Cuck your gym bro?

The blast of cold air conditioning hit you the moment you pushed through the glass doors of Iron Temple Fitness—a massive, sprawling gym that stretched across what looked like an entire city block. Racks of gleaming dumbbells lined one wall, reaching up to the absurdly heavy weights near the top. Cable machines hummed with activity. The sound of weights clanging, people grunting, and upbeat music pumping through overhead speakers filled the cavernous space. It was bigger than any gym you'd ever stepped foot in.

You clutched the towel in your bag a little tighter and made your way toward the front desk, feeling like a fish out of water. This place was intimidating. The people here looked like they lived here.

That's when you saw them.

A couple stood near the check-in counter, and they were impossible to miss. The man was a towering wall of muscle—easily six-foot-nine, with broad shoulders that looked like they could carry a car. His arms were thick and vascular, his physique the kind you'd see on a competitive bodybuilder. He wore a fitted black tank top that stretched across his massive chest, and even standing still, he radiated quiet, confident strength.

But it was the woman beside him who caught your breath.

She was petite by comparison, maybe five-foot-five, with long jet-black hair that fell straight and glossy past her shoulders. Her bangs cut neatly across her forehead, framing a face with warm amber-brown eyes and a faint, playful smirk that suggested she was always up to something. She wore a fitted athletic tank top that clung to her toned frame, and you couldn't help but notice her full figure—slim waist, curvy hips, and a chest that pressed against the fabric in a way that was hard to ignore. A thin sheen of sweat glistened along her collarbones and shoulders, catching the gym lights. She looked like she'd just finished a workout herself.

She was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made your brain short-circuit for a half-second.

"New here?" The man's voice was deep and warm, pulling your attention back. He stepped forward with a genuine smile, extending a massive hand. "I'm Brady. Welcome to Iron Temple."

You shook his hand, and yours practically disappeared inside his grip—but he was gentle. Careful. Like a man completely aware of his own size and always conscious not to overwhelm.

"And I'm Lucy," the woman added, stepping up beside him. Her voice was bright, energetic, with a warmth that immediately put you at ease. She gave you a little wave, her eyes scanning you with open curiosity—and something else. Something quick. A flicker behind her amber gaze that vanished almost as fast as it appeared. "You picked a good gym. Best one in the city, if you ask me. And I'm not biased at all." She grinned.

"I'm a little biased," Brady admitted with a low chuckle.

"I work here," Lucy explained, gesturing to herself with a proud little flourish. "Group classes, personal training—the whole deal. And this big guy practically lives here, so between the two of us, we basically run the place."

Brady shrugged humbly. "I just lift things."

"He crushes things," Lucy corrected, patting his arm—which was roughly the size of her thigh. "But he's a total teddy bear, I promise. Don't let the size scare you."

It was clear they were a couple—the easy way they stood close, the familiarity in their banter. Brady slipped his arm around her waist casually, and Lucy leaned into it without looking, like muscle memory.

"So what brings you in today?" Brady asked. "Looking to get into a routine, or just exploring options?"

"A little of both," you admitted.

"Then let us show you around," Lucy said immediately, already moving. She had this infectious, high-energy quality—like she couldn't stand still for more than thirty seconds. "Come on, I'll walk you through the good stuff."

And she did.

The next several minutes were a whirlwind tour. Lucy led the way while Brady walked beside you, occasionally chiming in with details about equipment or tips for beginners. She showed you the free weight area—a sprawling section with dozens of squat racks and benches. She pointed out the cardio zone upstairs, a mezzanine level lined with treadmills, rowers, and bikes overlooking the main floor. There was a stretching area, a turf section for sled pushes, and a separate room for group classes with floor-to-ceiling mirrors.

"This is where I teach," Lucy said, pressing her palm against the glass of the studio door. "Spin, HIIT, strength conditioning—you name it. You should come to one. I promise I'm fun. Mostly." She winked.

Throughout the tour, you noticed something. Every now and then—when Brady wasn't looking—Lucy's eyes would drift to you. Not in an obvious way. More like a magnet she was trying to resist. She'd glance at your arms, your shoulders, the way you moved. Then she'd snap her gaze forward again and keep talking, her voice never losing its upbeat rhythm.

She was hiding it well. But not perfectly.

Brady's phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and exhaled through his nose. "Hey, sorry—one of my clients just got here early. I gotta go set up." He looked at you apologetically. "Lucy, you mind finishing up? Show them the locker rooms?"

"Already on it, babe," Lucy said, giving his chest a little pat.

Brady nodded to you. "Good meeting you. Seriously—great to have you here. You're in good hands." He gave Lucy a look full of genuine warmth, then turned and headed off toward the training floor, his massive frame cutting through the crowd effortlessly.

And then it was just you and Lucy.

The energy shifted. Subtle. Like the temperature rose a single degree.

Lucy turned to face you fully, and for the first time, her playful expression held something a little more intentional. Her amber eyes met yours without glancing away.

"Alright," she said softly, a slow smile curling at the corner of her lips, "Let me show you the locker rooms."

She gestured down the hall, and as you walked beside her, she let the silence sit for a moment—unusual for someone who hadn't stopped talking since you arrived.

"Brady's great, right?" she said casually, eyes forward. "Like, genuinely the best guy I know."

There was something in her voice. Admiration, sure. But also something else—something buried underneath, restless and unsaid.

"But you know," she continued, glancing sideways at you, her smirk returning, "sometimes it's nice to meet someone new."

She held your gaze a beat longer than necessary, then pushed open the door to the women's locker room—paused—and corrected herself with a little laugh, redirecting toward the men's entrance.

"This way. Sorry—force of habit."

But her blush said otherwise.

The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows on the east side of Iron Temple, casting long golden rectangles across the rubber flooring. It was one of those rare quiet hours—mid-afteron, the post-lunch lull where most of the regulars had gone back to work and the evening crowd hadn't arrived yet. The main floor still had a handful of people grinding through workouts, but the back corner, tucked behind the stretching area and half-hidden by a row of foam rollers and yoga mats, was completely deserted.

Which is exactly where Lucy had led you.

"Okay, new kid," she said, setting down her water bottle and tossing a small towel over her shoulder. "You told me your back's been tight. So we're fixing that. Right now. No excuses."

It had been a few weeks since your first day at Iron Temple, and Lucy had somehow become your unofficial guide to everything gym-related. She always found you. Always checked in. Always had that bright, energetic smile ready the moment she spotted you walking through the doors.

Today she looked especially striking, though honestly, that was every day with Lucy. She wore a fitted black sports bra that hugged her chest snugly, the fabric stretching slightly across her full bust—she was generous in a way that her small frame made even more noticeable. Her toned stomach was completely exposed, smooth fair skin with just the faintest definition along her obliques, the kind of subtle athletic tone that came from consistent hard work rather than extreme dieting. Her belly button was a small, neat indent above the waistband of her high-waisted charcoal leggings, which clung to every curve of her hips and legs like they'd been painted on. The leggings accentuated the soft roundness of her thighs and the gentle flare of her glutes—firm, shaped, but still undeniably feminine. She had the body of someone who worked incredibly hard but hadn't quite achieved the size she clearly wanted in her arms and shoulders, which were toned but slim. Still, there was a density to her, a compact power in the way she moved that belied her petite frame.

Her long jet-black hair was pulled into a high ponytail today, the glossy tail swaying between her shoulder blades as she moved. A few loose strands had escaped around her temples, framing her face in soft wisps. Her bangs were pinned back with a small clip, exposing her forehead and drawing full attention to her amber-brown eyes, which were warm and playful and always seemed to be laughing at something only she understood. Her skin was fair with a natural warm undertone, and a light flush colored her cheeks from the warm-up she'd done earlier. Her lips were soft, full, naturally pink, and currently curved into that familiar knowing smirk.

She looked like trouble. The good kind.

"Lie down," she instructed, patting the mat in front of her. "Face down. Arms at your sides."

You obeyed, settling onto the mat. The gym was so quiet you could hear the distant hum of the air conditioning and the occasional clang of iron from the main floor.

Lucy knelt beside you, one knee brushing against your hip. You felt the warmth of her proximity before anything else.

"Okay, so first thing—" she placed both hands on your lower back, pressing down with firm, steady pressure, "—you've got tension right here. I can feel it. You're all knotted up."

Her hands were small but surprisingly strong. She worked her palms in slow circles along your spine, leaning into it, and you became acutely aware that her body was shifting closer. Her knee pressed more firmly against your side. The edge of her thigh rested against your arm. She was warm, and she smelled like vanilla and something subtly floral beneath the clean scent of effort.

"Does that hurt?" she asked, her voice dropping just slightly, closer to your ear than you expected.

"No," you managed.

"Good." You could hear the smile in her voice. "Now I'm gonna have you extend your arms over your head, okay? Just reach out like you're trying to grab something far away."

You stretched your arms forward, and Lucy immediately swung one leg over you, settling her weight lightly across your mid-back. Her thighs pressed against either side of your torso, warm and soft through the thin leggings. You felt the subtle heaviness of her body—she was lighter than you expected, but she was undeniably there, settled against you with casual intimacy.

"Now I'm gonna press down on your shoulders," she said, her hands sliding up to the tops of your shoulders and applying slow, downward pressure. "Just breathe into it. Let me do the work."

She leaned forward, and you felt her weight shift. Her chest pressed against the space between your shoulder blades—soft, full, unmistakable. She didn't pull away. If anything, she settled in deeper, her breath warm against the back of your neck.

"See?" she murmured. "You're already loosening up."

One of her hands slid down your arm, fingers trailing along your bicep—lingering there for just a moment longer than strictly necessary, squeezing lightly, almost testing.

"God, you're tense everywhere," she whispered, almost to herself. "We've got work to do."

She shifted again, leaning down so that her torso pressed flush against your back from shoulders to hips. Her ponytail fell forward, brushing against the side of your face, and her lips were close—so close—to your ear.

"Tell me if anything's too much," she breathed.

Her hands found your shoulders again, thumbs digging into the knots along your trapezius. She worked slowly, methodically, but every movement pressed her body harder against yours. You could feel the rise and fall of her breathing against your back. The soft give of her chest. The heat of her skin even through two layers of fabric.

"Don't tell Brady I'm this hands-on with new clients," she said with a quiet laugh, her voice low and conspiratorial. "He thinks I just teach classes and yell motivational quotes."

She sat up slightly, and you felt cool air rush into the space where her warmth had been—but only for a second. She swung around to face you, kneeling at your head, and gently slid her hands underneath your shoulders.

"Okay, flip over," she said softly. "I need to get your chest open too. You're carrying everything forward. Classic new lifter posture."

You rolled onto your back, and now she was directly above you, knees on either side of your head, looking down. From this angle, the sports bra did very little to conceal the fullness of her chest, and she knew it. Her amber eyes held yours, and that slow smirk crept back across her lips.

"Don't look so nervous," she teased. "I'm a professional."

She reached down, took both your wrists, and gently pulled your arms up and over your head, stretching your chest open. The motion brought her forward, her torso lowering, and for a breathless moment her chest hovered above your face—close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

"There," she whispered, her eyes glittering. "Now just hold that. And breathe."

She didn't move. She stayed right there, weight balanced on her knees, looking down at you with an expression that was half-coach, half-something-else-entirely.

"You're doing great, by the way," she said softly, and her voice had dropped into a register that had nothing to do with stretching. "Really great."

The pizza place was warm and cluttered with charm—candles flickering in old Chianti bottles, checkered tablecloths, the smell of garlic and fresh dough thick enough to taste. It was one of those spots that felt like a secret even though it was on a main street, tucked between a dry cleaner and a laundromat.

You settled into a deep corner booth, the leather seat cool against your back. Before you could even spread your napkin, Monica Benoit slid in right beside you—close, immediate, unapologetic. Her thigh pressed flush against yours, warm and soft through the denim.

She was stunning. Blonde hair falling in loose waves past her shoulders, brown eyes framed by a deliberate sweep of pink eyeliner that caught the candlelight every time she blinked. Her cream top was low-cut enough to draw the eye involuntarily, the full curve of her chest impossible to ignore. She wore a thin silver bracelet on her wrist that jingled when she moved, and she moved a lot—animated, expressive, her hands constantly in motion as she talked.

"You look really good," she said immediately, then laughed at herself. "Sorry—is that too forward? Lucy told me you wouldn't mind direct."

Lucy and Brady were already sliding into the opposite side of the booth. Brady first, his massive frame practically overflowing the seat, one arm draping across the back behind Lucy. He wore a dark button-down that looked like it had been custom-ordered and was still losing the fight against his chest and biceps. Despite his size, he moved with a quiet gentleness—careful not to bump the table, adjusting his posture so Lucy had room.

Lucy settled in across from you.

She looked incredible. Her black V-neck dipped low enough to show the top swell of her chest and the gold necklace resting against her collarbones, catching the light with every subtle shift. Her dark hair was straightened to a glossy shine, bangs perfectly cut across her forehead. She'd done her makeup differently—smokier, sharper, her lashes long and dark, her lips painted a muted rose. She looked like she'd tried, which was unusual for someone who normally radiated effortless confidence in a sweat-drenched tank top.

She was smiling. But the smile was wrong. Too tight. Too deliberate. Like she'd practiced it in the car on the way over.

"So!" Lucy clapped her hands together with her signature energy. "This is exciting, right? Double date! I love this for everyone."

Brady nodded warmly, raising a beer glass the waiter had already set down. "To new friends."

"To new friends!" Monica echoed, bumping her shoulder against yours with a giggle.

You drank. The beer was cold and good.

Brady launched into a story about a deadlift PR from earlier that week, one huge hand gesturing while the other rested casually on Lucy's shoulder. He was animated, genuinely thrilled about lifting—a man who loved what he did and wanted to share it.

"The bar was literally bending," he said, eyes wide. "Like I could feel it flex under my hands. Insane. Right, Luce?"

"Yeah," Lucy said softly, her gaze fixed on you across the table. "Insane."

She hadn't looked at Brady once since sitting down.

The whole thing had been their idea. Lucy brought it up at the gym two days ago, practically bouncing on her toes by the water fountain. "Okay so Monica has the biggest crush on you—don't ask me how I know, I just do—and she's perfect, you're perfect, it's a no-brainer! Just say yes to the double date, please?" Brady had backed her up with that quiet, kind sincerity, towering beside her with his arms crossed. "Mon's great. She's been a good friend for years. You two would hit it off. Trust us."

So you trusted them.

Now Monica was leaning into you, her fingers finding your forearm and tracing lazy patterns against your skin while she told you about a book she'd finished the night before—some romance novel she was passionate about, her voice breathy and bright, her eyes wide whenever the plot got good.

"And then he shows up at her door in the rain," Monica said, squeezing your arm for emphasis. "Like, soaking wet, just standing there, and she doesn't say anything for a whole page and I literally screamed—"

"She did scream," Lucy confirmed from across the table. "I was on the phone with her. My ear still hurts."

Monica laughed, burying her face briefly against your shoulder. "It was an emotional moment!"

She was everything Lucy had promised. Sweet, genuine, gorgeous. The kind of girl who'd remember your coffee order and text you good morning. The kind of girl you were supposed to fall for tonight.

Under the table, something pressed against your ankle.

Light. Barely there. The unmistakable pressure of a foot—smooth, deliberate, slow.

You flinched. Just barely. A small shift in your posture that no one above the table would notice.

But Lucy noticed.

Her amber eyes caught the flinch instantly, and behind that tight, practiced smile, something cracked. A flicker of real satisfaction. The corner of her mouth curled, just barely, and her foot slid higher—brushing along your shin with the kind of slow, controlled movement that left no room for ambiguity.

Then she looked away. Casually. Smoothly. Like nothing had happened at all.

"Mon," Lucy said brightly, leaning forward with her chin on her hand, "tell them about your book. She won't shut up about it and honestly—it sounds spicy."

"Lucy!" Monica's cheeks flushed pink. "It's not—it's literary—"

"It's literary smut," Lucy corrected with a wicked grin. "Own it, babe. No shame."

Monica laughed, hiding her face in her hands, then turned to you with conspiratorial eyes. "They're always like this. Isn't it adorable?"

You nodded. Smiled. Tried to be present—tried to focus on Monica's warmth against your side, the softness of her body, the genuine earnestness in her brown eyes.

But under the table, Lucy's foot hadn't stopped.

The bass hit you the moment you stepped through the door—a thick, chest-vibrating pulse that lived somewhere between your ribs and your heartbeat. The club was Lucy's favorite spot, a sleek, dark-walled space with neon accents and a packed dance floor that glistened under rotating lights. She'd been talking about it for weeks.

"We're going. Non-negotiable. One year at the gym deserves a proper celebration."

Brady had agreed immediately, of course. Monica had squealed.

Now you were standing near the entrance while Lucy led the way through the crowd like she owned the place. She wore a fitted black dress that hugged every curve—short enough to show her toned legs, the neckline dipping low enough to draw eyes and keep them. Her hair was down, straight and glossy, catching the strobing lights in flashes of blue and pink. She looked dangerous. Intentional.

Monica walked beside you in a red mini dress that clung to her generous figure, blonde waves bouncing, pink eyeliner replaced by something smokier—darker, bolder. She'd grabbed your hand the second you got out of the car and hadn't let go.

"Okay," Brady announced, steering toward the bar with zero intention of following them to the dance floor. "I'll be right there."

He spotted another massive guy leaning against the bar—arms crossed, built like a truck—and pointed. "Is that Devon? From Ironside Fitness? Bro!"

And just like that, Brady was gone, already fist-bumping his way into a conversation about protein timing and split routines, two goliaths bonding over gains while the rest of the world danced.

Lucy turned, saw Brady settled in, and grinned.

"Perfect. He's occupied." She grabbed your other hand—the one Monica wasn't holding—and pulled. "Come on. Floor. Now."

Monica followed eagerly, and the three of you pushed through the crowd until Lucy found a spot that suited her—a pocket of space near the speakers where the music was loudest and the lights were lowest.

Then Lucy turned to face you.

She didn't hesitate. No preamble. No asking. She stepped close, her hands finding your hips, and pulled you against her. The bass thrummed through both of you as she started to move—slow at first, rolling her hips with a fluid, practiced rhythm that matched the beat. Her eyes locked on yours, amber-dark in the club lights, half-lidded and unblinking.

Her body pressed flush against yours. She smelled like something warm and expensive—vanilla and black amber, mixed with the faintest trace of the gym that never quite left her skin. Her hands slid from your hips to your shoulders, then up to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as she rolled against you again—deeper this time, her ass grinding back against you with deliberate, shameless pressure.

The crowd moved around you like water. Nobody cared. Nobody watched. But even if they did, Lucy wouldn't have stopped.

Monica appeared behind you. You felt her before you saw her—warm hands settling on your shoulders from behind, her body pressing against your back. She was taller than Lucy, her chest soft against your shoulder blades, her hips nudging gently against you in time with the music. She leaned in, her lips near your ear, breath warm.

"You having fun?" she asked, voice barely audible over the bass.

You didn't get to answer because Lucy chose that exact moment to roll her hips harder, her back arching, her ass pressing against you with a slow grind that made your breath catch. Her hands tightened in your hair, and she tilted her head, watching your face with open, hungry satisfaction.

Monica moved with you from behind, her body swaying, one hand sliding down your arm while the other gripped your shoulder. She wasn't competing with Lucy—there was no jealousy in her touch, no tension. She was simply there, warm and willing, her body conforming to yours like she'd been waiting for this.

The three of you moved together—Lucy grinding against your front, Monica pressed against your back, the music wrapping around you like a second skin. Lucy's dress rode up slightly with each movement, her thighs warm against yours. She leaned forward, her lips brushing your jaw without quite kissing, her breath hot against your skin.

Monica's hands found your waist from behind, fingers squeezing gently, her hips keeping slow, steady rhythm against you. She rested her chin on your shoulder, watching Lucy grind against you with a soft, adoring expression—like she was watching something beautiful. Something she wanted to be part of.

Lucy caught Monica's eye over your shoulder and smirked. A look passed between them—quick, electric—before Lucy turned her attention back to you, pressing closer, her hands gripping your hips harder, pulling you into her rhythm.

The sandwich was complete. Warm on both sides. Bass in your chest. Two bodies moving with yours in the dark.

And somewhere at the bar, Brady was laughing about deadlifts.

The apartment was quiet in a way that felt intentional—like the silence itself was holding its breath. Brady's voice had echoed through the living room earlier that evening, booming and cheerful on the phone with his buddies.

"Boys' night. Bachelor party. I'll be back late—don't wait up."

Lucy had kissed his cheek at the door. Watched him go. Locked it behind him.

Then she texted you.

"Come over. Now."

No explanation. No emoji. Just those two words and an address you already knew by heart.

You drove in silence, hands tight on the wheel, heart doing something stupid in your chest. The streets were dark and wet from an earlier rain, streetlights smearing across your windshield. By the time you parked and climbed the stairs to their apartment—third floor, end of the hall—your pulse was loud enough to hear.

The door was unlocked.

You pushed it open. The apartment was dim—just the warm glow of a single bedside lamp bleeding through the hallway from the bedroom. The living room was empty. Brady's massive sneakers were gone from the entryway. His gym bag wasn't by the door. The whole place felt hollow without him, like a stage with the main character removed.

But someone else was in the apartment. You could feel it—some primal sense that told you the space wasn't as empty as it looked. A presence. Watching. Hidden.

You didn't know where yet.

You walked down the hall. Past the bathroom. Past the spare room. The bedroom door was open, just barely, a sliver of golden light spilling across the hardwood floor.

You pushed it wider.

Lucy was on the bed.

She'd dimmed the overhead light and switched to the bedside lamp, casting everything in warm amber tones that made her skin look like it was glowing. She was propped against the headboard on her elbows, one knee bent, the other leg stretched long and smooth across the dark sheets. Her black hair fanned out behind her, straight and glossy, falling off the edge of the bed like ink.

She wore a lingerie set that left nothing to the imagination and everything to the imagination at the same time—black lace, delicate straps, sheer panels that revealed more than they concealed. The bra pushed her chest up, the full curve of her breasts spilling slightly against the lace, her nipples visible as dark shadows beneath the thin fabric. The matching bottoms sat high on her hips, the lace tracing the line where her waist met her thighs. A thin garter strap ran down to hold-up stockings that hugged her toned legs like a second skin.

She looked like a painting. Or a trap. Or both.

Her amber eyes found you in the doorway and her lips parted—a slow, deliberate exhale. She didn't move. Didn't rush. Just looked at you with that half-lidded gaze, the one she used at the gym when she was pretending not to stare. Except now she wasn't pretending.

"There you are," she said softly.

Her voice was different. Lower. Stripped of that bright, bubbly energy she wore like armor. This was the real Lucy—the one underneath the laughs and the high-fives and the "hey babe!" to Brady. The one who waited until he was gone.

She sat up slowly, swinging her legs off the side of the bed. Her feet touched the floor, and she stood—just barely, just enough to let the lamplight trace every curve, every line of lace against skin. Her stomach was flat, her waist narrow, her hips flaring soft and full beneath the sheer fabric. The garter straps pulled slightly against her thighs as she shifted her weight.

"Come here," she whispered.

You stepped into the room.

You didn't notice the closet.

It was on the far wall—floor-to-ceiling, mirrored sliding doors, one panel pushed just slightly past the other. A gap. Maybe three . Not enough to see from the doorway. More than enough for someone pressed against the back wall to see the bed.

And Monica Benoit was pressed against that back wall.

She was wedged between Lucy's hanging dresses and a row of Brady's oversized hoodies, her knees drawn up, one hand pressed flat against her mouth. Her blonde waves were pulled into a messy bun to keep them from catching on hangers. She wore a loose off-shoulder sweater and leggings—casual, comfortable, like she'd come over expecting a movie night and instead been told to hide.

Through the gap she could see everything. The bed. Lucy standing. The doorway where you'd just appeared.

Her heart was slamming against her ribs so hard she was vibrating.

Lucy had told her three days ago. Casual. Matter-of-fact. Over smoothies at the gym.

"I'm going to him on Friday. Brady's got that bachelor party. You want to watch?"

Monica had choked on her mango kale blend.

Lucy hadn't flinched. "You like him. I know you like him. I'm not mad—I'm not even jealous. I think it's hot. And I want you to see what I'm going to do to him."

Monica had said yes before her brain caught up with her mouth.

Now she was three feet from the bed, hidden behind mirrored glass, watching Lucy's silhouette in the lamplight—watching you cross the room toward her.

"Come here," Lucy whispered.

Monica bit down on her bottom lip. Hard. Tasted copper.

Through the gap, she watched you close the distance. Watched Lucy reach for you. Watched the lamp light catch the lace, the garter straps, the slow rise and fall of Lucy's chest as she exhaled.

The closet was warm. Stifling. Smelled like Lucy's perfume—vanilla and black amber—embedded in every dress and hoodie surrounding her. Monica's legs were cramping. Her hand was trembling against her mouth.

She didn't move. Didn't make a sound.

From three feet away, the bed creaked under weight. The rustle of lace against skin. Lucy's quiet, shuddering breath—the one she only ever made when she'd stopped performing.

Monica closed her eyes.

Then opened them again.

She couldn't look away.

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