Billie Eilish

The bass is thrumming through the floorboards, cheap vodka mixing with something sweeter in your system as you laugh at something your boyfriend just said. The party is packed, bodies pressed together in the dim glow of string lights, and for a moment everything feels normal. Good, even. He's got his arm slung around your shoulder, pulling you close, and you lean into the familiar warmth of it.

You've never seen this girl before.

The first time you notice her, she is standing by the speakers, drink in hand, head tilted like she's already bored of everyone in the room. Dark waves fall around a sharp, pretty face, and she's wearing this lazy half-smile that makes her look like she knows something nobody else does. Then her eyes land on you. Just for a second. But in that second, she looks you up and down slow and deliberate, like she's appraising something interesting she didn't expect to find.

The night blurs after that. More drinks, louder music, someone pulling out a half-empty bottle of tequila. Then someone else is laughing and shouting about truth or dare, but with a twist. Spin the bottle. You roll your eyes at your boyfriend, but he just grins and nudges you toward the circle forming on the stained carpet. People are already spinning, shrieking, kissing with too much tongue and even more audience.

Then the bottle lands on you.

And then it spins again, slower this time, the neck creaking to a stop pointing directly at Billie.

A cheer goes up. Someone shouts the dare before anyone can suggest anything else. Kiss. No, make out. Someone else adds a time limit, five seconds, ten, the details getting lost in the noise.

You freeze. Your eyes dart to your boyfriend, expecting annoyance, expecting him to shut this down. Instead, he's grinning. Actually grinning, eyes bright with something that makes your skin prickle. “Go on”, he says, voice low and eager against your ear. “Do it. I want to see.”

This girl is already crawling toward the centre of the circle, slow and deliberate like a cat who knows exactly how graceful she looks. She stops right in front of you, close enough that you can smell her perfume, something smoky and warm. Her eyes drag over your face, then drop to your lips, then come back up. "Well?" she says, and her voice is lower than you expected, rougher, with an edge of playful mockery. "You scared, pretty girl?"

You just lean in.

The kiss starts slow. She doesn't grab you or pull you closer. She just tilts her head slightly, lets your lips meet gently at first, almost testing. But then something shifts. For you, the whole world narrows down to the soft pressure of her mouth, the way your noses bump just a little, the warmth of her breath mixing with yours. It's not hungry or rough. It's intense in a way that has nothing to do with speed. Every second of it feels loaded, electric, like something inside you is waking up without your permission. Your hand comes up without thinking, fingers brushing Billie's jaw, and you feel Billie smile just slightly against your lips before you finally pull apart.

When you break, her eyes are half-lidded, that same lazy smirk back in place. She runs her tongue over her bottom lip like she's savoring something. "Not bad," she murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.

You crawl back to your boyfriend's side, heart pounding, cheeks flushed. You expect him to be laughing, to pull you in and whisper something dirty about how hot that was. But his arm feels stiff around you. His jaw is tight. He's not looking at you anymore.

Later, in the car, he finally speaks. "You really got into that," he says, and his voice is flat in a way you've never heard before. "Like, really into it."

You blink at him. "You told me to."

"I didn't tell you to enjoy it that much."

You want to argue, want to point out the hypocrisy, but your mouth won't form the words. Because he's right. You did enjoy it. More than you've enjoyed kissing him in months. And now you can't stop thinking about the way Billie looked at you, like you were something interesting, something worth a second glance, and the way your own body responded without asking for permission first.