She Called It "Cute"

You've been making out on the couch in your apartment for forty minutes. The Barry White playlist is going. The lights are dim. You're about to go all the way.

Charlotte pulls away, her dark eyes looking up at you, breathless and sparkling.

"I'm ready," she whispers, her voice husky and confident.

You stand up in front of the couch. Charlotte slips gracefully to her knees on the rug. Her hands, usually so confident and perfectly manicured, reach out and deftly pull your zipper down.

The fabric falls away. You brace yourself for the experienced, worldly touch of the campus myth.

Instead, everything stops.

Charlotte doesn't move. She just stares straight ahead, completely motionless. For a full three seconds, the only sound in the apartment is the muffled bass of the R&B playlist from the speaker in the corner.

Slowly, a violent, feverish blush rushes up Charlotte's neck, staining her pale, flawless cheeks completely crimson.

"Huh," Charlotte breathes out, her voice suddenly entirely devoid of its sultry huskiness. She sounds like a confused tourist looking at a map. "Cute."

She rocks back on her heels. Her hands pull sharply away from you, dropping to her own lap like she accidentally touched a hot stove.

"I—um," Charlotte stammers, her wide eyes darting wildly to the coffee table, to the ceiling, to the far wall—anywhere but back to where they were just looking. She swallows hard, gripping her own thighs. "I don't think I can do this... tonight. I mean! It's not you. You're great."

She takes a shaky, ragged breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

"It's just..." she squeaks, clearly malfunctioning, her confident party-girl persona entirely disintegrating into raw, babbling panic in real time. "It's... just very cute. So... adorable. But I'm just... obviously very tired. From modeling. Totally burnt out. Sorry. Um. Could you... put your pants back on?"

Last night was a disaster.

After a month of heavy flirting, Charlotte—the lingerie model, the campus fantasy—was finally on her knees in your apartment. She pulled down your zipper. And then she froze, called you "cute," made a babbling excuse about being burnt out from modeling, and basically sprinted out your front door.

You are currently standing in line at the campus coffee shop. You grab your drink and step around the corner of the patio to find a table.

You freeze.

Sitting at a wrought-iron table just on the other side of a tall decorative hedge is Charlotte. She is wearing an oversized college hoodie, her long raven hair pulled up in a messy clip. She looks exhausted and intensely miserable.

Sitting across from her are Harper and Chloe, her heavily made-up, hyper-loyal sorority friends. Harper is sipping an iced coffee in a pink crop top. Chloe is leaning across the table in a tight white sleeveless shirt.

"I just... I panicked," Charlotte groans, burying her face in her hands. Her pale neck flushes a deep red. "I made a stupid excuse and literally ran out of {{poss}} apartment. I ruined everything."

"Char, what happened?" Harper asks, her blue eyes wide with concern. "Did {{sub}} do something weird? Does {{sub}} not know how to kiss?"

"No! No, {{sub}} was amazing," Charlotte whispers miserably, peeking through her fingers. "It's just... when I got the pants off, I looked down, and my brain just stopped working. I said it was...cute."

Chloe blinks, lowering her iced coffee.

"Cute?" Chloe repeats slowly.

"Yeah," Charlotte sighs miserably, wrapping her arms around her own chest, staring blankly at the table as she remembers the sheer, intimidating scale of what she saw last night. She shivers slightly. "Like... a fine specimen, you know? Just nice. I just couldn't handle it. I got completely overwhelmed."

Harper and Chloe exchange a very long, very loaded look.

"Oh, sweetie," Harper says softly, reaching across the table to pat Charlotte's hand. Harper's mouth is twitching. "You don't have to pretend. We get it. If you build it up in your head, and then the pants come off and it's... adorable... no one expects you to follow through with that."

"Exactly," Chloe nods solemnly, though her hazel eyes are practically dancing with suppressed laughter. "You're a literal underwear model, Char. Did {{sub}} cry when you left?"

"What? No. Why would {{sub}}...?" Charlotte frowns, looking genuinely confused by her friends' tone. She checks her phone and sighs. "God, I have to go to my shoot. Please don't say anything to anyone. I don't want {{obj}} embarrassed just because I chickened out."

Charlotte stands up, slings her bag over her shoulder, and walks off toward the street, completely oblivious.

The second Charlotte is around the corner, Harper and Chloe burst into ruthless, hysterical laughter.

"Oh my god," Harper gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth, nearly spilling her iced coffee. "I knew it! The quiet ones are always packing absolutely nothing! 'Plump?!' All that drama for a tic-tac!"

"She is so nice for trying to spin it," Chloe cackles, pulling her phone out of her pocket with a frantic, malicious grin. "I am putting this in the group chat right now. The campus legend almost banged a micro-machine. This is incredible."

You are standing roughly three feet away, holding a hot coffee, having heard every single word.

It has been three days since Charlotte knelt on your rug, said the word "cute," and literally ran out of your apartment.

It has been forty-eight hours since her friends misinterpreted her panic and leaked the rumor to the campus group chats.

The main campus courtyard is packed between afternoon classes. A group of guys from the intramural soccer team are lounging near the central fountain. As soon as you appear on the walkway, the whispering starts. It isn't quiet.

"Look out, it's the fun-sized meal," one of the guys laughs loudly, elbowing his friend. A few people nearby snicker. "Heard you're dealing with some severe supply-chain shortages."

A few yards away, Charlotte is standing with Harper and Chloe. She looks exhausted, hugging her textbooks to her chest. Hearing the soccer player's joke, her brow furrows in genuine, innocent confusion. She steps forward defensively.

"Hey! Stop it!" Charlotte snaps at the laughing guys. She turns to Harper and Chloe, looking completely baffled. "Why is everyone being so mean to {{obj}}? People have been making weird jokes all morning."

Chloe rolls her eyes, sipping her iced coffee. "Char, relax. Everyone knows. You don't have to protect {{poss}} pride anymore."

"Knows what?!" Charlotte demands, her voice rising in frustration.

"That {{sub}}'s packing a tic-tac," Harper laughs, leaning against the brick wall. "You literally told us it was 'adorable.' It’s hilarious. We just put it in the group chat."

Charlotte freezes.

The blood drains completely from her flawless, model-tier face. The realization hits her like a freight train. She didn't just run away; her terrified, fumbling vocabulary just completely ruined the reputation of the person she loves. She opens her mouth, her pale hands shaking, but no sound comes out.

"Are you out of your mind?"

The voice cuts through the courtyard like a whip.

Morgan pushes her way through the crowd of laughing soccer players. Your ex is wearing a dark green track jacket, her gym bag slung over one shoulder. She looks at Charlotte, then at Harper and Chloe, with an expression of pure, unadulterated disbelief.

"I dated {{obj}} for a year," Morgan says, slamming her heavy metal hydro-flask down onto the edge of the fountain with a loud, echoing clang. She points directly at you. "I don't know what kind of mutant logging equipment you're used to, Charlotte. But calling {{obj}} a 'tic-tac' means you either need your eyes checked, or you're full of shit."

Morgan crosses her arms, aiming a lethal, knowing smirk at the stunned model.

"My guess?" Morgan scoffs, loud enough for half the quad to hear. "You got scared of it and ran."

Dead silence falls over the fountain area.

Harper and Chloe's jaws drop open in shock. The soccer players go completely quiet, suddenly looking at you with a mix of awe and terror. And Charlotte looks like she might actually faint. She sways on her feet, a flush consuming her neck and face as her"Party Girl" reputation is publicly destroyed in front of dozens of people.

Morgan glances over at you, gives you a brief, respectful nod, and heads toward the gym.

Charlotte is left standing by the fountain, wide-eyed, hyperventilating, staring directly at you while her friends demand to know if Morgan is telling the truth.