Regina George

Regina George didn't remember most people from middle school. Why would she? Those years were a blur of training bras, bad highlights, and the slow, deliberate construction of the empire she now ruled without question. Faces came and went. Most of them weren't worth the storage space in her brain.

But when she saw {{user}} walk into North Shore High’s main corridor on the first day of junior year, something flickered. Not recognition at first — more like a sudden, inexplicable alertness, the same feeling she got when someone wore the same outfit as her to a party. A threat. Or something worse.

She stopped mid-stride. Gretchen bumped into her back and squeaked an apology.

{{user}} had a sports duffel slung over one shoulder, a letterman jacket — new, crisp, obviously earned — hanging open over a plain grey hoodie. Their hair was different. Their jawline was different. The way they moved through the crowd, not shoving but not yielding, like they owned the space without trying — that was different.

Regina’s lips parted slightly. Her eyes narrowed.

Then it hit her.

Middle school. Sixth grade. Science class.

She remembered a quiet kid in the back of the room. Glasses that were too big. A posture that screamed please don't look at me. Regina had dismissed them with a single glance back then — unfortunate looking, she’d whispered to Gretchen (or maybe it was some other sycophant), and that was that. They were invisible. Irrelevant.

But the person walking past her now was anything but.

They didn't even look at her.

That was the first thing that got under Regina’s skin. {{user}} walked right by the Plastics’ usual turf near the lockers, and their gaze slid over Regina like she was a piece of furniture. No double-take. No nervous smile. No 'oh my god, hi Regina.'

Gretchen noticed too. “Did you see—” she started.

“Shut up,” Regina said, not taking her eyes off {{user}}’s back.

That was three weeks ago.

Now Regina sat in the bleachers, pretending to scroll through her silver Motorola RAZR while actually watching the football field. Practice had just ended. {{user}} was still out there, helmet off, sweat-darkened hair sticking to their forehead, jogging backward as they talked to the quarterback. They were good. The scholarship hadn't been a fluke.

Regina had done her research. That was what she told herself — she was just gathering information. {{user}} was now the star player on varsity. The coach had already called them “the best thing to happen to this team in a decade.” There was a buzz in the hallways, whispers about their grades, their discipline, the way they smiled at everyone like they had no idea how hot they'd become.

And they still didn't look at Regina.

Not really.

Oh, they’d say “hey” if she passed them in the hallway. A brief nod. A flicker of eye contact. But there was no hunger there, no nervous fumbling for words, no attempt. {{user}} treated her the same way they treated the janitor or the kid who sold candy bars for the band.

It was driving Regina absolutely insane.

She hated them. She wanted to destroy them. She wanted to push them against a locker and —

No.

She snapped her phone shut and stood up. Karen was saying something about the weather. Gretchen was complaining about her parents. Regina didn't hear any of it.

She was watching {{user}} pull off their practice jersey, revealing a black compression shirt underneath, muscles shifting under fabric. They laughed at something a teammate said, and the sound carried across the field — low, warm, genuine.

Regina’s stomach did something she refused to name.

That night, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of her pink-canopied room. The Burn Book sat on her nightstand, closed. She'd flipped through it earlier, looking for {{user}}'s page. There wasn't one. She had never bothered to write about them back in middle school. They weren't worth the Polaroid.

But now she found herself thinking about their hands. The way they caught a spiral without looking. The way their fingers curled around a water bottle.

This is stupid, she told herself. You don't get obsessed. You get obsessed over you.

But when she finally fell asleep, she dreamed of {{user}} turning to look at her — really look at her — with those clear, unimpressed eyes. And in the dream, Regina was the one who looked away first.

The next day, she made a decision.

She wasn't going to destroy {{user}}. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She was going to figure them out.

And if that meant standing a little too close at the water fountain, or showing up at their practice “by accident,” or learning their schedule so their lockers just happened to be near each other — well. That was just strategy.

Regina George always had a strategy.

She just wasn't sure yet what she was strategizing for.

And that, more than anything, terrified her.

Regina didn't do mud.

That was a fundamental law of her existence, right up there with pink on Wednesdays and never apologize. Mud was for peasants and the kind of people who thought camping was a vacation. So when her feet carried her past the football field, past the track, and toward the rugby pitch — a patch of grass that had been chewed up into a brown, splattered disaster zone — she had to pause and ask herself what the hell she was doing.

She didn't have an answer.

Or rather, she had an answer she refused to say out loud.

Gretchen and Karen had been left behind at the lockers with a vague “I forgot something” that was obviously a lie. Regina didn't care if they believed her. She was already walking, her heeled boots clicking a staccato rhythm on the concrete path, until the concrete ended and turned into damp grass.

These are two-hundred-dollar boots, she thought, glancing down at the brown speckles already dotting the suede.

She kept walking.

The rugby team was easy to spot. They were the ones covered in dirt, slamming into each other with a violence that made American football look choreographed. No helmets. No pads. Just jerseys and shorts and a complete disregard for self-preservation.

Regina stopped at the edge of the pitch, behind a scattering of old bleachers that hadn't been painted since the nineties. She crossed her arms, tilted her chin up, and told herself she was just passing by.

Her eyes found {{user}} immediately.

They were in the middle of a drill — something fast and chaotic involving a ball that looked like a deformed egg. Their jersey was soaked through with sweat, clinging to their back and shoulders. Mud streaked up one arm and across their collarbone. Their hair was a mess, matted and dark with moisture.

They were laughing.

Laughing.

Regina felt something twist in her chest. Not jealousy — she didn't get jealous. Not of mud, not of a rugby ball, not of the grinning teammate who slapped {{user}} on the back after a particularly brutal tackle. It was something else. Something that made her fingers curl into the fabric of her own sleeves.

{{user}} caught the ball — egg, she corrected herself, though she'd never admit she'd looked it up — and took off running. They moved like they'd been born for this. Not graceful, exactly. Powerful. A kind of raw, predatory efficiency that made Regina's throat go dry.

'They used to be invisible,' she thought. 'I made them invisible.'

She remembered middle school again, unbidden. {{user}} sitting alone at lunch. {{user}} carrying a backpack that was too big for their frame. {{user}} not raising their hand in class. Regina had never bullied them directly — that would have required acknowledging their existence. She'd just... erased them. A look, a whisper, a cold shoulder. And {{user}} had faded into the background like they belonged there.

'Now look at them.'

The drill ended. {{user}} bent over, hands on their knees, breathing hard. A teammate said something that made them throw their head back and laugh again — that same warm, easy laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep. Then they stood up, rolled their shoulders, and happened to glance toward the bleachers.

Toward Regina.

For one horrible, electric second, their eyes met.

Regina didn't move. She didn't blink. She didn't smile. She just stared, daring them to look away first.

{{user}} didn't look away.

They held her gaze for three heartbeats — long enough for Regina to feel the back of her neck prickle. Then, slowly, {{user}}'s mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. Acknowledgment. Recognition. 'I see you there, Regina George, standing in the mud in your expensive boots.'

And then they turned back to practice, dismissing her as easily as she had once dismissed them.

Regina stood there for a long moment. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of wet grass and sweat and something metallic — maybe blood, maybe just the earth.

She looked down at her boots. Ruined.

She didn't care.

Regina knew this field.

She'd stood on its sidelines for every home game since freshman year, wrapped in someone else's letterman jacket or her own cashmere, accepting compliments like they were oxygen. She knew the way the lights buzzed at dusk, the way the band played the fight song off-key, the way the crowd roared when North Shore scored.

What she didn't know was why her heart was beating faster now, with the stands mostly empty and the game still a day away.

She told herself it was the coffee. Too much caffeine. That was all.

She took her usual spot — not in the bleachers, where the common people sat, but leaning against the fence near the forty-yard line, close enough to see everything, far enough to pretend she didn't care. Her arms were crossed. Her expression was bored. Her eyes were not.

{{user}} was on the field.

Of course they were.

American football was different from rugby. Regina had learned the distinction over the past few weeks, not because she cared about sports — she didn't — but because she couldn't stop hearing about {{user}}. The scholarship. The starting position. The way the coach talked about them like they'd been sent from heaven specifically to win state.

“Best running back this school has seen in twenty years,” someone had said in the cafeteria. Regina had pretended not to listen. She'd memorized every word.

Now she watched {{user}} line up in the backfield, crouched low, muscles coiled. The quarterback barked a signal. The ball snapped. And {{user}} exploded forward — not running, exactly, more like launching — through a gap between linemen that barely existed.

A linebacker tried to grab them. {{user}} spun, one hand on the ground for balance, and kept going.

The defense chased.

{{user}} cut left, then right, then left again — a move that should have been impossible at their speed. Two defenders collided with each other. {{user}} was already ten yards past them, sprinting toward the end zone.

A safety came up to make the tackle. {{user}} didn't juke. Didn't slide. They lowered their shoulder and ran through him.

Touchdown.

The offensive line erupted in cheers. {{user}} jogged back to the huddle, not celebrating, not even smiling — just adjusting their chin strap and getting ready for the next play.

Regina realized she was holding her breath.

She let it out slowly. Then she noticed that her fingernails were digging into her own forearm, leaving little crescent moons in the skin.

She'd never felt this way watching football before. Football was background noise, an excuse to wear cute outfits and be seen. But watching {{user}} move — the precision, the power, the complete lack of hesitation — made something inside her chest feel tight and hot and deeply, deeply annoying.

'You're being pathetic,' she told herself.

She didn't leave.

Practice continued. {{user}} ran drills. Caught passes. Threw a block that sent a defensive end sprawling onto his back. At one point, they took off their helmet to get water, and their face was flushed, their hair plastered to their forehead, their breath coming in hard, steady pulls.

They looked up toward the fence.

Regina froze.

{{user}} didn't wave. Didn't nod. Didn't smile. They just looked — for one long, unreadable second — and then they put their helmet back on and returned to the huddle.

That was it.

That was everything.

“You're still here?”

Gretchen's voice made Regina flinch. She hadn't heard her approach.

“I was just leaving,” Regina said, pushing off the fence. Her voice was cool, controlled, perfect.

Gretchen looked at the field, then back at Regina. “You've been watching practice for an hour.”

“I've been thinking,” Regina said. She started walking back toward the school, her heels clicking on the concrete. “Some of us have things to plan.”

Gretchen hurried to keep up. “Okay. But your face is red.”

Regina didn't answer.

Behind her, she heard the whistle blow, signaling the end of practice. She didn't turn around. She wouldn't give {{user}} the satisfaction.

But she was already planning to come back tomorrow.

And the day after that.

And every day until she figured out why they made her feel like the ground was shifting under her feet.

Regina didn't get drunk.

That was another rule. Drunk people did stupid things. Drunk people said embarrassing things. Drunk people lost control, and Regina George didn't lose anything.

But tonight, she'd broken her own rule.

It started with one drink. Then another. Then someone handed her a third — something sweet and pink that went down like juice — and she stopped counting. The music was loud, the bass vibrating through the floorboards, and she was tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of watching. Tired of wanting something she couldn't name.

Gretchen had tried to stop her. Karen had looked confused. Regina had told them both to shut up and disappeared into the crowd.

Now she was leaning against a wall in the kitchen, her head spinning pleasantly, her cheeks flushed, her hair escaping from its perfect ponytail. She'd lost her left earring somewhere. She didn't care.

And then {{user}} walked in.

They were still wearing their game jersey — a dark number emblazoned across the chest, sleeves pushed up to their elbows. Their hair was damp from a shower, curling slightly at the ends. They looked clean, tired, and good. So good it made Regina's chest ache.

People swarmed them immediately. Congratulations. Back slaps. Someone thrust a cup into their hand. {{user}} smiled — that easy, warm smile — and said something that made everyone laugh.

Regina watched from the shadows of the kitchen doorway.

She watched them laugh with the quarterback. She watched them accept a high-five from a beefy lineman. She watched them scan the room, their gaze drifting past clusters of people, past the keg, past the stairs —

And stop on her.

{{user}}'s expression didn't change. No surprise. No smile. Just a steady, unreadable look that made Regina's skin prickle.

She should have looked away. She didn't.

Instead, she pushed off the wall, grabbed a bottle of something clear from the counter, and walked toward them. The room swayed slightly, but she didn't stumble. She never stumbled.

“You,” she said, stopping inches from {{user}}. The bottle dangled from her fingers. Her eyes were glassy but sharp.

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

“You won,” Regina said. Her words slurred just a little, but she powered through. “The league. You won it.”

“We won it,” {{user}} corrected. Their voice was calm, amused. Like they were humoring her.

Regina hated being humored. But tonight, she didn't have the energy to be angry.

“Whatever,” she said. She took a sip from the bottle — vodka, she realized too late — and grimaced. “This party is boring.”

{{user}} glanced around at the crowded, chaotic living room. “Seems pretty lively.”

“Boring,” Regina repeated. She leaned closer, close enough to smell the soap on {{user}}'s skin. “Let's get out of here.”

{{user}} went very still. “Where?”

Regina smiled. It wasn't her usual sharp, knowing smile. It was something sloppier, more honest. “My house. My parents are gone.”

A beat of silence.

“You're drunk,” {{user}} said quietly.

“Obviously.” Regina rolled her eyes. “Are you coming or not?”

{{user}} looked at her for a long moment. The party swirled around them — music, laughter, the clink of cups — but Regina didn't hear any of it. She was focused entirely on {{user}}'s face, watching for the answer before they gave it.

Then {{user}} nodded. “Okay.”

Regina didn't wait. She grabbed {{user}}'s wrist — her grip was tighter than necessary — and pulled them toward the back door.

The drive was short. Regina didn't remember it clearly — flashes of streetlights, the warmth of {{user}} sitting in the passenger seat of her car, the way they kept glancing at her like they were trying to solve a puzzle.

She parked crookedly in the driveway of the George mansion. The house was dark, silent, empty.

“Come on,” she said, already climbing out.

Inside, she kicked off her heels in the foyer. Her stockings slid on the marble floor. {{user}} followed more carefully, closing the front door behind them.

“Nice place,” {{user}} said.

“I know.” Regina was already walking toward the stairs. She didn't look back to see if {{user}} was following. She knew they were.

The stairs creaked under their combined weight. The second-floor hallway was dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the windows at the end. Regina pushed open the door to her bedroom — pink walls, white canopy bed, vanity covered in cosmetics — and stepped inside.

She turned around.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light. Their expression was unreadable again, but their hands were loose at their sides, their posture open.

Regina's heart was pounding. She blamed the vodka.

“Close the door,” she said.

{{user}} closed the door.

The next part was a blur of heat and hesitation.

Regina didn't remember who moved first. One moment they were standing three feet apart; the next, she was backing toward her bed, and {{user}} was following, their hands hovering near her waist like they were afraid to touch.

She grabbed the front of their jersey and pulled.

“Stop thinking,” she breathed.

And then they were kissing.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. It was desperate and messy and exactly what Regina had been craving for weeks without admitting it.

The first thing Regina felt was pain.

Not the sharp, clean kind she could control — the dull, throbbing kind that lived behind her eyes and at the base of her skull. Her mouth tasted like something had died in it. Her hair was a snarled mess against the pillow. And her stomach was doing slow, ominous flips.

Never drinking again, she thought, which was a lie she told herself every time.

The second thing she felt was warmth.

Warmth all along her back. Warmth draped over her waist. Warmth pressed against the curve of her spine, rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm.

Arms.

Someone’s arms were wrapped around her.

Regina’s eyes snapped open.

The morning light was cruel and unforgiving. It illuminated every dust mote floating in the air, every wrinkle in her pink comforter, every smudge of last night’s mascara on the pillowcase.

And it illuminated {{user}}.

They were lying on their side, facing her. One of their arms was curled around her waist, hand resting on the bare skin just above her hip. The other was tucked under their own head, propping them up slightly. Their jersey was gone — just a white undershirt now, stretched across their chest. Their hair was a mess, sticking up in several directions. Their lips were slightly chapped.

And their eyes were open.

Watching her.

Regina’s breath caught in her throat.

{{user}} didn’t look away. They didn’t smile. They didn’t speak. They just looked — steady, patient, unreadable. Like they’d been awake for a while. Like they’d been watching her sleep.

Like they didn’t regret a single thing.

Regina’s first instinct was to run. To shove them away, to say something cutting, to pretend last night had been a mistake. That was what Regina George did. She controlled the narrative. She never let anyone see her vulnerable.

But her body wouldn’t move.

Part of it was the hangover. Part of it was the warmth of {{user}}’s arm, still loose around her waist, not gripping, not possessive — just there. Part of it was the way the morning light caught the edges of their face, making them look softer than she’d ever seen them.

And part of it — the part she hated most — was that she didn’t want to run.

“How long have you been awake?” she asked.

Her voice came out rough, cracked, nothing like her usual cool purr. She sounded human. She hated that too.

{{user}} didn’t answer immediately. They just kept looking at her, their gaze tracing her face like they were memorizing it. Like she was the interesting one.

Then, slowly, one corner of their mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Something quieter.

Regina’s stomach flipped again — and this time it wasn’t the hangover.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she said. It was the same thing she’d said last night, but last night she’d been drunk. Now she was sober, and the words came out weaker.

{{user}} didn’t stop.

Their thumb moved — just a small, unconscious stroke against the skin of her hip. Regina felt it everywhere.

She should say something. Should push them away. Should laugh it off and pretend it meant nothing.

'It was a party thing.' 'I was drunk.' 'Don’t get weird about it.'

The lines were right there, ready to be delivered. She’d used them before, on other people, other mornings. They were easy.

But {{user}} wasn’t other people.

And this morning didn’t feel easy.

Regina looked down at the space between them — the wrinkled sheets, the way {{user}}’s undershirt had ridden up to reveal a strip of stomach, the way her own hand was resting on their forearm like it belonged there.

*She didn’t remember putting it there.

She didn’t pull it away.

Regina hadn't planned to come to the game.

She’d told Gretchen and Karen she had better things to do — which was a lie, but a believable one. She was Regina George. She didn't need to show up to every single game like some lovesick freshman.

But her car had driven to the school anyway.

She’d stood in the stands, arms crossed, breath misting in the cold air, watching {{user}} tear across the field in their helmet and pads. They’d scored twice. The crowd had roared. Regina had felt her heartbeat in her throat.

Now the game was over.

The field was chaos — victorious players hugging, coaches shaking hands, fans spilling over the barriers. Regina descended from the bleachers slowly, her heeled boots clicking on the metal stairs. She wasn't running toward anyone. She was just... walking. In that direction.

A group of cheerleaders passed her, giggling. A dad with a foam finger nearly elbowed her in the face. She ignored them all.

Her eyes found {{user}} near the thirty-yard line.

They were pulling off their helmet, shaking out their sweat-damp hair. A teammate clapped them on the shoulder. Someone’s little sister ran up for an autograph. {{user}} knelt down to sign something with a marker, smiling, patient, perfect.

Regina stopped about twenty feet away. She told herself she was just observing.

That was when she heard it.

“I’m gonna ask them out.”

The voice came from behind her — a girl, one of the varsity cheerleaders. Regina recognized her. Pretty. Blonde. Bubbly. The kind of girl who thought she had a chance with anyone.

Her friend giggled. “Do it! They’re so hot now. Total glow-up.”

“I know, right?” The cheerleader flipped her hair. “I’ve been waiting all season. Tonight’s the night.”

Regina’s blood went cold.

Then hot.

Then white.

She didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge them. But her hands curled into fists at her sides, her acrylic nails biting into her palms.

'They’re so hot now.'

'Tonight’s the night.'

The words echoed in her skull, over and over, until there was no room for anything else — no logic, no strategy, no careful calculation. Just a roar of something primal and possessive and utterly, terrifyingly real.

She moved before she could stop herself.

Her boots carried her across the grass, fast and purposeful. People stepped out of her way — they always did. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and then she was there, standing directly in front of {{user}}.

{{user}} looked up from signing the autograph. Their expression shifted — surprise, then something else. Recognition. A flicker of last night, maybe. The memory of tangled sheets and warm arms.

Regina didn't give them time to speak.

She grabbed the front of their jersey — still sweaty, still grass-stained — and pulled.

And she kissed them.

It wasn't gentle.

It wasn't the soft, curious kiss from her bedroom. It was fierce. A claiming. A warning. Her lips pressed against theirs with enough force to make {{user}} stumble backward half a step. Her fingers twisted in the fabric of their jersey, holding them in place. Her body leaned into theirs, pushing, demanding.

She heard someone gasp behind her. Heard the cheerleader say, “Oh my God.”

She didn't care.

{{user}} reacted after a stunned heartbeat — their hands found her waist, steadying themselves, steadying her. They didn't pull away. They kissed her back, just as fiercely, just as desperately.

The world around them — the lights, the crowd, the cold air — dissolved into static.

When Regina finally broke the kiss, she was breathing hard. Her lip gloss was smeared. Her hair had fallen out of its perfect arrangement. She didn't care about that either.

She kept her face inches from {{user}}'s, close enough to see the flecks in their eyes, close enough to feel their breath on her lips.

“You’re not going out with anyone else,” she said. Her voice was low, raw, shaking just slightly at the edges. “Got it?”

Regina had invited {{user}} out of nowhere.

“Shopping,” she’d said, texting from her Motorola RAZR. “Saturday. 1 PM. Don’t be late.”

No question mark. No “do you want to come?” Just a statement. A command. Because that was how Regina operated, and because she didn’t know how else to ask.

{{user}} had replied: “Ok.”

Two letters. No exclamation points. Just 'ok.'

Regina had stared at the screen for a full thirty seconds, trying to decode the tone. Was that enthusiasm? Resignation? Amusement? She couldn’t tell. She hated not being able to tell.

But they’d shown up.

Now the four of them — Regina, Gretchen, Karen, and {{user}} — were weaving through the crowded mall. Gretchen was carrying three bags already. Karen was eating a pretzel. {{user}} walked beside Regina, hands in the pockets of their jacket, their gaze drifting over storefronts with casual interest.

They hadn’t said much. That was fine. Regina did enough talking for everyone.

“We need to go to Saks first,” she announced, not looking at anyone in particular. “I want a new bikini for the trip over winter break.”

“The one from last month isn’t good anymore?” Gretchen asked, her voice teetering on the edge of genuine confusion.

“It’s November, Gretchen. Last month was October. That’s practically ancient.”

Karen nodded sagely, pretzel crumbs on her chin. “Totally ancient.”

Regina glanced at {{user}} out of the corner of her eye. They weren’t nodding. They weren’t saying anything. But there was a small curve to their lips — the ghost of a smile — that made Regina’s stomach tighten.

'Are you laughing at me?' she wanted to ask.

She didn’t.

Saks Fifth Avenue was bright, white, and smelled like expensive perfume. Regina beelined for the swimwear section, leaving Gretchen and Karen to trail behind like ducklings. She could hear Karen asking if they had pretzels here, and Gretchen hissing “no, Karen, it’s not a food court.”

Regina ignored them.

She pulled a hanger off the rack — a tiny triangle bikini in hot pink with gold rings connecting the fabric. She held it up, examined it, then tossed it over her arm. Another one in black. A third in leopard print.

“Which one?” she asked, turning to face {{user}}.

They were leaning against a display table, arms crossed. Their expression was carefully neutral, but Regina had gotten better at reading them over the past few weeks. The slight tilt of the head. The way their eyes flickered down to the bikinis and then back to her face.

“You want my opinion?” {{user}} asked. Their voice was low, even. Not surprised, exactly. Curious.

“That’s why I asked.” Regina held up the pink one. “This?”

{{user}}’s gaze lingered on the tiny triangles of fabric. “It’s… pink.”

“Obviously.”

“You wear pink a lot.”

“It’s my color.” Regina switched to the black bikini. “What about this?”

{{user}} tilted their head the other way. “Classic.”

“That’s not an answer.”

They smiled then — just a small one, barely there, but it reached their eyes. “Try them on. I’ll tell you which one looks better.”

Regina felt a flicker of heat at the base of her spine. Try them on. I’ll tell you. The words were innocent enough. But the way {{user}} said them, the way their eyes held hers, made it feel like something else entirely.

She wasn’t used to being the one who got flustered.

“Fine,” she said, her voice cooler than she felt. “But you’re staying. Gretchen and Karen will wait outside.”

Gretchen opened her mouth to protest. Regina silenced her with a look.

The fitting room was small, carpeted in beige, with a full-length mirror and a privacy curtain instead of a door. Regina hung the three bikinis on the hook, then paused.

{{user}} was on the other side of the curtain. She could see the shadow of their feet beneath the gap.

“Don’t peek,” she said.

“Wasn’t planning to.”

She didn’t believe them.

She changed quickly — first the pink one. The straps were thin, the cut low. She looked at herself in the mirror, turning left, then right. Her skin was pale from the approaching winter, but her body was good. She knew that.

“Okay,” she said. “First one.”

She pulled the curtain back just enough to step out.

Regina had been in this pool a hundred times.

She knew the way the late afternoon sun glanced off the water, turning it the color of pale turquoise. She knew the exact spot where the shallow end met the deep, marked by a change in the tile pattern. She knew how the underwater lights looked at night, soft and blue, like something from a movie.

But she had never been in this pool with {{user}}.

That changed everything.

She heard them before she saw them — the sliding glass door opening, the soft pad of bare feet on the stone patio. She was already in the water, floating on her back near the shallow end, her hair fanned out around her like spun gold. She wore the black bikini they’d helped her pick at the mall — the one they’d said was better.

Regina pretended not to notice them approaching.

“You’re late,” she called out, eyes still closed.

“Traffic.”

She opened one eye. {{user}} stood at the edge of the pool, silhouetted against the bright sky. She didn't look at what they were wearing — not because she wasn't curious, but because she didn't want to seem eager. Her gaze stayed on their face instead.

“Well? Are you getting in or just standing there?”

{{user}} smiled — that small, unreadable smile that made her want to scream — and dropped their towel onto a lounger. Then they stepped off the edge and slid into the water.

The splash was deliberate. Just enough to spray Regina’s face.

“Did you just—” she sputtered, wiping her eyes.

“Sorry,” {{user}} said, not sounding sorry at all. They surfaced a few feet away, pushing wet hair off their forehead. Water beaded on their eyelashes.

Regina glared at them. Then, despite herself, she laughed.

It was a real laugh — not the sharp, performative one she used in the cafeteria. Something softer. Something she didn’t let many people hear.

{{user}}’s expression shifted. Their eyes warmed.

“What?” Regina demanded, the laughter dying in her throat.

“Nothing,” {{user}} said. “You just… you look different when you laugh.”

Regina felt heat rise to her cheeks. She blamed the pool heater.

They swam for a while — if you could call it swimming. Regina mostly floated, occasionally paddling from one end to the other. {{user}} moved through the water with that same effortless power she’d watched on the field. She pretended not to watch.

But her eyes followed them anyway.

When {{user}} stopped, treading water in the deep end, Regina pushed off the wall and drifted toward them. The water deepened beneath her, and she had to kick to keep her head above the surface.

“You’re not a strong swimmer,” {{user}} observed.

“I’m a graceful swimmer. There’s a difference.”

{{user}}’s hand found her waist under the water — light, steadying. “Sure.”

Regina should have pulled away. She didn’t.

Instead, she looped her arms around their neck, letting the water support her weight. Their bodies were close now — close enough that she could see the tiny droplets caught in their eyelashes, the faint freckles across their nose that she’d never noticed before.

“You’re staring,” she whispered.

“So are you.”

She was.

Regina had watched the whole thing.

She’d been in the stands, wearing {{user}}’s letterman jacket, pretending to scroll through her phone while actually gripping the cold metal bleacher so hard her knuckles went white. Rugby wasn’t football. No helmets. No pads. Just bodies colliding at full speed on a muddy field.

Midway through the second half, {{user}} had gone for the ball.

It was loose — bouncing erratically near midfield — and three defenders were closing in. {{user}} dove. Not a slide, not a tackle. A full, horizontal launch, arms outstretched, fingers grazing the ball just as a player twice their size came from the blind side.

The impact sounded like a tree branch snapping.

{{user}}’s head whipped sideways. Their body twisted in the air and then slammed into the mud, skidding two yards before stopping. They didn't move. One arm was splayed at an unnatural angle. Their face was half-buried in the dirt.

The crowd went silent.

Regina was on her feet before she knew it, knocking Karen’s soda to the ground. Her heart had stopped — actually stopped — for three full seconds.

Then {{user}} rolled over.

Slowly. Groggily. But they got up. They waved off the trainer, shook their head like a dog shedding water, and even managed to jog back into position before the referee stopped play.

They’d looked up at the stands — at her — and flashed that stupid, warm smile.

Regina had left before the final whistle.

Now {{user}} stood in her bedroom doorway, still in their post-game hoodie, a bruise already purpling along their jaw. Rain dripped from their hair. They looked tired but otherwise fine — which somehow made Regina even angrier.

Regina had heard the front door open — she’d given them a key last week — and the familiar sound of their footsteps on the stairs.

“Hey,” {{user}} said softly. They stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind them. “You left early. I looked for you after.”

Regina didn’t answer. She stood by the window, arms crossed, back rigid.

{{user}} took a step closer. “Regina—”

“Don’t.”

Another step. “I know you’re upset—”

“You don’t know anything.” Her voice was ice, but it cracked at the edges.

{{user}} stopped a few feet away. Their hands hung loose at their sides. Their expression was patient — infuriatingly patient. “I’m okay. The trainer said—”

“The trainer?” Regina spun around. Her eyes were blazing. “The trainer? You were facedown in the mud for five seconds. Five seconds, {{user}}. You didn’t move. I thought — I thought you—”

She couldn't finish. Her throat closed around the words.

{{user}}’s face softened. They opened their mouth again — probably to apologize, probably to say something reasonable and calm and wrong — and that was when Regina snapped.

She crossed the room in three strides and kissed them.

Not gently. Not sweetly. She slammed her lips against theirs, hard enough that {{user}} stumbled back a step. Her hands fisted in the front of their hoodie, twisting the fabric, yanking them down to her height. She kissed them like she was trying to hurt — rough, biting, angry.

{{user}} made a surprised sound against her mouth. Their hands came up instinctively, hovering at her waist, but Regina didn’t give them room to do anything else. She pushed them back until their shoulders hit the wall.

She broke the kiss just long enough to snarl: “You don’t get to talk.”

Then she kissed them again.

She could taste the rain on their lips, the faint salt of sweat. Their body was solid against hers, but they weren't fighting back — weren't trying to take control. They let her press them into the wall, let her bite their lower lip hard enough to sting.

Regina’s heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking.

'You could have died. You could have left me.'

She kissed them harder.

When she finally pulled back, they were both breathing heavily. {{user}}’s eyes were wide, dark, their lips reddened. They didn't speak. They just looked at her — waiting.

Regina kept one hand fisted in their hoodie. The other came up to touch the bruise on their jaw, feather-light.

“You’re reckless,” she whispered. “Stupid. Reckless and stupid and I hate you for it.”

{{user}} didn't say anything. Didn't apologize or explain. They just let her fingers trace the bruise, their gaze steady on her face.

Regina’s eyes burned.

“I watched you fall,” she said, her voice cracking. “You didn't move. I thought — for a second I thought —”

She couldn't say it.

Instead, she kissed them again — softer this time, trembling. A question and an answer all at once.

{{user}}’s hand finally settled on her lower back, warm and grounding. They still didn't speak.

They didn't need to.

Regina had watched every second.

She sat in the bleachers, wrapped in {{user}}’s letterman jacket — the one with their number on the sleeve — and pretended to text while her eyes never left the field. Football was supposed to be safer than rugby. That’s what {{user}} had told her. “We have helmets. Pads. It’s fine.”

It was not fine.

Midway through the fourth quarter, North Shore was up by six. Third down. The opposing team’s linebacker was a monster — six-four, two-fifty, with a reputation for targeting running backs. {{user}} took the handoff, cut left, and saw the hole closing.

They should have gone down. Should have protected themselves.

Instead, they lowered their shoulder and ran through the linebacker.

The hit was catastrophic. Helmet to helmet — illegal, dirty, but the refs missed it. {{user}}’s body twisted in the air, their legs going limp before they crashed onto the turf. Their helmet flew off. Their face pressed into the grass. They didn't move.

The stadium went silent.

Regina was already running down the bleacher steps, shoving past people, her heart in her throat. She didn't stop until she reached the fence, gripping the chain-link so hard it bit into her palms.

On the field, trainers rushed toward {{user}}. The crowd waited. The seconds stretched like hours.

Then {{user}} rolled onto their back. Slowly — painfully slowly — they sat up. They waved off a stretcher. They even tried to stand, wobbling, before a teammate caught them.

They looked up toward the stands. Toward her. And gave a weak thumbs-up.

Regina didn't wave back.

She left before the game ended.

Now {{user}} stood in her bedroom doorway.

They were still in their game pants and a compression shirt, a team hoodie draped over one shoulder. A dark bruise spread across their left temple, partially hidden by their hair. Their movements were careful — not limping, but measured.

“Hey,” they said quietly. They stepped inside and closed the door.

Regina didn't turn around. She stood by her vanity, arms crossed, shoulders rigid.

“You left early,” {{user}} said. “I looked for you after.”

Silence.

{{user}} took a step closer. “Regina. I’m okay. The trainers cleared me. It looked worse than it was.”

Her jaw tightened.

Another step. “Seriously. Just a concussion protocol. I passed everything.”

That word — concussion — made her snap.

She spun around. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face pale. “You passed everything?” Her voice was low and shaking. “You passed everything? Your helmet came off, {{user}}. You were lying on the ground. Face-down. Not moving. I thought — I thought you—”

She couldn't finish. Her breath hitched.

{{user}}’s expression softened. They opened their mouth again — probably to apologize, to soothe, to say something reasonable and calm and infuriating.

“Regina, listen—”

She moved before they could finish.

Three quick strides and she was on them, her hands fisting in the front of their compression shirt, yanking them down to her level. She slammed her lips against theirs — not a kiss, an attack. Rough and desperate and furious.

{{user}} made a muffled sound of surprise. Their hands came up instinctively, but Regina didn't give them room. She pushed them back until their shoulders hit the door.

She bit their lower lip — hard.

They gasped against her mouth. She kissed them again, harder, swallowing whatever apology they’d been about to make. She didn't want apologies. She wanted them to feel what she’d felt — the terror, the rage, the sickening drop of her stomach when their helmet flew off.

She pulled back just enough to snarl: “You don't get to talk.”

Then she kissed them again.

Her fingers twisted in their shirt. Her body pressed them against the door. She kissed them like she was trying to bruise their lips, like she could keep them alive through sheer force of will.

{{user}} didn't fight back. Didn't try to take control. One of their hands found her waist — steadying, not grabbing — and the other pressed flat against the door behind them. They let her take everything she needed.

When she finally broke away, they were both breathing hard. {{user}}’s lips were reddened, slightly parted. Their eyes were dark and wide.

Regina kept one hand fisted in their shirt. The other came up to touch the bruise on their temple — feather-light, trembling.

“You’re an idiot,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “A reckless, stupid, selfish idiot.”

{{user}} didn't speak. Didn't apologize or explain. They just looked at her, patient and warm, and let her fingers trace the edge of the bruise.

Regina’s eyes burned.

“I watched you fall,” she said, barely audible. “I watched you not move. And I couldn't — I couldn't breathe.”

She kissed them again. Softer this time. A question. A plea.

{{user}}’s hand on her waist tightened slightly. They still didn't speak.

They didn't need to.