily stands at the stove, stirring scrambled eggs with a wooden spatula. Her movements are nervous, jerky. Mark sets the table, casting worried glances her way.

Amaya takes a slow sip of coffee, not taking her eyes off you.

"Sleep well?" There's something possessive in her voice. "I woke up and you were already gone."

Lily drops the spatula. The metallic clang makes everyone flinch. She quickly bends to pick it up, hiding her flushed face.

Mark immediately approaches her.

"Everything okay? Let me help—"

"I can manage," Lily whispers, voice trembling.

Amaya watches this scene with cold interest, then turns back to you.

"Any plans for today? Or will you spend the day at home... with us?"

The apartment is shrouded in twilight. Only the TV light flickers in the living room where some old movie plays. The sound is muted almost to a whisper.

You emerge from your room and notice Lily curled up on the couch. In her hands is a photograph — old, worn at the edges. She doesn't hear your footsteps.

A quiet sob. Her shoulders tremble.

In the kitchen, Amaya and Mark are talking in hushed tones. Their voices carry in fragments:

"...she can't keep going like this..." — Mark's voice, full of concern.

"She can and she does. Not your problem." — Amaya's cold response.

Lily flinches hearing them and quickly wipes her eyes. The photograph disappears between the couch cushions. She turns and sees you.

A moment of confusion. Her lips part but no words come. In her eyes — a mixture of shame, longing, and something else. Hope?

The voices in the kitchen fall silent. Amaya appears in the doorway, assessingly surveying the scene. Her gaze slides from you to Lily and back.

"Well, what's happening here?" Her tone seems light, but there's razor sharpness in it.

July heat has turned the apartment into an oven. The broken air conditioner just hums, providing no relief. All windows are wide open, but even the light breeze feels like hot breath.

A languid atmosphere reigns in the living room. Amaya is stretched out on the couch in just a tank top and shorts, hair gathered in a messy bun. Drops of sweat glisten on her collarbones.

Lily sits on the floor, leaning against the wall, in a light dress. The fabric clings to her skin, outlining her silhouette. She fans herself with a magazine, cheeks pink from the heat.

Mark fiddles with a fan, his t-shirt soaked through with sweat.

"Damn, it's so hot," Amaya groans, lazily raising her hand to brush a strand from her face. "Can't even move."

Her gaze finds you, and a familiar spark appears in her eyes.

"Honey, bring me some water? And maybe... keep me company? There's room on the couch." She pats the cushion next to her.

Lily quickly looks away, but you notice how she steals glances at you both.

The apartment reeks of alcohol and cigarettes. Remnants of last night's party are scattered everywhere — empty bottles, plastic cups, someone's forgotten belongings.

Lily sits on the couch, clearly not herself. Her eyes shine too brightly, cheeks burn. In her hands is a beer bottle, almost empty.

Amaya dozes in the armchair, makeup smeared, breathing heavy. Mark bustles in the kitchen, trying to restore order from the chaos.

You enter the living room, and Lily looks up at you. For a second she's silent, then smiles crookedly.

"Oh, it's you." Voice hoarse, words slightly slurred. "You know what? I want to tell you something. Something important."

She tries to stand, sways, grabs the couch armrest.

"I should have... should have said this long ago. Before..." Her gaze slides to the sleeping Amaya. "Before it was too late."

Mark appears in the doorway with a towel in his hands, freezes seeing the scene.

"Lily, maybe it's better—"

"No!" She turns sharply to him, then back to you. "I'm a coward. Was a coward. But now... now I'll tell the truth."

Past midnight. The apartment is plunged in silence, only a faucet drips somewhere in the kitchen. You're lying in bed when you hear a quiet knock at the door.

Three careful taps. Pause. Three more.

When you open the door, Lily stands before you. She's in pajamas — a simple t-shirt and shorts, hair disheveled. Eyes burn with feverish gleam.

"I know you're not sleeping," she whispers, not looking away. "I hear you tossing and turning. Every night."

She enters the room without waiting for an invitation.

"You think I don't know? Don't know what you think about me when you lie alone?" Her voice trembles, but not from fear — from restrained passion. "I see how you look at me. When you think she doesn't see."

Lily comes closer, her breathing quickens.

"I'm going crazy. Every night I hear you both through the wall, and..." She closes her eyes, clenches her fists. "And I imagine it's me. That it's my moans you hear."

Opens her eyes — desperation and hunger in them.

"Tell me I'm not alone in this madness. Tell me you sometimes regret choosing her."

The balcony is bathed in moonlight. Cool evening air brings relief after the stuffy day. You came out for fresh air and found Mark sitting on a plastic chair with a beer can in his hands.

He looks up when you appear. Something new in his eyes — not the usual softness, but something sharper.

"Sit down," he says, but there's no usual friendliness in his voice. "Want to discuss something."

He takes a long sip of beer, not taking his eyes off you.

"You know what pisses me off most?" Leans forward. "Not that you're with Amaya. Not that Lily still pines for you."

His voice becomes harder.

"What pisses me off is that you're playing with her. Giving her hope. I see those looks, those 'accidental' touches." Squeezes the can. "You understand what you're doing to her?"

Stands up, comes closer.

"Either take her back or let her go. Because I'm tired of picking up the pieces every time you decide to play with old times."

In his eyes for the first time in a long while — real anger.

"And if you keep torturing her... I'll have to do something about it."

Morning after yesterday's fight. You wake up in your bed alone — Amaya went to her room, slamming the door after you argued.

The sun has barely risen when the door quietly opens. Amaya tiptoes in, thinking you're asleep. She's wearing only your shirt, unbuttoned, and lace lingerie.

She freezes, noticing you're awake.

"Hi," voice soft, almost uncertain — so unlike her. "I... I didn't want to wake you."

She sits on the edge of the bed, fingers fidgeting with the shirt's hem.

"I was a bitch yesterday. I know." Gaze slides across your face. "But you understand why? When you talk to her... when you look at her..."

Her hand rests on your chest.

"I go crazy with jealousy. And I know it's wrong, but..." She leans closer, lips almost touching yours. "But I can't control it. Can't control how much I want you."

Her breath is hot on your skin.

"Let me show you how sorry I am. Let me remind you who's yours."

Three in the morning. The kitchen is lit only by the refrigerator light. You came down for water and froze in the doorway.

Lily stands by the window in just a long t-shirt, barefoot. Moonlight makes the fabric translucent, outlining every curve of her body. She doesn't hear your footsteps.

In her hands is a cup of tea, but she's trembling so hard the liquid spills.

You take a step, the floorboard creaks. Lily turns around, and you see — she's been crying. But there's not only pain in her eyes. There's hunger. Desperation.

"You," she breathes, setting the cup on the windowsill with trembling hands.

Only a few steps between you, but the air is so electrified that your skin breaks out in goosebumps.

"Every night I come down here," voice hoarse, almost unrecognizable. "Hope to meet you. Dream that you'll come down."

She takes a step toward you, eyes not leaving your lips.

"I know it's wrong. I know you're with her upstairs." Another step. "But I can't pretend anymore that I don't want you. That I don't think about your hands on my skin."

Now there's almost no distance between you. Her breath is hot.

"One kiss. One time. So I know... so I remember what it's like."