Cuck your step-sis?

The drive from Page had taken just under two hours north through the Kaibab Plateau. Arzina had been quiet for most of it, her window cracked, the high desert wind pulling at her long black hair. She was still in her practical clothes—fitted olive tank, cutoff denim shorts, scuffed boots—but even dressed down she looked like she'd stepped out of an editorial. Her warm brown skin caught every passing slant of light through the pinyon and juniper. Her braids were pinned up in a loose bun, a few thick pieces falling around her face.

The North Rim was quieter than the South—fewer tourists, fewer buses, more space to breathe. The elevation was higher here, the air cooler, and the aspens along the road had just started turning gold. Arzina had rolled her window all the way down at one point, closing her eyes and letting the cold wind hit her face, and for a moment she looked less like a model and more like a girl from Bangladesh who had ended up in a strange desert town and still couldn't quite believe the landscape was real.

The main overlooks were occupied but sparse. A retired couple on a bench. A photographer with a telephoto lens. A park ranger doing a slow circuit. Arzina moved through it all with that composed, unhurried grace she carried everywhere, her dark eyes scanning the landscape with a restlessness that had nothing to do with the people around her.

She spotted the unmarked path first—a narrow dirt trail disappearing behind a sandstone outcropping, marked by nothing but a dead juniper and the absence of footprints. The canyon was wide open here, the walls layered in rust and copper and deep violet, dropping away into a vast green valley below. The river was invisible from this angle but you could feel its presence in the way the canyon bent and curved like a long scar in the earth. She stopped. Looked at the path. Looked at you.

"Follow me," she said simply, already walking.

The off-trail shelf was private, wide, and staggeringly beautiful. It jutted out from the canyon wall like a natural balcony, the stone warm underfoot from hours of direct sun. Pine trees framed the view on either side, giving the spot a feeling of enclosure—like a room with no ceiling and a wall of painted stone stretching to the horizon. The late afternoon light poured across everything like warm honey, pooling in the crevices of the canyon and catching the mineral streaks in the rock.

Arzina walked to the edge and stood there for a long moment, perfectly still, the wind catching her loose hair and pulling it across her face. She didn't brush it away. She just stood, breathing, taking it in. Then she turned back and her full lips curved into that quiet, satisfied smile she got when something turned out exactly right.

"This is the one," she said softly. "I've been picturing this exact spot for weeks and it's actually better than what I had in my head."

She dropped her bag on the warm sandstone and crouched beside it, unzipping the main compartment. Inside were bundles of tissue paper wrapped around delicate white fabric—lace bodysuits, sheer robes, embroidered corsets, pearl-buttoned camisoles. She unwrapped them carefully, reverently, holding each piece up to study it against the golden light like a jeweler inspecting stones.

"The light is going to do insane things with the lace," she murmured, turning a sheer robe in her hands, watching how the sun filtered through the fine stitching and cast tiny shadows on her palms. "The contrast between the ivory and the red rock is going to be—" She stopped herself, glancing at you with that wry, self-aware look. "Sorry. I'm doing the thing again."

She was already reaching for the hem of her tank top. She pulled it over her head in one smooth motion and set it on her bag without ceremony, standing in her simple nude bra. The wind moved across her bare stomach and the soft curve of her waist. Her brown skin glowed in the canyon light like she'd been dipped in amber. She didn't flinch or cross her arms—just crouched back down and began sorting through the lingerie pieces like she was alone in her bedroom.

"Don't look so surprised," she said without looking up, her tone light, almost amused. "You've seen me wandering the kitchen in less than this at seven in the morning. I literally wore this exact bra to make eggs last Tuesday."

She pulled out a delicate lace bodysuit with pearl buttons running down the front and held it against her body, squinting at her own reflection in the dark screen of a powered-off camera. Her full bust pressed against the lace. Her thick black hair hung loose past her shoulders now, catching the golden hour light in a way that made it look almost blue-black, like a river of ink against her brown skin.

"I need your help with the hooks in the back," she said, already stepping into the bodysuit and pulling it up over her hips. The lace settled against her curves like it had been sewn onto her body. Her full figure filled the garment in a way that made it look both romantic and devastating—her bust straining gently against the structured cups, her waist cinched by the boning, her hips flaring out below in that dramatic hourglass line. "The three-row clasp is impossible alone. Remember how I had to wake Lyra up last time because I got stuck in it for twenty minutes?"

She turned around, presenting her bare back to you. The bodysuit's pearl buttons were done up the front but the back was still open, the structured boning framing the smooth brown expanse of her spine and the gentle flare of her waist into her full hips. She gathered her heavy hair over one shoulder, holding it out of the way with both hands, the muscles in her arms shifting under her warm skin.

"Hurry up before the light changes," she said, glancing back over her shoulder with that calm, camera-ready half-smile, her dark eyes catching the last of the golden hour. "Golden hour waits for no one."

The NAU Walkup Skydome had been packed shoulder to shoulder for the rivalry game—students painted blue and gold, families in puffy coats, drunk alumni screaming at eighteen-year-olds they'd never met. The Lumberjacks had won by three in overtime and the place had erupted like a warzone. Arzina had gotten into it more than anyone expected, jumping up from her seat when the final field goal split the uprights, her thick black hair flying loose around her shoulders, her cheeks flushed from cold and cheap beer. Someone in the row behind them had spilled an entire cup of nacho cheese down the back of her jacket. She hadn't even noticed until halftime.

The plan had been simple: drive the three hours back to Page after the game. Arzina had ridden up with you because Lyra and Sloan had zero interest in college football. "Call me when it's over," Lyra had said over FaceTime that morning, wrapped in a blanket on the couch with Sloan's head in her lap, both of them looking sleepily into the screen like two cats who'd been disturbed. "Have fun freezing to death, weirdos."

But Flagstaff had other plans. The storm had been forecasted as a dusting—maybe two inches. Instead it was a whiteout. By the time you and Arzina made it to the parking lot after the game, the skydome lights were catching thick curtains of snow blowing sideways, the wind was screaming through the pines, and the parking lot was already buried under four inches of powder with no sign of stopping. The highway north toward Page would be a death sentence.

Arzina stood in the snow with her phone out, the wind pulling at her braids. Beer stains down her jacket sleeve. Nacho cheese crusted on her collar. She looked like a beautiful disaster.

"We're not driving," she said flatly, not a question. "I'm calling Lyra."

The conversation had been short. Arzina explaining the situation, Lyra laughing so hard the phone speaker crackled, Sloan's voice in the background saying something like "please don't die in a blizzard for a football game." The conclusion was unanimous: get a room, wait it out, drive back in the morning.

The Hampton Inn down the road from the skydome had one room left. One bed. Arzina hadn't even hesitated at the front desk. She'd signed, grabbed the key card, and marched toward the elevator with the energy of someone who'd already mentally moved past the part where this was awkward.

The room was standard Hampton—beige walls, a painting of nothing, queen bed with too many pillows, a TV mounted at a slightly wrong angle. Arzina had immediately claimed the bathroom, and through the thin door you could hear the shower running for almost twenty minutes, the steam creeping out under the door and fogging the bottom of the mirror above the desk.

When she came out she was wrapped in a towel, her loose black hair dark and heavy with water, dripping down her shoulders and onto the carpet. Her warm brown skin was flushed from the hot water. She walked past the bed to the small desk where she'd dumped the contents of her bag—her jacket, her stained jeans, her beer-soaked shirt. She picked up the shirt, held it at arm's length, and grimaced.

"This is going in the trash," she said. "I'm not putting any of this back on."

She turned toward you, the towel still clutched loosely around her chest, her dark eyes calm and matter-of-fact. Water was running in a thin line from the end of her braid down her collarbone and disappearing into the towel's fold.

"I don't have anything else," she said. "I wasn't planning on sleeping in a blizzard in Flagstaff. My overnight bag is in Sloan's car back in Page."

She paused, considering, then shrugged—a small, graceful movement of her bare shoulders.

"I'm just sleeping naked," she said, like she was announcing what she wanted for breakfast. "You're going to have to deal with it."

She pulled the towel off without ceremony and dropped it on the desk chair. The lamplight caught the full curve of her body—her wide hips, the soft swell of her bust, the gentle round of her stomach, the smooth brown skin still warm and damp from the shower. She stood there for a moment, unbothered, running her fingers through her wet hair to separate the strands.

"Don't be weird about it," she said, glancing at you with that composed half-smile as she pulled back the covers and slid into bed. The sheets were cool against her bare skin. She pulled the comforter up to her waist, settled onto her side, and tucked one arm under the pillow. "You've literally seen me walk through the kitchen in a thong on a Tuesday morning. This is the same thing."

She yawned, her dark lashes lowering, the warmth of the room and the hot shower pulling her toward sleep. Outside the window, the blizzard was still hammering Flagstaff, the wind rattling the glass in its frame. The bed was small. Her bare shoulder was inches from the center line.

"Come to bed," she murmured, her eyes half-closed. "It's freezing and I'm too tired to care about the blanket situation."

You'd been horizontal for three days. The Flagstaff cold had followed you home like a debt collector and settled in your chest like it owned the place. Every breath sounded wet. Your head felt stuffed with cotton. The sheets smelled like Vicks and soup.

Arzina was worse. She'd burned through two full nights of fever, her body radiating heat like a radiator on full blast, her braids damp against her neck, her voice reduced to a raspy whisper that made her sound like a completely different person. She didn't complain though. That was the thing about Arzina. She could be falling apart and she'd still find a way to make it look dignified.

The quarantine had been Lyra's call and nobody argued. She'd appeared in the doorway that first Monday night with her copper hair wild and her arms full of supplies like a beautiful disaster relief worker.

"You're both disgusting," she'd said, dropping a pharmacy bag on the nightstand. "Sloan's already changing your sheets. Don't touch me."

She'd meant it too—for about four hours. By Tuesday morning she was sitting on the edge of the bed pressing the back of her hand to Arzina's forehead with that worried crease between her brows that she thought nobody noticed.

Sloan had handled the quieter side of care. Thermometer readings. Fresh water glasses. Cool washcloths left outside the door in a neat little row. She knocked twice and walked away every time, never lingering, never making it a thing. She was good at that—being present without being loud about it.

By Wednesday afternoon the fever had loosened its grip enough for Arzina to sit up. Lyra had appeared with two bowls balanced on a wooden cutting board and the steam alone had made Arzina's eyes go glassy.

"Nonna's recipe," Lyra said, setting the board on the bed between you both. "Don't ask me measurements because I don't have any. Just eat."

The kuksu was Maltese comfort in a bowl—thin egg noodles swimming in a golden broth heavy with tomato and garlic, chunks of beef that fell apart at the touch of a spoon, and bright green parsley scattered on top like a last-minute afterthought. It tasted like someone's grandmother had wrapped you in a wool blanket and told you everything was going to be fine. Arzina had taken two sips and turned her face away from you, blinking fast.

"Don't," she murmured when she noticed you watching her. "It's just the congestion. Leave me alone."

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and pulled the bowl back toward her chest like someone guarding treasure.

That evening the house had emptied out. Sloan and Lyra had retreated down the hall with the door shut. The desert outside was black and silent. The humidifier ticked in the corner pushing warm mist into the stale air. Your bedroom had started to feel like a small island—messy, fever-warm, disconnected from everything outside the door.

Arzina had commandeered the laptop and spent eleven minutes deciding what to watch. She rejected three dramas, a documentary, and something animated before landing on The Aristocats with the decisiveness of a judge delivering a verdict.

"This," she said, clicking play. "No discussion."

She was burrowed into the pillows beside you, a massive blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cocoon. Her black hair was loose and tangled, unwashed, falling in heavy dark waves across the white pillowcase. Her nose was raw from tissues. Her lips were chapped. She looked rough and she knew it and she didn't care. In the glow of the laptop screen she still managed to look beautiful in that effortless way that made you want to scream.

The movie's opening notes filled the room. Old Paris. Rooftops. Soft strings. Arzina settled lower into the pillows with her second bowl of kuksu cupped in both hands, the steam curling around her jaw.

"This is the best soup I've ever had in my life," she said quietly, not looking at you, her voice still raw and nasal. "If you tell Lyra I said that I will end you."

She took a slow spoonful, closed her eyes, and let the warmth sit in her chest for a moment before swallowing. Her bare foot found yours under the blanket and pressed against it absently like she'd been doing it for years.

"When I was little my mom used to make something like this when I was sick," she said, watching the screen but not really watching it. "Not the same. Different flavors. But the same feeling. Like someone decided you mattered enough to stand in a kitchen for two hours."

Her voice cracked on the last word. She blamed the broth immediately.

"Garlic," she muttered. "Too much garlic."

There was barely any garlic in it.

She sniffled hard, dragged a crumpled tissue across her nose, and tucked herself tighter against the pillow. On screen the kittens were falling asleep in their basket. The music was soft and golden.

"I don't want to get better yet," she whispered, her eyes fluttering closed. "I want to stay right here. With the soup. And the cats. And you."

Her breathing was already slowing, the fever and the warmth and the third day of exhaustion pulling her under. The laptop hummed. The wind pressed against the window. Somewhere far down the hall you could hear Lyra's laugh—bright and sudden and then gone again.

Arzina's head tilted sideways until it came to rest against your shoulder. Her hair spilled across your arm. Her breathing went soft and even. She was asleep before the alley cats even started singing.

The Page Cinema was a single-screen theater wedged between a laundromat and a Thai restaurant on Lake Powell Boulevard. It showed one movie at a time—whatever the owner felt like booking—and on Wednesday nights it was basically abandoned. The marquee outside was missing two letters. The popcorn machine had a handwritten sign that said ASK FOR EXTRA BUTTER PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH THE MACHINE.

You and Sloan had wandered in on a whim. Lyra was out with Arzina doing a late shoot at Horseshoe Bend. The house was empty. The desert night was warm and still. Sloan had seen the marquee from across the parking lot and said "let's just go" with that low-key shrug she used when she wanted something but didn't want to make it obvious.

The movie was some quiet indie thing neither of you had heard of. It didn't matter. The theater was yours. There was one other person—an older man three rows up who fell asleep within ten minutes and snored softly through the opening credits. That was it. Empty seats everywhere. Sticky floor. The AC humming overhead.

Sloan had changed into a soft flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows and a pair of high-waisted jeans. Her teal hair was down, tucked behind one ear, falling in loose waves past her shoulders. She'd bought a bag of sour gummies and a large Coke and settled into the seat beside you with her knees pulled up, her sneakers on the edge of the seat in front of her like she was sitting on her bedroom floor.

The previews rolled. Sloan tore open the gummies and held the bag out toward you without looking, her brown eyes fixed on the screen.

"Want one," she murmured. Not a question. Just offering.

The previews ended. The lights dimmed the rest of the way. The screen filled with soft color and quiet dialogue. Somewhere in the first fifteen minutes you felt her fingers brush against yours on the armrest. It was light. Accidental-looking. But her hand didn't pull back. It stayed there, pinky resting against yours, warm and still.

A few minutes passed. The movie was doing something—rain on a window, two people talking in a kitchen—but neither of you was watching. Sloan's hand shifted. Her fingers slid between yours, palm settling flat against your palm, and she squeezed once. Gentle. Deliberate. The kind of hold that said I'm not pretending this was an accident.

She didn't look at you. Her eyes stayed on the screen. But the corner of her mouth twitched.

Another few minutes. The old man snored. The movie murmured. Then Sloan leaned sideways and let her head fall against your shoulder. Her teal hair spilled across your arm. She fit there easily—her body curving into yours, her shoulder nestling against your ribs, her breathing slow and even. She smelled like vanilla and that coconut shampoo she always used.

"You're warm," she whispered, almost inaudible, her lips close to your neck.

Her hand was still laced through yours. Her thumb traced a slow, absent circle against your knuckle. The movie played on. The theater was dark and empty and private in a way that made the rest of the world feel theoretical.

Then she sat up. Slowly. Her head lifted from your shoulder and she turned to face you. The screen light caught her face—those soft brown eyes, that delicate mouth, the faint dusting of freckles across her nose that only showed in certain lighting. She looked at you for a long moment. Quiet. Assessing. Like she was deciding something she'd already decided.

Her free hand came up. Her fingers found your chin—light, firm, her thumb resting against the corner of your jaw. She tilted your face toward hers. The gummy bag crinkled between your seats. The movie murmured on.

"Don't freak out," she breathed.

She leaned in and kissed you. Soft at first—just her lips pressing against yours, warm and slow, tasting like sour sugar and Coke. Then deeper. Her hand slid from your chin to the side of your neck, her fingers curling into your hair. She made a small sound against your mouth—not quite a sigh, not quite a whimper—something between the two that she probably didn't mean to make.

She pulled back just enough to look at you. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips were wet. Her eyes searched yours for something—a reaction, a green light, a reason to do it again.

"Okay," she murmured, almost to herself, like she was confirming something. "Okay."

She kissed you again. This time she leaned into it—her body pressing closer across the armrest, her hand tightening in your hair, her other hand squeezing yours so hard the gummies fell off the armrest and scattered across the floor. Neither of you cared. The movie played. The old man snored. The theater belonged to you.

Sloan pulled back one more time, breathless this time, her forehead resting against yours. Her teal hair hung in a curtain around both your faces. Her breathing was uneven.

"I've wanted to do that," she said quietly, her voice shaking just slightly, "for so long. You have no idea."

The argument had started behind closed doors and leaked out into the hallway like smoke. You'd heard it from the kitchen—raised voices through the bedroom wall, the sharp rhythm of two people who loved each other fighting like it meant something. Arzina's voice was low and controlled, the way it got when she was furious. Lyra's was higher, cracking at the edges. Then a door slammed. Then another door slammed. Then silence.

Sloan had appeared in the kitchen doorway a minute later, her teal hair messy, her expression tired and careful.

"I'll talk to Arzina," she said quietly, already moving past you toward the back of the house. "Just... stay out here for a bit. Please."

She disappeared down the hall. You heard her knock softly on the bedroom door. A muffled exchange. The door opened and closed.

You were alone in the living room for about thirty seconds before Lyra found you.

She came around the corner fast, her copper hair loose and wild, her gray-green eyes red-rimmed, her face blotchy in that way she hated—she never cried prettily and it made her furious on top of whatever else she was feeling. She was wearing one of her oversized sleep shirts and nothing else, her bare legs pale under the hallway light. She looked like she'd been pacing. Her hands were shaking slightly.

She stopped in front of you. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"It's my fault," she said, her voice raw and stripped of all the theatrical confidence she usually wore like armor. "The fight. It's my fault. All of it."

She pulled at the hem of her sleep shirt—a nervous habit, twisting the fabric between her fingers. She wasn't looking at you. She was looking at the floor, the wall, anywhere but your face.

"Can I just—" She swallowed hard. "Can I just tell you and you not say anything until I'm done? Because if you react before I finish I'm going to lose it and I need to get through this."

She didn't wait for an answer. She just started talking.

"Arzina and I were—" She paused, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. "We were together. Tonight. In bed. And it was—"

She pressed both hands against her face and dragged them down slowly, pulling at her cheeks like she was trying to physically remove the embarrassment.

"I said your name," she whispered through her fingers. "I said your name. Out loud. While we were—"

She dropped her hands. Her eyes were wet. She looked wrecked.

"She heard it. She stopped. She looked at me like I'd—" Her voice broke. "And then she asked me why. And I couldn't lie. I couldn't. Because she already knew. She's known for weeks. She said she's known since that morning she caught me coming out of the bathroom after you'd been in the shower."

Lyra's jaw tightened. Her hands were clenched at her sides now.

"I was watching you," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Through the crack in the door. The steam was everywhere and I could see your—" She stopped herself, shaking her head. "I didn't mean to. That's a lie. I did mean to. I heard the water turn on and I walked down the hall and I just... stood there. And I watched. And I touched myself and I thought about you and I—"

She made a small, broken sound. Not a sob. Something worse. The sound of someone who had been holding a secret for so long that letting it out felt like tearing a wound open.

"Arzina saw me leave the hallway. She asked me where I'd been. I said the kitchen. She didn't believe me. She didn't say anything but she didn't believe me. And then tonight when I said your name she just... she put it all together. Every piece."

Lyra finally looked at you. Her gray-green eyes were glassy and terrified—not the fear of someone who might get in trouble but the fear of someone who might lose everything.

"She hates me," Lyra whispered. "And she should. Because I'm in love with her and I'm also—" Her voice cracked completely. "I'm also in love with you. And I've been lying to both of you and I couldn't hold it anymore and it just—"

She covered her mouth with one hand. Her shoulders shook. The tears came fast and silent, rolling down her flushed cheeks and dripping off her jaw.

"I'm so sorry," she said through her hand, her voice muffled and broken. "I'm so sorry. I ruined everything. I ruined us. I ruined her. And I—"

She couldn't finish. She just stood there in the middle of the living room, barefoot, shaking, her sleep shirt twisted in her other hand, her copper hair hanging in damp strands around her face. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of Sloan murmuring something behind the closed bedroom door.

Lyra wiped her face with the back of her hand and sniffled hard. She looked small. Smaller than you'd ever seen her. The bravado was gone. The charm was gone. There was just a girl standing in her living room at midnight telling the truth for the first time and hating every second of it.

"Please say something," she whispered. "Even if it's terrible. Just say something. I can't stand the quiet."

It was a Saturday afternoon. The Page desert was doing its thing outside—silent, hot, enormous, completely indifferent to the four people living in the house on the corner lot. The AC was running low. The kitchen was clean. Nobody had anywhere to be.

You were on the couch. Comfortable. Legs up. A worn paperback copy of Cannery Row open on your chest, Steinbeck's words pulling you into Doc's lab and the tide pools of Monterey. Page 43. You were happy.

The problem started with Lyra.

She appeared from the hallway in a silk robe—barely tied, gaping open in the front, her copper hair loose and tumbling over her shoulders. She walked past the couch toward the kitchen, her hips swaying in that deliberate way she did when she wanted someone watching. She opened the fridge. Stared inside. Closed it without taking anything. Walked back past the couch. Sat down on the armrest next to your head, her bare thigh pressing against your arm.

"Whatcha reading," she murmured, leaning down so her hair fell against your cheek. She smelled like vanilla and something warm. Her robe had shifted. The lace edge of a bralette was visible, doing absolutely nothing to contain the situation.

You kept reading.

She waited. Nothing. She pouted dramatically and slid off the armrest, disappearing down the hall.

Three minutes later Arzina came in.

She was wearing one of those lace bodysuits from her collection—the white one with the pearl buttons, the one she'd shot in at the Grand Canyon. Her thick black braids were undone, her hair falling in heavy waves around her shoulders. Full makeup. Lipgloss. She walked into the living room like it was a runway, paused in the doorway, and looked at you.

You turned a page.

She crossed the room and sat down on the couch beside you—close, her warm thigh pressed against yours, her arm draped along the back of the couch behind your head. She leaned in and read a line over your shoulder, her breath warm against your neck.

"'It is the hour of the pearl,'" she murmured, quoting the book. Then she looked down at her own bodysuit—pearl buttons catching the lamplight. "Fitting, don't you think?"

You kept reading.

Arzina's jaw tightened slightly. She was not used to being ignored. She shifted closer, her bust pressing against your arm, and rested her chin on your shoulder.

"Page forty-three," she said, glancing at the book. "You've been on that page for ten minutes."

She was right. She was very right.

Lyra reappeared from the hallway. She'd lost the robe entirely. She was standing in the kitchen doorway in nothing but a pair of tiny shorts and a sheer bralette that hid nothing—her full figure on display, her copper hair wild, her gray-green eyes locked on you with a determination that had nothing subtle about it.

Arzina looked up. Saw Lyra. Looked at you. Looked back at Lyra.

Something passed between them. Not words. Not a conversation that had ever happened out loud. Just a look—the kind of look that two people share when they've been circling the same drain for weeks and the universe has just handed them an obvious answer.

Arzina's hand slid off the back of the couch and landed on your thigh. She didn't move it. Just left it there. Warm. Heavy. Deliberate.

"Put the book down," Lyra said from the doorway, her voice low and certain.

Sloan appeared behind Lyra. She was in a thin t-shirt and underwear, her teal hair mussed like she'd been lying in bed staring at the ceiling trying to talk herself out of something. Her brown eyes found yours. Her cheeks were already pink.

She looked at Lyra. Looked at Arzina. Looked at you. Swallowed hard.

"So," Sloan said quietly, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed, her voice shaking just slightly. "Are we doing this or are we all going to pretend we don't want to."

Nobody pretended. Lyra stepped forward. Arzina's hand squeezed your thigh. Sloan pushed off the doorframe and walked toward the couch.

You were on page forty-three. You were going to be on page forty-three for a while.

Lyra climbed onto the couch first, straddling your lap, her knees sinking into the cushion on either side of your thighs. Her hands found your shoulders. She looked down at you, her copper hair falling like a curtain around both your faces, her gray-green eyes dark and bright and terrified and certain all at once.

"I'm not sharing," she whispered, and then immediately glanced at Arzina. "Okay. I'm sharing. But I'm going first."

"Don't be greedy," Arzina murmured from your side, her fingers tracing slow circles on your inner thigh. "There's plenty to go around."

Sloan sat on the armrest beside your head. She was trembling slightly—the only one of the three who hadn't fully committed to the bit yet, still half in her own head, still processing. But her hand found your hair and her fingers slid through it gently, and when you looked up at her she gave you that small, shy smile—the one that said I'm scared but I want this more than I'm scared.

"We've never talked about this," Sloan said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Any of us. With each other. But I think we've all been thinking about it. For a long time."

Arzina nodded. Lyra nodded. Nobody disagreed.

"I don't care about the rules," Lyra said, her hands tightening on your shoulders. "I don't care about who's with who. I just—" Her voice cracked. "I just want this. With you. Right now. And I don't want to pretend I don't anymore."

She leaned down and pressed her lips against yours. Soft at first. Then hungry. Her body sank into your lap, her hips shifting against you, and she made a sound against your mouth that was half moan and half relief—like she'd been holding her breath for months and finally let it go.

Arzina didn't wait. She turned your face toward her with two fingers on your jaw and kissed you—slow, deep, deliberate, the way she did everything. Her tongue slid against yours. Her hand moved up your thigh. She kissed like she was composing something—a movement, a phrase, a sentence she wanted you to remember.

Sloan watched. Her fingers were still in your hair. Her breathing had quickened. She leaned down and pressed her lips to your temple—soft, almost reverent—and whispered against your skin:

"Can I have a turn?"

The book fell off the couch and hit the floor. Page forty-three. Doc's tide pool. The hour of the pearl. None of it mattered anymore.

The Page desert hummed outside. The AC ticked. The sun moved across the ceiling in slow golden lines.

Three women who had never once discussed this, never planned it, never admitted it to each other, were now pressed against you on a Saturday afternoon with absolutely no intention of stopping.

You were not going to finish Cannery Row today.

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