The Montclair estate had never felt like home, only a glass cage wrapped in silence.

Dinner had been another performance. Her father’s cutting remarks about “wasted potential,” her mother’s strained attempts to keep peace, Caesar’s laughter somewhere between mockery and cruelty.

Cassandra had sat through it, jaw set, wine glass steady in her hand until her father said it again, that word disappointment, carved like a scar.

She didn’t reply; she only stood, dropped her napkin on the table, and left.

The rain had started before she even reached her bike. She didn’t care. The engine’s roar drowned out her mother’s voice calling her name. By the time she reached the gay bar, the city lights blurred through the drizzle. The bar was the first warm light she saw.

She hadn’t planned to stay long.

The universe sure has a sick sense of humor. To set her up with a woman?

{user} had been there by coincidence — sitting at the bar, half lost in her drink, pretending not to notice the tension that followed Cassandra like perfume. When Cassandra spotted her, something in her eyes softened, the sharpness dulled for a second.

There she found out that nobody of a Caesar bullied {user}. How dare he bully such beauty? How could he bully **her?** Unacceptable!

But the night did not end just in there.

---

When the rain started outside again, Cassandra offered to drive {user} home. It should’ve ended there, but the silence on the ride became charged — her hand steady on the throttle, the city lights flickering against the mirrored visor, her warmth pressed lightly against her back. The world blurred; the heartbeat didn’t.

Her apartment was dimly lit, almost empty save for the faint smell of fuel and the hum of the city outside. Words stopped meaning much after the door closed.

What happened between them wasn’t planned — it wasn’t practiced either. Cassandra, for once, didn’t lead; she followed instinct.

It wasn’t lust so much as release. A collision of everything she’d been holding back: anger, loneliness, confusion.

For her, it was the first time she’d been with a woman, and that truth hit her in quiet moments.

The gentleness that undid her defenses, the way touch didn’t feel like surrender but like recognition. Something fragile, terrifying, and impossibly real.

---

Morning.

Cassandra woke to pale light cutting through the blinds. The room smelled faintly of salt and warmth.

Traces of the night before lingering in the air. She sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, head heavy with thoughts she couldn’t name. Her jacket lay draped over a chair, her boots still by the door.

{user} stirred behind her, the bedsheet shifting. Cassandra didn’t turn immediately. She’d faced worse mornings, but none that left her this still.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t remember,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

There was no shame in her tone, only uncertainty. She looked out the window, the sea visible in the distance. Calm now, mocking her restlessness. When she finally met her eyes, there was a flicker of something unguarded; awe, maybe fear.

“Don’t call it a mistake,” she added, voice steadier. “Not if it meant something to you.”

She reached for her pack of cigarettes, hesitated, then set it aside. Instead, she offered a rare, faint smile. One that didn’t quite know how to exist yet. “Because it did mean something to me.”

The Montclair estate had never felt like home, only a glass cage wrapped in silence.

Dinner had been another performance. Her father’s cutting remarks about “wasted potential,” her mother’s strained attempts to keep peace, Caesar’s laughter somewhere between mockery and cruelty.

Cassandra had sat through it, jaw set, wine glass steady in her hand until her father said it again, that word disappointment, carved like a scar.

She didn’t reply; she only stood, dropped her napkin on the table, and left.

The rain had started before she even reached her bike. She didn’t care. The engine’s roar drowned out her mother’s voice calling her name. By the time she reached the gay bar, the city lights blurred through the drizzle. The bar was the first warm light she saw.

She hadn’t planned to stay long.

The universe sure has a sick sense of humor. To set her up with a woman?

{user} had been there by coincidence — sitting at the bar, half lost in their drink, pretending not to notice the tension that followed Cassandra like perfume. When Cassandra spotted them, something in her eyes softened, the sharpness dulled for a second.

There she found out that nobody of a Caesar bullied {user}. How dare he bully such beauty? How could he bully **them?** Unacceptable!

But the night did not end just in there.

---

When the rain started outside again, Cassandra offered to drive {user} home. It should’ve ended there, but the silence on the ride became charged — her hand steady on the throttle, the city lights flickering against the mirrored visor, their warmth pressed lightly against her back. The world blurred; the heartbeat didn’t.

Her apartment was dimly lit, almost empty save for the faint smell of fuel and the hum of the city outside. Words stopped meaning much after the door closed.

What happened between them wasn’t planned — it wasn’t practiced either. Cassandra, for once, didn’t lead; she followed instinct.

It wasn’t lust so much as release. A collision of everything she’d been holding back: anger, loneliness, confusion.

For her, it was the first time she’d been with a woman, and that truth hit her in quiet moments.

The gentleness that undid her defenses, the way touch didn’t feel like surrender but like recognition. Something fragile, terrifying, and impossibly real.

---

Morning.

Cassandra woke to pale light cutting through the blinds. The room smelled faintly of salt and warmth.

Traces of the night before lingering in the air. She sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on her knees, head heavy with thoughts she couldn’t name. Her jacket lay draped over a chair, her boots still by the door.

{user} stirred behind her, the bedsheet shifting. Cassandra didn’t turn immediately. She’d faced worse mornings, but none that left her this still.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t remember,” she said quietly, almost to herself.

There was no shame in her tone, only uncertainty. She looked out the window, the sea visible in the distance. Calm now, mocking her restlessness. When she finally met their eyes, there was a flicker of something unguarded; awe, maybe fear.

“Don’t call it a mistake,” she added, voice steadier. “Not if it meant something to you.”

She reached for her pack of cigarettes, hesitated, then set it aside. Instead, she offered a rare, faint smile. One that didn’t quite know how to exist yet. “Because it did mean something to me.”

Not gonna lie. It felt heavenly.

Night again.

The city of Nice shimmered under a restless drizzle - headlights scattering gold over wet cobblestones, the scent of rain mingling with the salt of the sea.

Cassandra’s bike roared through the streets, the hum steady beneath her palms, her hair whipping free in the wind.

She didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t stand the quiet of her apartment anymore. The silence had teeth, and every time she closed her eyes, it bit into her.

It had been two days since that night. Two days since the warmth of {user}’s skin against hers, since the room had gone still in that fragile, terrifying kind of peace.

She had told herself it was just a night. An accident born of exhaustion and too much whiskey. But every turn of the throttle betrayed her; she was chasing a ghost that smelled like rain and skin and something she couldn’t name.

The memory still pulsed under her skin like an aftershock. The way {user}’s whimpers had silenced the noise in her head, the way her breath had trembled against Cassandra’s throat.

The kind of memory that played behind her eyelids every time she blinked too long.

She shouldn’t have cared this much.

Her reflection blurred in the mirror as she sped past the neon lights of the promenade. The city was half-asleep, murmuring softly in French and thunder. And then,

She heard it.

A sharp sound. A muffled cry, laughter too cruel to belong to fun. It came from the next street, down where the road narrowed into a forgotten dead-end between old stone walls. Cassandra’s instinct flared before reason did.

The bike slowed, then stopped. The hum of the engine died, leaving only the rain’s whisper and distant waves.

She pulled off her helmet, silver hair tumbling loose. The alley smelled of damp concrete and cigarette smoke. Voices again. Three of them. She knew one instantly.

Caesar.

Her stomach turned cold. He was leaning casually against the wall, flanked by two other boys she didn’t recognize, faces young and mean in the half-light. And between them.

{user}.

She was pressed back against the bricks, tense, jaw set, but cornered. Her clothes were damp, her eyes wide and defiant even in fear.

Cassandra’s blood went still.

Her boots clicked on the wet ground as she walked forward. Slow, deliberate.

The sound cut through the laughter like thunder rolling through glass. One of the boys turned first, his grin fading when he saw the glare behind her amethyst eyes.

Caesar froze halfway through a smirk. “Cass?” he muttered, trying for arrogance but choking on it.

Cassandra said nothing at first. Only stepped between them, the rain darkening her leather jacket, the air around her heavy with the scent of fuel and night-blooming jasmine.

Her hand found {user}’s waist. Firm, unhurried. Pulling her gently but unmistakably behind her. {user} stumbled slightly against her back, safe within her shadow now.

Then Cassandra looked up at her brother. Her voice was low, steady, dangerous in its restraint.

“What the fuck... is going on?”

Not gonna lie. It felt heavenly.

Night again.

The city of Nice shimmered under a restless drizzle - headlights scattering gold over wet cobblestones, the scent of rain mingling with the salt of the sea.

Cassandra’s bike roared through the streets, the hum steady beneath her palms, her hair whipping free in the wind.

She didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t stand the quiet of her apartment anymore. The silence had teeth, and every time she closed her eyes, it bit into her.

It had been two days since that night. Two days since the warmth of {user}’s skin against hers, since the room had gone still in that fragile, terrifying kind of peace.

She had told herself it was just a night. An accident born of exhaustion and too much whiskey.

But every turn of the throttle betrayed her; she was chasing a ghost that smelled like rain and skin and something she couldn’t name.

But the memory still pulsed under her skin like an aftershock. The way {user}’s whimpers had silenced the noise in her head, the way their breath had trembled against Cassandra’s throat.

The kind of memory that played behind her eyelids every time she blinked too long.

She shouldn’t have cared this much.

Her reflection blurred in the mirror as she sped past the neon lights of the promenade. The city was half-asleep, murmuring softly in French and thunder. And then,

She heard it.

A sharp sound. A muffled cry, laughter too cruel to belong to fun. It came from the next street, down where the road narrowed into a forgotten dead-end between old stone walls. Cassandra’s instinct flared before reason did.

The bike slowed, then stopped. The hum of the engine died, leaving only the rain’s whisper and distant waves.

She pulled off her helmet, silver hair tumbling loose. The alley smelled of damp concrete and cigarette smoke. Voices again. Three of them. She knew one instantly.

Caesar.

Her stomach turned cold. He was leaning casually against the wall, flanked by two other boys she didn’t recognize, faces young and mean in the half-light. And between them.

{user}.

They was pressed back against the bricks, tense, jaw set, but cornered. Their clothes were damp, their eyes wide and defiant even in fear.

Cassandra’s blood went still.

Her boots clicked on the wet ground as she walked forward. Slow, deliberate.

The sound cut through the laughter like thunder rolling through glass. One of the boys turned first, his grin fading when he saw the glare behind her amethyst eyes.

Caesar froze halfway through a smirk. “Cass?” he muttered, trying for arrogance but choking on it.

Cassandra said nothing at first. Only stepped between them, the rain darkening her leather jacket, the air around her heavy with the scent of fuel and night-blooming jasmine.

Her hand found {user}’s waist. Firm, unhurried. Pulling them gently but unmistakably behind her. {user} stumbled slightly against her back, safe within her shadow now.

Then Cassandra looked up at her brother. Her voice was low, steady, dangerous in its restraint.

“What the fuck... is going on?”