soltwent - Tumblr blog

soltwent · 24 days ago

Text

DOPAMINE TEASE | ellie williams

In a sleepy Southern California town, Ellie chases waves at dawn while you open the ice cream shop, rubbing sunscreen into tired skin. The beach hums — salt air, sticky heat, laughter. Then, her eyes meet yours; ash green, sea-burned. A brush of fingers. What begins as a moment stretches into something slow, electric, and impossible to ignore — bleeding into sunburnt days and salt-sweet nights. A summer fling.

🥥 ONE SHOT & AU | 18+

surfer!ellie, working!fem!reader, modern!au, one-shot, language, eventual smut, they make out through an ice cream cone, fingering (r!receiving), tit play (e!receiving), oral sex (r!receiving), afab reader, drugs, ellie cannot hold a conversation, author doesn’t shut the fuck up, you and dina are close friends, this is really bad and messy .

21.2k word-count

────────────────────────

“Vanilla bean, cookie monster, mint chocolate,” you mumble to yourself, reciting the flavors like a chant as you haul tins heavy with fresh ice cream from the back freezer.

Your arms ache under the weight, muscles dragging like the slow mornings here. You slide them into the empty wells behind the glass, the ones licked clean by yesterday’s sunburnt crowd. A couple scoops go into the hot water basin to soak — makes it easier later, once your coworkers drag in, still half-asleep, with sandy ankles and sun streaked hair.

Living by the coast had its perks —like being ten minutes from the shore, barefoot and at ease— but also meant you had no excuse for being late. Which sucked, especially when you seriously did not feel like spending another hot ass day on your feet, scooping ice cream until the sky went pink and the seagulls got excruciatingly loud.

Lemon Peel Creamery wasn’t much of a “shop” anyway. It was basically a pastel-streaked stand—more blue and yellow than you’d like, but retro enough to catch the eye of tourists who’d stumble to it, sun-kissed, and confused. Someone once asked you what was in the cookies n’ cream. Like — what was in it. You’d blinked at them, scooper in hand, trying not to let the exhaustion or existential dread show.

“It’s… Oreo. Cookie,” you’d replied slowly, gesturing to the tub as if that would explain everything. “With a cream base.”

Your parents always said Carmellon Bay used to be a hot spot in the ’80s. Said they met playing beach volleyball on opposite teams — arguing one moment, kissing the next. Sharing early mornings and tangled legs in the sand. Now it’s a sleepy, sunwashed kind of place. The kind where gossip floats in on the sea foam and everyone’s known each other since forever.

Tourists come and go, but the locals are what keep it alive. Kids sprint toward the stand with beach buckets and wild eyes, fingers sticky with salt and sugar, chests burnt from the sun. They call it their “favorite place in the world,” and sometimes —if you squint hard enough— you almost believe it too.

You’re nineteen, pushing twenty. Skin also wrapped in a layer of sweat and salt. Opening shift is yours again. It’s always yours. Your aunt opened the place ages ago, and now you’re stuck holding it down for the summer, running on fumes and freezer burn, with barely a team to help. You said yes before thinking it through — before remembering this wasn’t your plan.

You were supposed to go north. To L.A. To cruise through Beverly Hills in a friend’s BMW, roof off, music too loud. Spend the summer sipping mocktails, biting into ripe fruit, messing around with a digital camera and pretending not to care how the pictures turned out.

“Some force wake me up from this sticky nightmare and toss me headfirst into Hollywood,” you mutter, pressing down on the thin waffle maker. The smell of sugar and batter already clings to your skin. You prep a few dozen cones, the chocolate dipped ones thick with rainbow sprinkles — always the first to go. “Please.”

Opening this place for the day was hell. And the dry heat didn’t help. At least the two big fans pointed directly at your face made it bearable. Sort of.

One upside to working at a family-owned creamery near the beach? No uniform. Which meant no clingy polo shirt, no ugly logos. Just jean shorts, an airy top, and tennis shoes. You always wore a bikini underneath, just in case things got too sticky or someone spilled something cold and catastrophic, you could run to the shore and sub urge yourself after shifts.

Oh, and flip flops were a no-go. You’d learned the hard way — one tub of ice cream dropped on your foot and your pinky toe still hadn’t forgiven you.

Your coworkers had winced when it happened. One gagged a little.

“It’ll work one of these days,” you say under your breath when your half-joking prayer, unsurprisingly, goes unanswered. Not that you expected a miracle. You’ve been here every day this summer — full time. Breaking your back, folding and sealing waffle cones like some tech-powered machine.

At last, the cones are done. Fifty. Not a ton, but enough. You’re not some corporate froyo chain; you’re Lemon Peel Creamery. Family-owned, underfunded, and lucky if more than three employees are on the schedule at once. Including you.

But even when your coworkers showed up late and sandy, the customers never seemed to mind. Something about the beach made people more forgiving.

“Kay,” you exhale. No one else has shown up yet. You’ve been working for an hour and a half, earbud in, sweat lining your hairline. You swipe your forearm across your forehead.

You really should hit the gym one of these days. You should also stop talking to yourself — but that feels like asking too much.

“That’s done, then…”

You peel off your gloves, streaked with batter and chocolate drizzle, toss them into the trash, rinse your hands in hot water and soap, then slip on a fresh pair. Sanitized and ready. Ice cream: stocked. Cones: check. Cups, spoons, sample spoons, napkins… check, check, check. You tick things off in your head, blinking slow as your brain tries to buffer.

You give yourself a thumbs up. A little mental pat on the back.

“I’m so good at this.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Dina swings in like she owns the place — hair up in a high ponytail, sweat shorts, cropped tee, and more shell bracelets than wrists. She’s glistening with beach sweat and smugness. You spin around on the heel of your shoe.

“Dina,” you beam, clapping your hands together with a sigh of relief. “I totally forgot you’re covering for Sloane today.”

You and Dina make a good team. She’s easy to talk to, sharp, funny. Always has some ridiculous story about sneaking into a beach bar after midnight and how some guy always bought her mocktails before she even asked.

“I’m flattered, I’m flattered,” she says, pressing a hand to her chest like a celebrity accepting an award. She tosses her tote bag onto the hook next to your crocheted one and heads straight to the sink. “Didn’t even know until this morning. Your aunt called me like, ‘Sloane’s got food poisoning, can you cover?’”

“Oh.” Your brows lift. “That sucks. I just figured she didn’t feel like coming in. Last time she was hungover and made that tourist guy cry.”

“Seriously?” Dina lets out a snort, drying her hands on a paper towel before slipping on gloves. “I’m getting FOMO. You get all the fun shifts.”

FOMO was one way to describe it.

“Don’t,” you warn her. “Seriously. It might sound funny, but in the moment? Torture. I nearly snapped last week. I was this close to jamming a cone into someone’s face and closing up early.”

She laughs. Loud. You grin.

You weren’t actually a jerk. Not really.

Expressive was the right word for it. Very expressive — and apparently fun to be around, if you asked Dina. Only Dina, really, considering you two were stuck to each other like kids on a field trip with matching name tags and shared snacks.

You liked Sloane well enough. She was cool when she wanted to be. But she spent half her shifts whispering to you in the back about how she refused to serve someone ice cream because she “looked awful today” or because she ��knew them from school.” Sloane was also a senior in high school, so it tracked.

High school sucked for everyone in its own way. You didn’t blame her. If you were seventeen and stuck scooping ice cream in a tiny beach town, seeing people from your school show up mid-shift would be mortifying — especially with your hair plastered to your neck and sweat lining your spine. Or worse: mid-rush, fumbling five cones at once for a sunburnt family with three screaming kids.

Yeah. No thanks.

“It’s like — oh my god, have you seen those Turkish ice cream stands? Where the guy messes with people before giving them the cone?” Dina was snickering as she reached for the switch and the front blinds started to hum open, letting a streak of harsh golden light pour in. The ice cream glowed behind the glass, like some sugary, holy offering to the scorching heat. She didn’t flip the “open” sign yet.

The place was old. Really old. But it had a vibe. Aesthetic, even. The pastels —blue and yellow— were either growing on you or slowly making you lose your mind. Jury’s still out.

“I’d murder to mess with people like that,” you muttered, eyes wide, voice pitched up in a customer service nightmare version of yourself. “Instead of being like this.” Dina gave you a matching look — deadpan, stunned.

“Pretty sure it’s kill, not murder,” she said, puffing out her cheeks like she couldn’t hold in a laugh. Her skin was flushed, golden — sun-kissed all over. You could just make out the faint tan lines beneath her oversized tee, cut off at the neckline to make it breezier. It was cute. You liked it.

You nodded solemnly. “Totally. But I prefer the term murder.”

“Please don’t let this job turn you into a serial killer. Carmellon Bay is, like, very peaceful,” Dina said, folding her arms and swatting at a bee that wandered in like it had business here. Probably drawn in by the sticky-sweet smell of jam drizzle near the toppings station. Typical.

“Carmellon Bay is too peaceful,” you correct her, rocking forward on your toes to slap the little wooden sign. It flipped with a satisfying spin — closed turned to open, just like that. Their shift had officially begun.

Dina cranked the fans to full blast. Thank God for those.

“You’re gonna give your aunt a heart attack one of these days,” Dina said, grinning crookedly.

You gave her a half-smile back. “She already knows what she signed up for.”

────────────────────────

Two vanilla cones with rainbow sprinkles. Two vanilla cones with rainbow sprinkles.

You repeat it in your head like a mantra, jabbing the scooper into the soft vanilla and rolling it into a decent ball. You balance the second cone in the same hand as the first, carefully repeating the motion, then hurry to sprinkle the rainbow flakes over both — sticky, uneven, already dripping under the weight of the sun.

“Here y’go. Two cones for you, kid,” you say quickly, offering a tight smile. No small talk. The line’s too long for that.

“Thank youuu,” the blonde preteen sings, slapping a wrinkled ten onto the counter. The edge is torn. She grabs both cones and scampers off barefoot toward the sand, yelling, “I got us ice cream!”

She doesn’t wait for change. You don’t argue. Tips are tips — and you need gas money.

You slip the bill into your pocket and glance over at Dina, who’s just dropped her scooper into the hot water tray. You’re flushed. You can feel it — sweat pooling at your lip line. You turn your head and wipe it off with your upper arm.

“Phew. You’re a mess,” Dina teases, elbowing you lightly. She focuses on her next order —a double scoop of butter pecan for an older woman— while flipping through bills and slipping the change into the register. You two always keep the tips. When a larger one comes through, you two split it.

“The UVs are melting me today,” you mutter, grabbing a warm scooper from the tray. Your gloved hands feel clammy. Gross. “Checked my phone this morning. It’s at a ten.”

Dina lets out a slow breath and plants herself in front of one of the fans on high. “Jeez. No wonder it feels like hell out here.”

“Spikes at noon,” you say. You already reapplied sunscreen to your face, knowing you’d be sticking your head halfway out the window eighty percent of the day, trying to decipher mumbled orders. Sun damage was not what you wanted to get out of this summer.

The two of you work through another brutal line of customers. One to five was always the worst. Especially Saturdays like this: heat high, patience low, everyone melting in line for a taste of cold.

Honestly, you get it. You’re one cone away from snapping yourself. The heat makes you want to toss your clothes, sprint toward the tide, and dive headfirst into a wave. Salt in your eyes, seaweed clinging to your ankles? Worth it.

Note to self: invest in some damn swim shoes to avoid the squishy feeling. Even if you’ll never be caught dead actually wearing them.

“All out of waffle cones for today, officially!” Dina calls out. A few kids slump dramatically, like they’ve just been told summer is canceled. Some mumble complaints, others look to their parents with betrayed little faces. The parents just pat them on the shoulder, murmuring something about “still a treat.”

You shake your head. “I wish my biggest problem was a waffle cone shortage.”

Dina stifles a laugh, scooping a swirl of strawberry and chocolate into a cup, stabbing a spoon into the strawberry side, and handing it to a dark-skinned girl who beams before running to rejoin her family.

“Waffle cones are overrated,” Dina shrugs. “I like those little waffle cups. The ones you stick into the regular cup to hold the ice cream. Way cuter.”

Your brows lift, sweat lacing the crease between them. You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Do not give my aunt ideas. You know damn well I’m the one making these at the crack of fuckin’ dawn, Dina.”

She pulls off her gloves and slips on a new pair, grinning. “Right, right. Just a suggestion. Could double our business, though. Just sayin’.”

You level her with a stare. “I hate you.”

“At least you’re honest,” Dina said, grabbing a fresh stack of napkins to restock the counter. You absentmindedly nibbled at the skin on your bottom lip as you got back to prepping more flavor combos for the next inevitable rush.

It took forever to get through the last line of customers. Between awkward small talk, a few too many picky parents, and at least one guy who tried to haggle (as if you owned the shop), the day dragged — but for a summer weekend, it was surprisingly tame. You’d take it.

Dina was now leaned back, scrolling through her phone, probably checking for texts from that guy she’d been gushing about all week. Jess? Jesse? Honestly, you’d stopped keeping track.

You reached up and slapped the sign to flip it to “closed”.

“Hey, hey—”

You flinched slightly, snapping your head up at the voice. Your hand froze midair, hovering just over the swinging sign. A few strands of hair clung to your sweaty skin, making you itch with irritation. You were so ready for a long, cold shower the second you got back home — no way you were laying down like this.

But first… whoever just interrupted your end-of-shift ritual better have a damn good reason.

She stood just outside the open window. Big, worn-out white tee clinging to damp skin. Long boardshorts stuck to bruised knees, sandy sandals faded from salt and sun. You raised a brow, squinting. Waiting.

“Yeah?” you asked slowly. Not mean — just tired. It was the heat talking. Her hair was short and wet, sticking to her sunburnt shoulders. Her freckles had darkened under the day, cheeks a flushed red, hair faded and crispy at the ends like it had been bleached a few too many times before deciding on this sun-drenched auburn color.

She glanced down at the half-empty tins inside the glass, then scratched the back of her head, fingers catching on a knot. “Sorry — I know you guys just closed…”

You blinked. Nodded slightly, waiting. You glanced at the digital clock inside the parlor, then back at her.

“Was wondering if I could grab something real quick? I didn’t have time earlier. The line was — crazy.”

Behind you, Dina glanced up from her phone and clocked the interaction. She rolled her shoulders and gave you a shrug that basically said: Whatever. We don’t get paid enough to argue.

You sighed. Not loud. Just to yourself. “Kay. What flavor?”

You dumped your gloves into the bin near your feet and grabbed a fresh pair. Wasteful, maybe, but whatever. She hesitated.

“Uhh… what do you guys have? I haven’t been here in a while.”

You glanced up from behind the glass, then looked back down at the tubs. Some were scraped clean already. Banana had disappeared before noon. Vanilla bean was always a hit. People stuck to the classics — safe bets.

You grabbed a scooper, cold in your palm.

“Depends,” you said, tapping the counter with it before pointing toward a bright yellow tin. “You want something creamy? Citrusy? Or…”

You nodded toward the mint chocolate chip. “Wanna risk falling in love with the flavor that’s probably getting kicked off the menu next summer?”

She smirked a little, squeezing water out of the ends of her hair and wiping her hand on her long shorts. Her eyes were rimmed red, probably from swimming, or exhaustion.

“Mint choc,” she said finally. “And… chocolate.” Her finger hovered, then landed. “In a cup. No cone.”

You gave a small nod, scooping quickly and efficiently. She kept talking.

“Y’all’re always packed. By the time I’m done at the beach and come by for a cone, the shop’s closed. It sucks. But — hey. I made it this time.”

From behind, Dina called out, “Barely did, Williams.”

Williams? You glanced at Dina, nose scrunching slightly. Of course she knew her. Dina somehow knew every person in this town, like she had a built-in memory bank for faces, names, and drama. You’d never understood how she had the social battery for it. But she made it look easy.

“Hey, Dee,” the girl —Williams, or whatever, apparently— said, cheeks flushing a deeper red, half from the sun and half from recognition. “Didn’t know you worked here…”

Dina strolled up and leaned against the counter while you reached for a napkin and tucked it under the cup. Spoon in, clean lines. That meant you were officially closed.

“Yeah,” Dina said. “Finally got a job. Boring, but not terrible. I mean, a beach parlor? Could be worse.”

“We get paid ten dollars an hour,” you deadpanned, handing Ellie the cup. She took it with both hands, mumbling a soft thank you and offering a half-smile that was crooked but kind of sweet.

“Which isn’t bad when you work ten hours a day,” Dina said, hands in the air.

“That’s a very funny way to cope,” you said, rolling your eyes in a way that didn’t lack affection. “You just said we have to work ten hours a day for a decent paycheck.”

Dina smirked. “Still better than nothing.”

She turned to Ellie, thumb pointing casually. “This is Ellie.”

Ellie nodded once, eyes on her cup. “Hi.”

She scooped a small bite of mint chocolate into her mouth and blinked like she wasn’t expecting it to be that good. Her tongue ran over her teeth, processing the cool, rich flavor, and the slight snap of frozen chocolate against her parched mouth.

“Ellie,” she repeated, quieter this time.

“Already told her your name like a second ago,” Dina teased.

“Forgot. My brain is… genuinely sun bleached from today.” Ellie laughed under her breath, then lifted the spoon slightly. “This is really good, by the way.”

“You two friends or something?” you ask, glancing over at Dina, who just purses her lips and squints like she’s trying to solve an equation. She brings her hand up and flips it side to side in a so-so motion.

Ellie mirrors the same noncommittal shrug, even though the question was technically aimed at her.

“We… talked for a bit,” Dina says, casual. “We hang sometimes. When we have time.”

“Which is never,” Ellie adds, quietly.

Dina snorts. “Yeah. Ellie’s always busy — surfing or reading those geeky little comics with a pink lemonade in her hand. I swear, every time I text her she’s either soaked or sticky.”

That earns a small huff of amusement from you. “Surfing? You surf?” you ask, tilting your head toward Ellie. Her ashy green eyes flick up to meet yours, mid-taste. She swallows down a mouthful of chocolate ice cream, licks a drip off her lip, and nods her chin toward the beach sign a few yards away. A battered surfboard leans against it, its paint half faded from the salt.

“Kinda,” she says.

“Kinda means yes,” Dina cuts in. “She’s pretty fucking good, too. Don’t listen to her fake humility.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, lips tugging into a sheepish smile. She doesn’t argue. She just shovels another bite of ice cream into her mouth, clearly more comfortable eating than bragging. The fans hum behind you both, blowing against your faces, thick with sweat and salt. The air inside is stifling, even now.

“Well, Dina’s not a liar,” you say with a small nod. Ellie lets out a soft, crackly laugh — low, nervous, like she didn’t expect that to land. She’s trying not to come off as cocky, you can tell. Trying to balance that surfer cool with something a little softer.

“I just practice a lot,” she finally says. “It’s not that surprising.”

She looks over at Dina, who’s half-scrolling through her phone, half-drumming her fingers on the countertop. Then back at you. She studies you — subtle, but not subtle enough. Her gaze traces the curve of your jaw, the quiet behind your eyes. She’d never seen you before. Last summer, it had been your aunt holding down the shop. You looked a bit like her… but newer. More reserved in some ways.

You meet her gaze. You feel it when she zones out — unintentional. Like she forgot she was looking. “Yeah,” you say suddenly, cutting through the moment, pulling off your gloves and tossing them into the trash. The sound brings her back, her eyes blinking, her attention snapping back to the melting swirl in her cup.

“My schedule’s way too packed to make time for a surfboard, pink lemonade, and picture books,” you add, not unkindly.

Ellie licks her spoon clean, like she’s trying to savor the last of the mint before it disappears. “You own this place?”

“No. My aunt does. I’m just here for the summer to help out.”

You keep it short. No need to go into how it used to be your grandma’s, how it’ll probably be your cousin’s someday, how it makes you feel weirdly homesick to think about all that. Everyone here seems to know each other. You only really got lucky with Dina.

Ellie tilts her head, like she’s piecing that together. That’s when you notice the tattoos on her arms — scattered like driftwood up her forearms, with sun freckles filling the spaces between. It suits her. All washed-out ink and August skin.

“Ice cream shop nepotism,” she teases.

Your eyes shoot up at her.

“Not — actually,” she stammers. “Sorry. That sounded funnier in my head.”

You exhale through your nose. The apology, oddly, was funnier than the joke. She clocks that, too.

“Imagine your strong suit being taming waves, but you can’t front a simple joke,” Dina says with a sigh, already heading toward the back exit. She throws her tote over her shoulder, dramatic as ever.

You follow behind them slowly, grabbing your own bag and locking the heavy door with the rusted key clipped to your house key. You glance back at the parlor — a boxy little thing with chipped paint, a single window, and a view that always caught the sun just right. Even with the line gone, it still felt full. It looked like a lemonade stand if someone had funded a couple thousand to make it larger.

────────────────────────

“Gold-fish,” Dina announces, dropping a card onto the towel between you two, her voice a little smug.

You blink slowly, staring at her, a little betrayed by the universe. Or maybe just by her luck. You glance down at your pitiful hand of mismatched numbers and patterns, then up at her again. Her dark hair’s down — wet, tangled around her shoulders like kelp. Her skin darker now, flushed beneath the sun.

“Okay, first off,” you mutter, flicking your cards down with dramatic flair, “it’s go-fish. Not goldfish, asshole.”

Dina snickers, shifting to sit on her heels, feet buried in sand. There’s a silver anklet glinting on her ankle, catching the sun like a little secret. “Wow. Very mature. Real graceful in defeat,” she says, reaching for the mango container between you.

She uses your fork — though it’s hard to even remember whose is whose anymore. You don’t care, not right now. It’s too hot to start caring about little things like that.

The mango’s soft and sweet and slightly warm from sitting out in the sun, plastic container half-fogged on the inside. You both eat slowly, lips sticky, fingers lazy. You lick the edge of your thumb without thinking.

The towel underneath you both is held down by whatever random crap you brought along — her flip-flops, your tote bag, a full bottle of sunscreen, a pair of cheap sunglasses neither of you had worn once.

She shuffles the cards back into a neat pile, but her movements are slow, loose, tired. The sun is unforgiving, a gold filter casting down across everything: sand, skin, the backs of your legs. Even the air feels sentimental. Everything’s buzzing a little; heat, annoying flies hovering around their snacks, laughter in the distance from kids sprinting back and forth to the tide with squeaky floats and foam balls.

Work had been the same as always: boring, hot, sticky. But today, your aunt was installing the new AC unit back at the shop, which meant the parlor was closed. A small miracle. No scooping. No sweat-slick gloves. No melting waffle cones slipping down kids’ wrists.

No paycheck either, but whatever.

You needed this. A day off. A few more hours of sleep than usual. You didn’t even get up till almost noon. That alone made today feel like a holiday.

“I don’t wanna play anymore,” you say suddenly, letting your body drop flat onto the towel, arms flopping out beside you like you’ve just given up on existing.

The cards rustle a little as you shift, some of them brushing against your thigh. You don’t move to fix them.

“You were never winning anyway,” Dina says, but it’s half-hearted. She gathers the cards and stuffs them into her beach bag. Then she stretches out beside you, mimicking your pose, her bare shoulder brushing yours as she lays back. Warm skin against warm skin. Sand shifting slightly underneath.

The sky’s so blue it almost looks fake. That perfect cartoon kind of blue. No clouds today. Just heat.

Dina lets out a slow breath. “I need to cool off.”

You roll your head to look at her. Her eyes are squinted, her lips a little parted. She looks kind of baked, in that sun-drunk way. “Drink some water, then.”

She groans. “No. I mean, like — cool off. Like ocean-cold, not plastic-bottle-warm.” Still, she reaches blindly for her water anyway and takes a long sip, her throat working, jaw flexing a little as she swallows. Then she grimaces. “Ugh. Gross.”

You close your eyes again, trying to ignore the way your own skin is starting to feel like it’s sticking to itself. You haven’t even been in the water yet. Dina’s gone in twice — once fully clothed because she said she “felt like a dramatic movie character,” and another time just to rinse the sweat off her neck. She came back both times soaked, laughing, her hair slapping wetly against her skin, sunglasses lost somewhere in the chaos. You’d giggled both times without meaning to.

You feel a bead of sweat roll down the side of your neck. You swipe it away lazily, fingers gritty with sand. “You’re gonna get salt rash or whatever it’s called if you keep going in and sitting out here without drying off.”

“Let me die how I wanna die,” she says, rolling her head toward you. “If I drown, you get the anklet.”

You hum. “I was hoping for the mangoes.”

Dina laughs, soft and real. The kind that hums through her ribs. The kind you feel.

There’s a lull after that. Just the sound of kids in the surf. Someone’s bluetooth speaker playing a song you half-recognize. The wind rustling the corner of your towel.

A sudden spray of water slaps across your legs, chest, and face. Your reflexes jerk you upright, scrambling onto your butt with a loud gasp, spitting salt and heat off your lips. For a second, you just sit there, blinking, stunned, tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth — trying to decide if you’re tasting mango or ocean.

It’s both. Somehow, it’s both.

You hold your arms out and flick them downward like you’re airing out a soaked jacket. “No. No, what the hell.”

So much for staying dry.

Dina lets out a sharp inhale beside you, just as caught off guard. She props herself up on one elbow, blinking like she’s still buffering. Her hair’s wetter than before. A few stray droplets drip down from her lashes. “Dude,” she mutters. Then she looks over at you and breaks into a grin. “My prayer was heard.”

You glare. “God plays favorites.”

You reach for your phone, tucked under your towel to avoid exactly this kind of disaster. Thankfully, it’s just damp — not drowned. The screen’s still playing music at that low, secret volume you’d set. You wipe it on the driest corner of the towel, pressing your thumb along the speakers and charging port. “And for some reason, only your prayers get through.”

Before Dina can answer, a voice chimes in hoarse and heavy, like whoever owns it just ran a marathon through the city.

“Sorry — seriously, I didn’t see you guys. My eyes are, like, burning. I was racing my friend down the beach and—”

The voice falters, stops altogether.

You and Dina both glance up.

Ellie. Wet-haired, dripping like a soaked towel. Her board half dropped into the sand beside her, sea water trailing off the edge of her soaked oversized t-shirt and darkening the waistband of those same long shorts. She’s hunched over slightly, catching her breath, eyes squinting like the sun’s too much.

The recognition hits at the same time for all of you.

“Seriously, Ellie?” Dina groans, flopping onto her back. “Again?”

Your eyes dart between them. “Again? This isn’t the first time she’s done that?!”

Ellie tries for a sheepish smile. It comes out crooked. “Hey. I swear I didn’t see you guys. You blended in with the sand… which isn’t a dig, by the way.” She clears her throat. “Also, even if it wasn’t you, I wouldn’t have just — y’know. Body slammed a wave into someone for fun.”

You’re only some what listening now. Your attention’s shifted to the mango container, which is officially a crime scene. You let out a quiet groan as you pick it up: sand coating the lid, a few golden cubes looking soggy and fucking doomed. Dina leans over to peek and winces in shared grief.

Yikes.

“Sorry for splashing you, by the way,” Ellie says, clearing her throat again like her voice’s still catching up to the moment. “Did I get anything else wet?”

Dina’s already shaking her head, but she doesn’t let the moment slide. “Nah, you’re fine. You don’t get enough girls for that to happen.”

It doesn’t register right away.

You’re still holding your mango, mourning.

But Ellie looks like she’s been physically nudged by the comment. Her jaw shifts, her mouth opening just slightly like she wants to say something back, but decides against it. She presses her lips together and exhales through her nose instead.

“Gross, Dee,” she mutters, scrunching her face at the jab. Dina just snickers and shrugs like it’s not the first time she’s crossed a line and enjoyed it.

You, finally tuning back in, shoot them both a flat look. “Are we not gonna talk about the fact that our snack is dead?”

Ellie lifts a hand, half-raising it in apology, like she’s guilty in a courtroom. “I owe you mango. A whole new tray.”

You sigh and set the container aside, flicking your wet fingers in defeat. “It’s fine. Just… maybe next time don’t surf directly into people.”

She rubs the back of her neck. “In my defense, I was winning the race.”

“Against who?” Dina asks.

Ellie blinks. “…Myself.“

That gets a quiet snort out of you.

Not enough to forgive her, but enough to stop being annoyed.

For someone who surfed like it was a second language, Ellie was surprisingly useless off the board. Clumsy, distracted, kind of always two steps behind. You’d seen her plenty from the window of the shop — cutting clean across a wave, eyes squinted in concentration, hair slicked back with salt like she belonged to the ocean itself. But then she’d walk up to the counter, soaking wet and blinking like a sleepwalker, and ask something like:

“Is the chocolate here… like… artificial?”

You’d just stared at her that day. Processing.

What in the actual hell did artificial chocolate even mean?

You didn’t dignify it with a real answer. Just shook your head, rang her up, and told Dina about it over text while working with Sloane. Dina lost her mind. Sent at least five voice notes gasping for air and screaming. “Artificial chocolate” became an inside joke practically overnight — whenever Ellie came around, it was impossible not to bring it up.

“A scoop of artificial chocolate for you then, Williams?” you’d say casually, lifting the scooper with a flourish, passing it between your left and right hand like a magic trick.

She’d roll her eyes. Scoff. But her lips would twitch, always. Not annoyed-annoyed — just playfully resigned, like she knew she was doomed the second she stepped foot near that damn counter. “Sure,” she’d mutter, pulling out a wrinkled five like it was hush money.

You honestly weren’t sure if she was conscious half the time. Her thoughts seemed to drift in and out like waves; there when they wanted to be, gone the second something shiny caught her eye. Except when she was talking about internships with Dina, rattling off long-winded plans about applying next fall and getting out of town for a while. Then she was sharper, more focused.

You’d brought it up once — told her you had people back in Houston who maybe knew someone at one of the places she mentioned. It was meant to be helpful. Supportive, even.

She just blinked at you, slow and wide-eyed, like you’d threatened to shut down NASA or something.

“That’s…” She’d paused. “Cool.”

That was it.

Anyway.

Dina had managed to convince her to take a break from the water and hang out for a bit. You didn’t argue. It wasn’t like you minded. Ellie wandered over still dripping, setting her board down somewhere behind her, flopping into the towel like a kid who’d been forcibly pulled out of the pool by her mom.

Legs splayed, elbows hooked on her knees, sleeves of her worn t-shirt clinging damp to her arms. Her knees looked scraped and bruised raw from wiping out, or maybe just from general recklessness. She was nursing a bag of watermelon Sour Patch Kids, plucking one out every minute or so and chewing slowly, like it physically hurt her jaw to eat anything sour.

You watched her out of the corner of your eye.

Who the hell swam in long board shorts and a thrifted cotton tee unless they were either hiding something or had a bone-deep fear of melanoma?

She sat there like a fucking lifeguard who’d quit her post mid-shift and never got back up.

Hair still damp, a halo of sun freckles scattered across her nose. When she caught you looking, she offered you the bag of candy with a shrug: no pressure, no explanation. Just a sticky crinkled bag halfway to your face. Sugar on her own fingers.

You took one anyway.

You chewed slowly, the two of you working through the last of the sour candy in quiet. Sharing the crinkled bag like it was some rare delicacy. Your fingers were sticky from sugar and faintly gritty with salt. Hers too. The kind of tacky feeling you couldn’t wipe away unless you dove back into the water, which neither of you seemed in a rush to do.

The sun baked down on your back. Her soaked shirt clung to her like it had melted onto her skin. You swore surfing in cotton had to be a hazard, but you didn’t ask. She adjusted her shirt now and then, tugging it off her stomach or wringing the hem out absentmindedly, like she hadn’t figured out how to sit still in it yet.

You couldn’t help but notice how her fingers always hesitated when they got too close to yours in the bag. Like the graze of skin sent her whole body into a reboot. You said nothing, but mentally shooed it away.

What a loser.

Not in a mean way. Just… in that endearing, quietly scrambled way she always seemed to exist. Awkward, but not exactly shy. Shy felt too delicate a word for someone like like her. She was the type to avoid eye contact when someone brought up anything remotely emotional, but would happily drop into a wave taller than her house.

You’d seen it before: whenever Dina told some absurd, embarrassing story —like that one time she threw up on a date after eating a questionable seafood taco— Ellie would suddenly remember she needed to check on her board, or had to grab something from her car. Anything to escape the secondhand horror.

You found it fucking hilarious.

And picked on her accordingly.

Then, for the third time, your hands collided. Both of you reaching for the last piece of sour candy — fingertips brushing again. This time, the pause was longer. Ellie froze. You didn’t move either. She looked at you first, her ash-green eyes flicking up with that same dazed slowness like she hadn’t quite processed what just happened.

You raised a brow. Then pulled your hand back. Noting her hesitation.

She blinked once. Then dropped the last candy into her mouth without a word.

────────────────────────

“I’m doing it! I’m doing it!” Dina’s knees buckled like cooked spaghetti as she wobbled on top of Ellie’s surf board, arms swinging wildly like she was trying to swat away a dozen bees. Her voice cracked with something between fear and excitement.

Ellie’s hand clamped over her mouth to hide her grin, eyes locked on Dina with the kind of nervous attention you’d give a toddler attempting to do anything dangerous. You stood beside her, both of you submerged in the glittering shallows, UVs blazing on your neck, salt crusting on your skin.

You turned your head just enough to catch Ellie’s expression and nearly fucking lost it — shoulders trembling as you tried to keep your laugh contained.

“Yeah,” Ellie finally said, clearly struggling to keep her voice from betraying her. “You’re not doing that bad for someone who’s never stood on a board before. I’ll give you that.”

You gave her a playful shove with the back of your wet hand, your fingers leaving a faint print on her arm. “Lying ass. She looks like she’s learning how to walk for the first time.”

Ellie tightened her arms across her chest in mock offense. “That’s what I looked like too when I started.”

“Sure, sure. Go ahead and waterboard yourself. Pretty sure it’s coming anyway if you keep surfing in that damn shirt. Your farmer’s tan must be lethal.”

Her head snapped toward you at that. Wide-eyed, caught. “Oh my God.”

You smirked. She glanced at Dina —who was now awkwardly crouching on the board like she’d seen someone else do it better— and tried to justify herself. “My surf suit already gives me the worst tan lines in the goddamn world. If I end up looking like Neapolitan ice cream tonight, so be it.”

You gave a slow nod, overly impressed. “Love the way you cope.”

Her lips twitched.

You followed her gaze back to Dina, who was now fully squinting at the horizon like it held the answers to her balancing issue.

Over the last few weeks, Ellie had definitely loosened up around you. At first, it had just been Dina dragging her along. But now she lingered. Stuck around. She made jokes. She listened when you talked. And, yeah, she read. A lot. Dina wasn’t exaggerating when she said that. You’d seen Ellie curled beneath a sun umbrella with a beach towel draped over her shoulders, her comic open and her eyes flicking across the page like it was gospel. Always drying her fingers carefully first, too. Never letting the sand or water touch the ink.

You’d call her a friend. Or at least, you wanted to. You just hadn’t said it aloud yet. Not sure if she felt the same way. So for now, you stayed in this soft middle ground. Friendly. Comfortable. Tossing jabs her way to see if she’d bite.

She always did.

Most days she stopped by the shop, traded a five for a scoop, made some offbeat comment about life or the weather, and bolted down the sand with the cone dripping between her fingers. You’d watch her go, shake your head, and get back to work. Always smiling a little when you turned to scoop the next order.

A sudden splash broke your thoughts.

Dina flopped backwards off the board in dramatic defeat, limbs flying. She hit the water with a yelp and disappeared under the foam. You burst out laughing. Ellie took a couple steps forward in response, just in case Dina had broke something. But she surfaced seconds later, rubbing her eyes and coughing.

“I lasted, like, five minutes! Not bad!” she declared proudly, blinking against the blinding sun as she stumbled through the water toward you two.

“Five minutes and you were like—” You shook out your arms in a floppy, exaggerated motion, doing your best impression of her. “This. The whole damn time. Pretty sure a lifeguard started walking over.”

Ellie snorted behind you, her fingers dragging across the top of her board as she checked the wax. It was curling up around the edges like it had been used for a hundred summers straight. She made a mental note to rewax it before her next long session.

“Like you could do any better,” Dina jabbed, grabbing your arm with a wet pinch that made you jerk back. “You’d get taken out by the first wave and still find a way to blame me.”

“I would blame you. That’s a guarantee.”

Dina turned toward Ellie, eyes wide with mock sincerity. “She’s living proof that the universe sends certain people just to ruin your summer.”

That was so absurd, you choked on your laugh.

“Wow,” you said, grinning. “I’m honored.”

Ellie just smiled, shook her head, and tucked her board under her arm. Her shirt was soaked, clinging to her torso in uneven patches. She didn’t seem to care. And honestly, at this point, neither did you.

The tide was coming in slowly now. The sun inching closer to its golden hour curve. This —whatever this was between the three of you— felt easy. Like how summers were supposed to feel. Warm skin. Salty air. Friendly teasing. And maybe, if things kept going the way they were, something even better brewing underneath it all.

L.A hadn’t crossed your mind in weeks.

If this were June, you probably would’ve been mourning the summer you could have had. Expensive cars revving through cracked streets. Your friend’s oversized beach house just five minutes from the shoreline. Trendy beachgoers, shiny sunglasses, the familiar roar of scooters, the overpriced acai stands set up next to water-stained “NO PARKING” signs. Loud blondes yelling over music, filming everything. Sunscreen that smelled more like perfume than protection.

Yeah, that summer had looked real nice in your head. But now?

Now you stood waist-deep in warm water, swaying your hands back and forth like kelp in the tide. Dina and Ellie’s voices buzzed behind you — something about a girl from Ellie’s surfer circle who she apparently could not stand. You didn’t catch the whole thing. Your focus had drifted somewhere else entirely, lips pursed slightly, eyes flicking out across the waves.

Your hair was dry, pulled out of your face for once. You’d started to get better at timing the water — knowing when to duck under and when to let it lift you like a paper boat. Around this time of day, the swells always got bigger. Ellie loved it. Said the early evening surf was unbeatable. Her group had already cleared out for the day, but she always stuck around longer now; drifting back to you and Dina like she’d been bound there.

The sky was ridiculous. Pink bleeding into orange, melting into streaks of violet that dusted around a few leftover clouds. Like someone had smeared the whole thing with pastels. You’d gotten used to orange, more than anything. It colored the end of every day here. Clung to the backs of your legs. Tinted your dreams.

August was right around the corner.

Hard to believe you’d gotten here in late May — back when the shop still smelled like paint and cleaning spray, when your aunt was still yelling about freezer delays and missing signage. Now the parlor felt lived-in. Real. Busy. The past few months had blurred into a routine of sweat, sugar, and sunburns.

“She’s clearly captivated by the little fishies and sand fleas under her feet.”

Dina’s voice sliced clean through your thoughts, jolting you out of them. Your head snapped up as her words registered.

You blinked, then grimaced. “Absolutely the hell not,” you muttered, jerking one leg up in reflex. “Ew, ew. Do not put that in my head. I just started getting used to the feeling of soggy seaweed rubbing my ankle, and now you’re talking about ocean-ticks?”

“Sand fleas,” Dina corrected, biting back a grin.

“Worse. That’s worse,” you shuddered. “They sound like something out of a cryptid documentary.”

Ellie hummed lowly, squinting at the horizon where the waves curled like lazy fists. “They don’t really bite people, I think,” she offered, not very convincingly. “Unless you stand still too long.”

You kicked gently beneath the surface, moving just enough. “Awesome. Standing still is now banned.”

Ellie glanced at you, mouth twitching. “Should I put that on a sign?”

You met her eyes and gave a tired smirk. “Next to ‘We’re out of waffle cones’? Sure.”

The water rocked gently around your waist. The tide was rising.

But instead of pulling you out, it felt like it was keeping you here.

“You could give the surfboard a go too,” Ellie offered, voice dipping into sarcasm as she nodded toward it, “if you’re that grossed out by ocean life just… existing in their natural habitat.”

Her board drifted nearby, slow and steady, catching a soft push from the current. Her hair clung to her cheeks and neck, strands curling from the salt. She ran a hand through it, shaking it out so it wouldn’t dry in those heavy, separated logs. Dina’s hair, on the other hand, was pulled tight into a wet braid down her back. Smart. It wouldn’t tangle like hell later when she showered.

“I guess so,” you sighed, dragging yourself forward through the pushback of the water. “But I’m not standing on it. That’s where I draw the line.”

“I’ll just sit and chill. Talk with you guys.”

“You mean zone out and ignore us entirely,” Dina cut in, her tone smug.

You splashed water in her direction, catching her shoulder and some of her face. She let out a snort and wiped it off with the back of her hand.

Ellie steadied the board as you tried to climb on — which turned out to be a lot harder than it looked. You slipped the first time, crashing back into the water face-first with a splutter. The second time, a hard wave hit just as you straddled it, knocking your balance off completely. You fell in again, feet squishing into a cold bed of seaweed. Absolutely disgusting. You grimaced and tried to ignore the feeling crawling up your spine.

“Okay — nope, that’s actually worse than sand fleas,” you muttered.

“Relax,” Ellie chuckled, stepping forward and placing a hand on your lower back, a light push to help guide you. It was hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if touching you was okay, but it fell away quickly once you got your balance.

You finally got situated, legs dangling on either side of the board. The wax felt rough and oddly warm against your thighs. But at least you were no longer fighting the water.

“There y’go,” Ellie said, sounding mildly proud.

You looked down at her from your new, elevated position. “Wow. You look even shorter from here.”

That earned a snort from Dina, who quickly bit her lip to keep from laughing too hard. Ellie’s expression went flat for a beat, like she was processing the insult in real time.

Then her mouth twitched. She exhaled through her nose in faux defeat and shook her head.

“Alright. You guys are relentless.”

“You love it,” you teased, narrowing your eyes playfully.

Ellie held up a finger like a warning sign. “I offered you a free ride on my board and this is how I’m repaid? Called short to my face?”

“I could’ve said tiny,” you shrugged.

“Don’t even—” Dina cut in, waving a hand in front of your face like she already knew what was coming next. “You’re about to make it worse.”

“I’m just being honest,” you shrugged, smile slow and sly.

Ellie squinted at you, pointing again, all bark and no bite. “You’re lucky I’m too sun-tired to launch you off that thing right now.”

You raised your brows, settling more comfortably on the board. “You mean you can’t reach me. Excuses, excuses.”

“She’s so damn cocky now that she’s above sea level,” Dina muttered, shaking her head. Tone light.

Ellie just gave you a long look, squinting through the orange-drenched haze of the setting sun, then turned away with a tired chuckle. “I swear. If I wasn’t too lazy, I’d absolutely flip that thing.”

You smirked, victorious, toes skimming the surface of the water. The board rocked gently beneath you, but you held steady.

Kinda.

────────────────────────

“You two came mid-shift to tell me about a fucking bonfire?” you grumble, head still ducked under the wide brim of your navy Carmellon Bay cap. The sun was practically boiling over, and you’d had the audacity to forget your sunglasses on a day where the UVs were a staggering eleven.

Even with the brand new AC humming faintly from inside the shop, you were already sweating through your shirt.

“Yup,” Dina replied with zero shame. “I was gonna leave Ellie to ask on her own, but then I remembered I also needed to suffer and remind myself I have work tomorrow at exactly ten.”

You gave a long, exhausted blink. “So brave of you, Dina,” you said, your voice flat. A slow, sarcastic clap followed.

Dina ignored it. “Can we have two waffle cones? One scoop mint-chocolate for this weirdo,”—she jabbed a thumb toward Ellie—“and one scoop cookie dough for me?”

You sighed. Today had been a weird lull in the usual beach traffic. Wednesdays never made much sense for big plans like bonfires, but then again, this town thrived off spontaneous, semi-chaotic decisions.

You hadn’t been to one since you were ten; your parents’ idea, back when the idea of marshmallows and sticky fingers made you feel alive.

“Y’all’re lucky you’re my friends,” you muttered, pushing off the counter and moving toward the tucked-away waffle maker in the back corner. You fished out the leftover batter from this morning —enough for two fresh cones — and started pouring slowly. You usually didn’t make more past the original batch of fifty. Rarely worth it unless there was a swarm.

“Never answered our question about the bonfire,” Ellie said, lightly coughing like she was testing the waters.

Dina chimed in again. “Yeah. Are you coming or not?”

“I’m probably gonna be too tired, honestly,” you said while flipping the first cone. “Xander’s barely done anything today. He’s gone to the bathroom like ten times and keeps talking about how he’s got stomach problems or somethin’.”

You shook your head. Xander was the kind of new hire that made you question every decision your aunt made. Clearly hired because his dad once fixed her mailbox — not exactly resume material.

“Booo,” Dina hollered, cupping her hands around her mouth.

You looked up just in time to see Ellie give you two dramatic thumbs down, her face dead serious.

“Really?” you deadpan, narrowing your eyes at the both of them.

They didn’t stop — Dina still booing under her breath, Ellie nodding solemnly like you’d just betrayed the entire town.

“I work ten hours a day and you wanna come and boo me in my face?” you said. “You’re mad I don’t wanna drag my lifeless body to a bonfire after that?”

The waffle maker beeped, and you grabbed the first cone, rolling it in that fluid motion you’d mastered over the summer. You let it cool beside you as you poured the second.

No line, thankfully. If there had been, they wouldn’t be here pestering you. They both knew better than to loiter when there was actual work to be done.

“Duh,” she said. “You’re our friend. We’re not letting you rot alone while a bunch of people play beach volleyball and burn marshmallows on sticks.”

“It’ll be fun. Seriously.” Ellie stepped forward a bit, her voice cracking mid-sentence. You saw her wince at herself, which made your lip twitch, just slightly.

She pushed forward anyway. “There’s gonna be volleyball, yeah. Dee said you’re good at it. And, y’know, it’d be more fun if you came. With us.”

You stared at her for a second too long, then shook your head and rolled your eyes — not entirely out of irritation, more out of self-defense.

“You guys are insufferable.”

But your voice wasn’t nearly as annoyed as your words, and they both seemed to catch that.

Ellie smiled, soft and sheepish. Dina grinned. Knowing they won you over.

“One hour,” you say firmly, like you’re sealing a blood oath with them — and maybe a little with yourself. A boundary drawn in sand. Both their faces light up in near-unison, Ellie’s first, soft and slightly surprised, then Dina’s like she was expecting the win all along.

You roll up the second waffle cone and walk to the front window where they’re leaned, watching you like kids about to get away with something. The fresh cones warm against your palm, crispy, still holding the scent of batter and iron.

You scoop a clean, full ball of mint-chocolate onto Ellie’s cone, then move on to the cookie dough for Dina. The scooper clicks softly against the metal tin.

“Nothing more than that,” you warn as you drop the scooper into the rinse tray and hand them their cones over the glass. “Or I’ll kill you both.”

“Fair,” Dina smirked, already licking a drop threatening to slide down the side of her scoop.

Ellie rummaged through her pocket like it was a trash heap. Crumpled bills, some coins, maybe a rogue receipt. She pulled out a ten, already softened at the corners, and passed it over. Always with the messy money, this girl.

You snatched it with two fingers. “You ever heard of a wallet?”

“I like the challenge,” she muttered.

“I mean, you could always leave earlier than that if you don’t like it,” Ellie added, her voice casual, unaware of the chaos she’d just unleashed. Dina’s head whipped around before you could even blink.

A sharp elbow met Ellie’s side mid-lick, making her jerk back with wide eyes. “The fuck?”

“She cannot leave early,” Dina snapped. “Don’t plant ideas in her head. She will stay the full sixty minutes. Minimum. Longer if she decides she actually likes having fun.”

Ellie rubbed her rib with a small wince, still working on her cone. “Jeez. Okay.”

“Thank you, Ellie, for having some sympathy for me,” you say dryly, aiming the full weight of your sarcasm at her over the glass divider.

Ellie glanced up from her cone, the smallest guilty smile tugging at her lips. “Yea, I got you.”

“What time will this bonfire thing start again?” you ask slowly, cracking your fingers one by one, mostly out of habit. God. Why couldn’t they have picked literally any other day for this?

“Around seven,” Ellie answers, leaning slightly on the windowsill. “But people don’t really start showing up until eight, when the sun’s almost gone.”

Dina nods with her chin in her palm. “Yeah. While we wait for it to get good, we’ll keep ourselves entertained. Promise.” She flashes a lazy grin, like the thought of killing time together is enough of a draw on its own.

You squint at them, already regretting your one hour agreement, now probably two since apparently it doesn’t really start till an hour in. “Just text me after my shift, or I’m gonna forget. I don’t wanna go home, shower, and pass out while you two blow up my phone with ‘where r u’ texts.”

“Noted,” Ellie says, lifting her cone slightly like a cheers.

That’s when Xander comes lumbering through the back, yawning like he’d just completed a triathlon. His lanky arms stretch overhead as he cracks his knuckles and slinks toward the sink. The guy had that perm-bedhead blond hair that somehow made him look younger and more confused than he actually was. He rinsed his hands with a dramatic sigh.

You clock the sigh. Bite your tongue. Tired of what exactly? His ten back-and-forth bathroom breaks? Or the emotional weight of holding up a wall?

You consider throwing him under the bus to your aunt —again— but think better of it. Summer’s almost over, and trying to train someone new with three weeks left would suck more than just enduring his snail pace.

You keep the complaint in your back pocket for now.

Meanwhile, Dina and Ellie are already halfway down the boardwalk, Ellie’s shirt sticking to her back, and Dina swinging her cone between two fingers. You glance at the clock. Four more hours with Xander.

Dread sits like a pit in your gut.

He wipes his hands on his apron and wanders over to the counter like a bored raccoon. “Was that Dina?” he asks, peering out the window toward the pair. His eyes linger a little too long on Ellie before shifting to you.

You give a clipped nod. “Yeah. She and Ellie came by for cones.”

He hums. Taps his fingers on the counter like he’s trying to create a beat to pass time. “Ellie?”

You resist the urge to sigh and instead start tidying up, reaching for a rag to swipe down the sticky spot you’d been ignoring on the counter. “Yeah. Ellie.”

“Like… Williams? Surfer girl?” he says while opening the freezer to dig out a sample spoon. You already know what’s coming. Sure enough, he scoops a sample of rocky road and gives it a lazy taste. Like clockwork.

You pause, then glance up. “Uh-huh. Who else goes by Ellie Williams around here?”

He shrugs, licking his spoon and leaning against the wall. “You two got somethin’ going on?”

You blink. Then furrow your brows, genuinely irritated. Not at the question, but at how casually he tossed it out there — like it was some casual observation and not a stupid assumption.

“No…?” you say slowly, drawing out the word like it might help him catch on to how weird the question is. “She’s Dina’s friend. Now kinda mine. We hang sometimes. That’s it. Why?”

Xander shrugs again, unbothered. “Just askin’. I see you two talkin’ after her sessions. Looked like a thing. That’s all.”

You shake your head, pressing the rag into the tile a little harder than necessary. “No duh we talk. I’ve seen her almost every week since the summer started. Ice cream shop’s open again, she stops by. We talk. Not that deep.”

He tosses the used spoon in the trash and grabs another, and you finally turn toward him, narrowing your eyes.

“And don’t eat all the damn samples. That’s for customers. Not your personal buffet.”

Xander holds his hands up, grinning around the spoon like he didn’t hear you the first ten times you said it. You roll your eyes and turn back to wiping the floor, resisting the strong, sudden urge to chuck the sample tray into the sea.

You’d take a crowded, sweaty bonfire over this shift any day.

────────────────────────

wtf are we wearing tonight???

You sit hunched on the edge of your mattress, one foot tucked under your thigh and the other dangling, heel brushing the wooden frame. Your phone glows in your hands while you stare down at the group chat, your thumbs waiting like they’re about to sprint — but none of the other runners are even on the track yet. All your messages turning green. Because of course Ellie has a Samsung.

Every time she sends one of those Samsung-only emojis and it pops up as a blurry PNG, Dina sends a screenshot to the chat with ten laughing reactions.

Ellie finally replies first, screen lighting up with her signature lack of urgency:

Do we need to match or something…?

You sigh and glance across the room. Your suitcase, still half-unpacked from May, is a mess of tangled clothes and wrinkled tanks. You respond:

I just need to know what direction y’all are going in because my room looks like a Goodwill bin exploded

please

WHERE IS DINA. WHY AM I ASKING YOU FOR FASHION ADVICE.

Ellie’s typing bubble bounces, then disappears. Then comes back again.

???

Did Xander thread every one of your nerves and knit a dick blanket with them??

You good?

You flop back against your pillow, the one your hair better not smudge your light makeup beat on. Your oversized shirt from your shift clings to your back. Underwear, socks, no motivation.

I’m literally fine

I just have no idea what to wear, and I’m charging my phone so it doesn’t die while we’re out

Ellie’s bubble appears again, then lingers long enough that you know she’s overthinking her answer. Your phone buzzes with her eventual suggestion:

Uhh, wear shorts and a nice shirt?

Or a big shirt if you want. i’m doing that. dina’s dressing up more, so maybe do that too??

Idk. I just don’t want sand in my clothes.

A moment later, finally:

I’m getting FOMO reading your chats rn

guys wear whatever the fuck u want it’s a bonfire we’re getting LIT TONITE 🤏🏼

Dina. Of course.

Ellie reacts with an alarmed emoji. You snort through your nose.

bruh. she texts back.

You toss your phone onto the bed and drag yourself upright. Digging through the abyss of your suitcase, you eventually settle on denim shorts that still kind of smell like the detergent you used back in Houston, a fitted white tee that hugs in the right places, old tennis shoes, and the dumb navy Carmellon Bay cap you always say you’ll stop wearing — but don’t.

Makeup: still intact. Hair: manageable. Earrings: secure. Mood: well, getting there.

Your phone continues buzzing while you slip your wallet into your bag and tiptoe through the dim house. The TV drones in the background, your aunt fast asleep on the recliner, curled around the cat like they both own the place. You pause to smile at the scene, then quietly grab the car keys and slide out the front door, locking it with a soft click behind you.

The heat’s mellowed, but the air still holds warmth. The sun’s half-dipped behind the palm trees, casting streaks of gold across the street as you slide into the car and flip down the visor to double-check your face.

Fine. You look fine. This is fine.

The drive is short, careful. You avoid speeding past side streets — lesson learned after a woman practically chased you down over her kid on a scooter. You spot the crowd up ahead near the fire pit zone, but more importantly: Ellie and Dina.

They’re impossible to miss. Dina’s in something that looks like she stole it from a teenage boy’s closet and a fashion influencer’s page, and Ellie? Ellie is wearing jorts. Long ones. The kind that go just past the knee like she’s about to do yard work or attend a county fair.

“Look who actually showed up instead of fake-canceling at the last minute!” Dina cheers, arms wide like she expects a hug. You step around her like she’s an open car door and pat her shoulder instead.

Ellie, sensing the mild awkwardness, fills the space with a quick half-hug with Dina. Her shirt is a little wrinkled, and her hair’s already wind-blown. The usual.

“Great,” she says, adjusting her waistband. “We’re all here. Let’s head out before the place gets too packed and it turns into a slow walk of shame.”

“Agreed,” you nod, shouldering your bag.

Ellie gestures ahead, faux-chivalrous. “Ladies first.”

Dina eyes her outfit with a grin. “Those jorts don’t make you any less of a lady yourself, Els.”

Ellie sighs deeply, the kind of sigh that suggests she’s already regretting the outfit but refuses to back down now. “They have pockets. Real ones.”

You snicker and fall into step beside them, the three of you moving as the sun slides lower and music starts to echo from the beach. The smell of smoke, sunscreen, and sugar already curling in the air. You think you spot a volleyball net in the distance, and someone with a cooler full of drinks.

Treading down the boardwalk felt surprisingly good now that the air was shifting — slightly crisper, shedding the suffocating warmth of earlier. A soft breeze rolled in from the shore, threading through the gaps in the old wood beneath your feet. It smelled like sea salt and sunscreen and something vaguely smoky. The sun was on its last leg, dimming behind the hills, and the sky was starting to lean violet.

You passed under the shadow of a rusted sign that read Carmellon Bay Public Access, its lettering nearly faded, one corner bent up from a long-forgotten storm.

It had probably been hanging there for decades — same as the lifeguard tower nearby, covered in old Sharpie doodles and hearts scratched into the paint.

Further down, a group of people lounged on worn-out towels, some nursing canned beers, others standing in a loose circle and smoking rolled-up joints that glowed faint orange in the dimming light.

One guy laughed too hard at something, tilting his head back, spilling beer onto the sand. Ellie’s eyes flicked toward them briefly. Then she picked up pace to match you and Dina again, her face unreadable except for the subtle twitch in her brow.

The bonfire itself wasn’t hard to spot — bright and crackling, like someone had shoved the sun into a pit. Two people hovered near it, one lazily poking it with a stick, the other crouched nearby talking low while watching the flames dance. Heat rolled off the blaze in soft waves, enough to be felt from a few feet away. Shadows stretched out around the group gathered there — some standing, some sitting on coolers or flat driftwood planks, a few already lost in loud conversations.

You caught a glimpse of some frat-looking dude shirtless in plaid shorts, clutching two beers while grinding into the air. No music even playing near him. Just his own internal beat. Ellie raised her brows and glanced at you like, you seeing this too? You barely stifled a laugh, your lips curling with hers in a mirrored, silent exchange of judgment.

Overall, it wasn’t horrible.

Someone had set up a decent drink table. One big cooler full of beers and hard seltzers, another with just sodas and plastic water bottles. You could see condensation dripping down the sides of the cans. The ice inside popped faintly every now and then.

Off to the side, a dozen people were volleying a ball over a net, diving with zero grace. Legs sandy, knees bruised. But they were laughing, shouting across the net, sweaty and unbothered.

“I’m good on drinking,” Ellie mumbled, standing with her hands on her hips as she squinted toward the cooler. Dina raised a brow at her, already fishing through the ice for something fruity. She emerged with a lime White Claw and popped it open with a click, shrugging as she tossed her hair back and took a sip.

Dina looked effortlessly pretty, even with the wind kicking up her braid. Ellie too — though she didn’t act like she noticed it herself. Just stood there with her back a little hunched from habit, shirt tucked loosely into her jorts. You weren’t obsessed with how you looked, not unless it was time to dress up or put effort in. You were.. okay to say the least.

“You guys are boring,” Dina grinned, glancing between you two. “Have some fun. It’s rare we’re all off on the same day. No excuses.” She wasn’t pressuring, but she did hold out a beer toward you.

You hesitated before taking it. “Thanks,” you muttered, staring down at the label like it was written in hieroglyphics. Not your favorite taste in the world, but you’d survive a few sips. You cracked it open and took a careful drink — bitter, cold, fizzy.

Then a voice interrupted the moment. Low, smooth, familiar.

“Dee, holy shit. Hey.”

All three of your heads turned as a guy strolled up. Tall, dark hair, clean-cut. He had that cool confidence that made it obvious he knew he looked good. Dina blinked as she lowered her drink.

“Jesse,” she said, surprised, like she hadn’t expected him to actually show. She looked over at you and Ellie with her brows slightly raised, almost like don’t.

You and Ellie both clocked it immediately.

“I see,” Ellie muttered under her breath, subtly nudging your arm. Her eyes didn’t linger long, but the nudge was obvious.

Then came the tap on your back. Light. Quick.

You met her gaze, already understanding. Let’s give them a minute.

You nodded. “Oh, yeah. We’ll be… over there, Dina.” You motioned vaguely toward the edge of the beach where there were fewer people and more open space.

Dina gave a quick smile, half distracted, and turned her attention back to Jesse as you and Ellie peeled off toward the quieter side of the bonfire, beer in hand, breeze still rolling in like a sigh of relief.

Next thing you knew, you were sat in the sand. It was cooler now, not warm like earlier. The grains stuck to the backs of your thighs where your shorts rode up, and your elbows sank slightly when you leaned back into your palms. The tide reached just far enough to kiss the tips of your shoes, saltwater curling in like it wanted to tug you under before giving up and retreating with a hiss.

Ellie sat about a foot away, knees bent and drawn up loosely, arms slung over them with her fingers interlocked. The hem of her shirt was damp and clung slightly to her back, clashing against the loose, old jorts she wore like they were a lifeguard uniform.

Her auburn hair looked wind tussled and sorta dry, and every now and then she reached up to shake it out like it bugged her, only for it to fall right back into her eyes.

You took another sip of the beer, careful with it. Letting it fizz and settle on your tongue before swallowing. Not because it tasted good —it didn’t— but the gentle buzz tugging behind your eyes was welcome. Enough to take the edge off the noise, the small talk, the overwhelming closeness of people crowded around a bonfire too big for what it was.

You lifted the bottle slightly toward her. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”

Ellie didn’t even look at it. Just waved her hand in a casual, dismissive arc. “No, thanks. I don’t drink.”

“Oh.” Your voice came out smaller than you expected. You’d assumed she just wasn’t a beer person. The type who maybe went for fancy bottled ciders or moody cocktails made by tattooed bartenders who also moonlighted as DJs. “Didn’t mean to pressure you or anything.”

“Y’didn’t.” She gave a small, reassuring smile, the kind that didn’t stretch far across her lips but still felt genuine. Her eyes didn’t linger — they dropped back to the shoreline where shells had begun to collect in crescent-shaped drifts.

She didn’t touch any of them.

Silence crept in — not awkward, just full. The kind that hummed with the sound of distant music, volleyball slaps, and fire crackles. You liked beach volleyball. Normally. But right now, the idea of standing in a crowd of strangers who all knew each other felt suffocating. You were good right here, planted in the sand with Ellie and the ocean doing its back-and-forth dance a few feet away.

You drummed your fingers against the bottle and glanced upward, admiring how the sky had gone full cotton candy — lavender bleeding into navy, the moon glinting high above, heavy and pale. The reflection danced on the shore like a second sun was hiding in the ocean.

Ellie reached into the oversized pocket of her shorts, rummaging for a second before pulling out a small, beat up maroon lighter. She flicked it a few times to test it — click, spark, click.

The glow lit up the lower half of her face, glinting off the edges of her nose ring and catching on the freckles across her cheeks. You swore they looked darker now after weeks in the sun, scattered like someone had thrown powdered cinnamon across her skin.

Your eyes followed her hand as she pulled out a crumpled little plastic baggie, corners torn, edges sand-worn. Inside were a few thin, hand rolled joints. You paused mid-sip, blinking.

She plucked one out and lit it with a practiced flick. The scent was soft but familiar, earthy-sweet and laced with that unmistakable sharpness. She took a drag and exhaled sideways, letting the smoke curl behind her as she looked forward, eyes a little unfocused.

“You don’t drink,” you said slowly, “but you smoke weed?”

Ellie didn’t blink. Just turned her head a little, one eye squinting as she took another drag. “I have my preferences,” she murmured. “Don’t tell my dad though.”

You snorted. “Promise I won’t. If you don’t tell my aunt I’m drinking beer.”

That pulled a laugh out of her — short, soft, almost like she was surprised by it. “Deal.”

It was easy with her like this. No pressure to say the perfect thing. No need to entertain. You glanced over again. Ellie leaned her head back slightly now, letting the smoke drift out through her nose. It made her squint, and she rubbed at her nostrils with her wrist.

“Don’t let Dee push her dumb drinking obsession onto you,” she said around a chuckle. “The only kind of high you’re getting outta this summer is a sugar high.”

You palmed the beer bottle and tossed a handful of cool sand in her direction. “You guys have a bad habit of bringing my job into every conversation ever.”

“What? It’s impressive,” she defended, flicking ash off to the side. “Those cones are mind-blowing.”

“It’s a waffle with flavored, frozen milk.”

Ellie huffed. “Okay, rude. When you word it like that, it sounds like I’ve been hyping up prison food.”

You smirked and nudged her knee with your own. “Well. You’ve eaten like five of them this week.”

She shrugged, brushing some sand off her ankle. “Not my fault your ‘frozen milk’ is the best thing on the strip.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest wasn’t just from the beer anymore. Ellie wasn’t exactly talkative —not like Dina— but she was present. She paid attention. She noticed things. And even if she rarely gave much away, moments like this made her feel closer. Like she’d slowly been opening one of those nesting dolls, layer by layer, and letting you see the one underneath.

From the corner of your eye, you caught her watching the shoreline again. Mouth parted slightly, lashes shadowed under the moonlight, that joint now pinched lightly between her fingers, tip glowing like a firefly.

You leaned back into your palms again, feeling the salt stick to your skin. Neither of you said much for the next minute or so, and it didn’t matter.

You finish off the beer slowly, gradually, the fizz long gone but the warmth left behind. Ellie finishes her joint with the same lazy ease, flicking the last ash into the sand before snuffing it out with the edge of her sneaker. Her limbs seem looser now, head a little tilted, gaze soft.

You’re not drunk, just buzzed. Tipsy in the kind of way where the ocean sounds feel rounder, and the breeze brushing your shoulders feels like it has weight.

It’d take more than one beer to make you stumble over sea foam or trip on your own shoelaces, but still — you feel floatier. A little undone in the chest.

Ellie’s finger idly pokes at the sand between you, dragging lazy shapes into the dampened grains. You tilt your head to watch.

“What’s that supposed to be?” you ask, voice low.

“Space station,” she mumbles, dragging out a rough rectangle and circling it with indents. She taps her finger to poke little dots around it, stars maybe. Or satellites.

You blink, leaning in slightly. “Space station?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just keeps drawing, focused. You eye the odd little shape she’s making. “Jesus. I thought that was, like… a helicopter or something.”

Ellie snorts, just faintly. “Why the hell would I be drawing a helicopter?”

You shrug, tossing a glance at her through your lashes. “I don’t know. Why are you drawing a space station instead of something normal like a heart or a smiley face?”

“’Cause space stations are cool,” she says simply, and keeps going — outlining the bottom carefully, like the proportions matter. Her voice is calm, grounded, and she says it like it should be obvious.

You hum and drag your own finger across the sand beside hers. She pauses to watch. You carve out a lopsided oval, add two giant cartoonish eyes, and a skinny little body underneath. You wiggle your finger, thinking. “Alien,” you declare. “He lives in the station. I’m naming him Jesse.”

Ellie gives a slow blink, then glances up with her brows raised. “Like… Dina’s Jesse?”

You nod solemnly, even as a grin pulls at your mouth. “Exactly. Jesse. But with a Y.”

Ellie’s lips twitch, her eyes narrowing in amusement. “Jessy?”

“Jessy.” You confirm, carefully writing the name into the sand beside the alien’s head and drawing a small heart next to it. “He hijacked the space station. Sleeps in there when it’s cold. Got a little space blanket and everything.”

Ellie stares at the scene you’ve created —Jesse the alien, the crooked space station, the tiny stars— and lets out a full laugh. A real one this time. Sharp, sudden, from the chest. It makes you glance over and catch her smiling fully now, her teeth showing, her eyes crinkled in that way that makes your ribs feel light.

“You’re so fucking weird,” she says.

“Look who’s talking,” you say back, gesturing toward her space station with an open palm. “I caught you out here drawing NASA schematics in the sand like it’s mission control.”

She just grins, pushing her hair back off her face as a gust of wind comes through and stirs both your doodles, half-smudging them into nothing.

“Rest in peace, Jessy,” you murmur, watching the alien dissolve into the tide.

Ellie looks down, nods once like she’s mourning too. “He was too good for this world.”

You bump her shoulder lightly with your own. She doesn’t move away.

And neither of you say anything for a while after that. But it’s not silence. Not really.

You fiddle with your car keys, thumbing the metal edges, letting the little dangling charms click softly against one another. A plastic strawberry, a tiny popsicle keychain from some beach gift shop, the parlor’s dull, brass key tucked among them. Ellie sits beside you, still, watching the tide like it’s trying to tell her something. Her hair shifts with the breeze, a few strands tickling her cheek, and she doesn’t bother moving them.

The bonfire behind you crackles low, far enough now that it’s just light and murmurs in the background. The party had lost its charm half an hour ago. This wasn’t really your kind of scene, and clearly, it wasn’t Ellie’s either. She seemed more like she should be curled up in a hoodie, watching old sitcoms with the volume low and a journal open in her lap.

Laughter drifts over from the other side of the beach. Someone yells something unintelligible. A can hisses open. The ocean fills in the silence between it all, steady and reliable. Ellie’s eyes track a wave as it rolls in a little higher than the others, then retreats again like it changed its mind.

You glance down at your hands. The keys catch a bit of moonlight.

There’s a thought building in your throat, a dumb one. But your mouth moves before you can talk yourself out of it.

“Y’know…” You toy with the ring of keys, then hold them out for her to see. “I have the keys to the parlor right now.”

Ellie shifts just enough to glance over. Her brows lift. She takes the keys from your hand like she needs proof, squinting slightly at the charm-heavy chain dangling between her fingers.

“You were a blessing to that tiny creamery,” she says, her voice a little teasing. “It’d fall apart without you.”

You smirk. “That’s what my aunt says. Usually when she wants something.”

Ellie twirls the keys once on her finger, then tosses them back to you. You almost fumble the catch. Her lips twitch like she expected you to.

“Sneak us in,” she hums, voice low and playful, as if she’s testing you.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Ellie just blinks back at you. Her green eyes glint in the fire’s light, relaxed but sharp in that way she gets when she’s half-joking, half-serious.

You narrow your eyes. “Was that the weed talking?”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe I’m just craving something zesty and sweet.”

“Zesty and sweet,” you repeat. “And you think I’m gonna march back into that place and scoop you a cone just because?”

“What if I say please?” Ellie’s grin curves crookedly, her elbows resting on her knees, hands linked loose in front of her. She looks so at ease here, wind kissed and sandy, a little stoned and a little smug.

A breeze picks up, and you shiver slightly in your t-shirt. When you glance over again, she’s touching her face absently — fingertips brushing over the small, pale scar on her cheek. It’s healed well, but you remember when it was raw and red, right after she wiped out during a morning surf session. You had teased her back then, but now… your gaze lingers.

You look away first. “What’s in it for me if I give you a free cone?”

Ellie lets out a scoff, dramatic. “Wow. Can’t break a single rule, can you?”

“I already broke one. I drank tonight. That’s a law.”

She laughs — quiet, low in her throat. “Okay. Fair.”

“I want something in return,” you continue. “If I have to step back into that goddamn parlor again tonight, I deserve at least a trade.”

Ellie lifts one brow, still smiling. “We can figure that out when I’ve got my cone in hand.”

Silence laps between you again. Not awkward. Just settled. Like the air had agreed on something for both of you.

You push up to stand, brushing the sand off the backs of your thighs. You don’t bother picking up the empty beer bottle — you’ll grab it later. Ellie watches you, but doesn’t move until you speak.

“Let’s go now,” you mutter, eyes scanning the beach. “Before someone sees and asks to come too.”

Ellie grins, rising to her feet with a stretch. “Let’s steal some dairy.”

You roll your eyes but lead the way. She follows, hands stuffed in her pockets, keys jingling softly between you.

You sneak in through the back, careful not to let the screen door slam shut behind you. The night air sticks to your skin —humid, heavy— and you pause for a second before stepping inside, scanning the empty lot behind the parlor. It was technically your place, but it’d look suspicious from a distance if anyone saw two people slipping into a closed shop at nearly ten o’clock.

You fiddle with the keys quietly, turning them between your fingers until you find the right one. Ellie leans in close behind you, peeking over your shoulder to watch you slide it into the rusted lock.

It sticks for a second, like always, before giving with a soft clunk.

The door groans open. You lead the way inside, the familiar smell of sweet cream and old waffle cones hitting your nose instantly. Ugh. Ellie follows with a soft whistle under her breath, nodding to herself as her eyes roam.

“I can’t believe I’ve never been in here before,” she says, voice hushed even though you’re the only ones inside.

You close the door quietly behind her. “Maybe you should work here next summer if you’re such a fan. The new AC makes it more bearable when it’s hot.”

You don’t bother flipping on the lights. Instead, you pull out your phone and switch on the flashlight, letting the narrow beam cut through the shadowy space. The parlor is peaceful when it’s empty — no rush, no ringing bell, no sticky-handed toddlers asking for samples. Still, there’s something a little thrilling about being here off hours. Your aunt would lose it if she found out, and not in the fun, chuckling way. If anyone tipped her off that the place had company tonight, you’d be done for.

Ellie trails her fingers across the counter, brushing over a jar of rainbow sprinkles. “If I’m a fan, then why would I need the AC?” she mutters absently.

You pause, brows pulling together, then sigh when the joke clicks. “Dude. Really?”

She grins and hops up onto the counter like she’s done it a hundred times, swinging one leg as she settles in. “Dina’s gonna want to die when she finds out she missed out on a free cone.”

“She’ll survive,” you say, making your way behind the counter and digging out the small batch mix you’d prepped earlier this week. It’s enough for one or two final cones before the freezer rotation kicks in tomorrow. “She can grab one whenever she wants. It’s not like she doesn’t work here too.”

“Fair.” Ellie watches you plug in the waffle maker, her legs still gently swinging. The low hum of the machine fills the space as it heats. She looks at home already.

“What flavor?” you ask, bending to open the glass freezer case.

“Lemon,” she says without hesitation. That surprises you. She never ordered citrus before. Always went for chocolate or mint-chocolate, sometimes coffee. Maybe the weed was making her crave something tart. You don’t question it.

“Let me know when it beeps,” you say, pointing to the waffle iron. She salutes you dramatically, eyes narrowing on the small trail of batter already beginning to bubble out of the edges.

You use the downtime to wipe down one of the counters, then give up halfway through and toss the cloth into the sink. You’re too warm and too buzzed to care about spotless surfaces. Instead, you lean back against the opposite counter, flipping an ice cream scooper in your hand like a baton.

“I wanna try scooping it myself,” Ellie says suddenly, pointing towards the tool.

You glance over at her. “You wanna give it a go?”

She hops down from the counter, brushing past you with a grin. “Why not?”

The waffle maker beeps softly and you move to it, prying the lid open. The golden cone is done — edges crisp, center soft. You gently peel it out and roll it into shape, wrapping the bottom with a pale yellow napkin while Ellie steps behind you, practically shoulder to shoulder.

“Push, roll, and enjoy,” you instruct, handing over the scooper like it’s sacred.

Ellie holds it awkwardly at first, but she adjusts quickly. She dips it into the tub of lemon, wrist flicking as she works it into a lopsided ball of creamy yellow, then plops it into the cone you’re holding out.

“Hope I’m doin’ it right,” she murmurs, glancing at you with one brow raised, a smirk curling at her mouth.

“Better than most,” you admit, watching her steady hands, the soft concentration in her brow.

You offer her the cone, and she takes it with a quiet thank you. The shop hums gently around you both — the freezer, the cooling waffle iron, the buzzing of your phone flashlight, the kind of silence that only settles when the world outside is too dark to bother looking in.

It’s weirdly intimate, standing in the empty shop this late, just the two of you. But not in a heavy way. It was nice. Like you’re both stealing a little slice of time. One scoop at a time.

Ellie licked the side of the cone cautiously, testing it like she wasn’t quite sure if she trusted it yet. Her face twisted, eyebrows knitting, and for a second you thought she hated it.

But then — she licked it again, slower this time, and nodded like it was starting to settle in.

“How’s that?” you ask, uncertain.

“Jesus Christ,” she mumbled through a full mouth, nodding more eagerly now. She pulled back to lick her lips clean. “This is great.”

You leaned against the edge of the prep counter, arms folding over your chest. The metal was cold against your back, almost jarring after the humid night outside.

You stayed quiet for a beat, watching her work her way through the cone with steady, deliberate swipes of her tongue. It was messy in a kind of charming way.

At least she liked it. You’d worried at first, with how intense her reaction had looked. That small, sick twist in your stomach when you thought maybe the lemon was off, or maybe she was too high for tart. Not that there was much left of the batch anyway. You’d scraped it together thinking she might change her mind last minute, and there was no way you were making a new one this late at night.

“Is it?” you press lightly, the corners of your mouth tilting up. “I mean, it is becoming a fan favorite now that it’s getting hotter.”

“I can see why,” she muttered, eyes narrowing in concentration as she chased a melting streak of cream down the ridges of the cone. “It’s like… bright. Like citrusy sunshine in food form.”

You snort softly. “Told you it’s the weed talking.”

“Or, maybe, take this, I’m just poetic.”

“Right…”

The phone flashlight sat face up on the counter beside you, casting its soft circle of light across the tiles and reflecting faintly on the glass of the freezer case.

The rest of the creamery was blanketed in a quiet kind of darkness, shadows stretching long and slow across the floor. The machines were silent. The hum of the fridge low enough to almost forget. It wasn’t cold, just cool enough to notice the difference from outside.

You rubbed your arm absently, fingers catching on the rough patch where your skin had burned earlier that week. You couldn’t even see it clearly under the flashlight, but the sting had been lingering all day.

Sun damage doesn’t always show up right away — it just settles in, slow and deep. You swipe at it once, then shake your head and sigh.

Ellie shifted her weight to lean a hip against the counter opposite you, cone in one hand, elbow resting behind her for balance. Her eyes flicked to yours, thoughtful.

“You want some?” she asked suddenly, holding the cone out toward you. Her tone was casual, almost teasing. She tilted it your way like she was offering a peace offering or a dare.

It reminded you of earlier — when you’d held your beer out to her with the same half-smile and the same tone. Only now, the offer was flipped.

You looked at the cone, then at her. The ice cream was visibly licked around the top, glossy where her mouth had been. You raised a finger at it, skeptical. “You sure you don’t mind? I’d make one for myself, but I don’t want to waste the rest.”

She shrugged like it was no big deal. “Just a lick. I’m not asking you to eat half of it.”

You hesitated a moment longer, then pushed off the counter. “Fine,” you murmured, stepping closer. The air between you smelled like vanilla, lemon, and warm sugar — the scent you’d grown used to after all these months of working here, but tonight, with no customers, no chaos, it felt somehow softer.

You leaned in slowly, eyes flicking up to hers just once. Her gaze was steady, relaxed, maybe a little amused. You took a quick, modest lick off the other side of the cone and stepped back just as quick.

“Damn,” you admitted. “That is good.”

“Told you.”

She took it back without hesitation, licking over the edge again like it didn’t bother her at all that you’d just shared it. Her mouth curved, not quite a smile, but something close.

The moment lingered. Long enough to count. Long enough to register the stillness around you. Then the freezer hummed a little louder and the ice inside settled with a crack, breaking the silence gently. You breathed in and let your arms cross again, shifting your weight.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” you said, almost under your breath, “but I don’t hate being here right now.”

Ellie glanced over. “Told you again.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t get cocky.”

“No promises.”

Ellie was leaning slightly over the counter. Her tongue poked out in concentration, eyes a little glassy, her focus way more intense than it had any right to be for something that would melt in under ten minutes.

You tilted your head back to stare at the ceiling — part out of boredom, part to give her a moment. The air inside the parlor was still, comfortably cool, with only the buzz of the overhead fridge and the occasional creak of shifting metal shelves filling the quiet.

Then—

“Oh, fuck,” Ellie hissed, voice tight with frustration.

You blinked and looked over. She was staring down at herself with a frown, the half-loved cone tilted just enough to let a fat drip of ice cream splatter dead center on her chest. You watched as she pulled her shirt forward with both hands, trying to keep the melting lemon from gluing to her skin.

You winced sympathetically. “Yikes.”

It was the kind of mess that only got worse the longer it sat, and ice cream on skin always went from fun to miserable in about five minutes flat. You stepped over to the drawer near the sink and pulled out a torn pack of napkins. The edge of the stack was crinkled and soft, but you peeled a few clean ones off and walked back toward her.

“Hey,” you offered gently, “I mean… at least you still have some on the cone.”

Ellie grumbled, still looking at the stain with dramatic betrayal. “My ice cream,” she said mournfully, like it was a fallen soldier. Her arms lifted slightly, elbows out, surrendering to the cleanup without protest or awkwardness.

You dabbed carefully at the mess, wiping in small, careful circles across the fabric. Her shirt was one of those old, soft cotton ones — already worn thin and stretched from saltwater and sun, and now ice cream.

You bit the inside of your cheek as you worked, trying not to be too delicate or too firm. Once the worst of it was off, you took a step back and flicked the used napkins into the trash by the sink. Your fingers were still sticky, so without much thought, you licked the side of your hand and then your lips, tasting the tangy lemon on your skin.

Ellie snorted faintly behind you.

“Just make yourself a cone if you like it that much,” she teased, her voice quieter now, like the night was starting to settle in her chest too.

You laughed once, shaking your head. “No, no. Promise I’m good—”

“Let’s share,” she said, without warning.

You turned your head toward her slowly, brows furrowing. She was holding the cone out in your direction like it was no big deal, like she hadn’t just crossed some imaginary boundary that was definitely there, even if neither of you had drawn it on purpose.

You stared. “One lick was okay,” you said carefully, “but sharing a cone is… crazy.”

Ellie raised a brow, unimpressed. She looked entirely unbothered by your hesitation, licking a stray drip from the edge as if to make a point. The motion was slow, lazy, too confident for someone who had just dumped dessert down their shirt.

You shook your head again, feeling the heat creep from the base of your neck up to your ears. You weren’t blushing — not really. It was just… warm. And you were caught off guard. That was all.

Note to self: Ellie is weirdly bold when high.

“Share?” you repeated, blinking a few times. “Like… the same cone?”

She tilted her head at you, mouth curving just slightly. “Why not?”

You hesitated, then scoffed, just under your breath. Why not, she says, like that kind of closeness meant absolutely nothing. And maybe it didn’t to her. Maybe she was just riding the high and the sugar and the quiet and didn’t care.

But you were acutely aware of the small space between you. The way your shoulders brushed when you leaned in earlier. The fact that her shirt still had a damp patch near the collar. The way she watched you now — unapologetically present.

You rubbed your arm. “Because it’s weird?”

“It’s not that weird,” she argued. “You wiped melted ice cream off my chest like thirty seconds ago.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Fair point.

Ellie held the cone up again. Close enough now that you could smell the lemon, the sugar, the tang of her chapstick underneath it all.

“C’mon,” she said, laughing. “Don’t punk out now.”

You sniffed the cone instinctively, like your brain needed to double check what your mouth already knew. Then you swiped your tongue across the side, catching a fresh taste of lemon cream. It hit right — the sharp, sweet tang melting across your tongue and making you sigh, just a little.

Ellie didn’t say anything at first, only leaned forward and tilted the cone toward herself. Her tongue flicked out to catch the opposite side. You angled the cone slightly to give her room, and she licked again. Then you did. It sort of alternated. Back and forth. Small, spaced out licks, edging along the ridges and melting curves. You weren’t thinking much. Not at first.

You could feel it happening in real time — your head drifting, eyes going a little unfocused as you stared at the cone, then her mouth, then her hand holding it, then back again. It was easy to brush it off.

Just sharing. Just tasting. But each pass of your tongue edged a little closer to where hers had been, until the space between felt almost intentional.

You leaned in again, this time slower. The lemon was stronger toward the base. You closed your lips around it gently and let your tongue curl up to catch the flavor where it had started to drip down. Something warm brushed against your forehead — Ellie’s.

You both froze.

The smooth, velvet slip of cream wasn’t what you felt next. It was a softness — something warmer, alive, brushing against your tongue. Then stillness. Then recoil.

Your eyes widened as hers did. A sharp breath punched between you both.

“Oh my gosh — sorry, what the — sorry,” Ellie stammered, immediately pulling back. Her voice cracked around the edges like she was trying to laugh it off and couldn’t find where to land.

You blinked fast, stepping back a step, the sticky cone still in your hand. You could feel your pulse in your mouth. You tried to find the right thing to say, but the silence got there first.

Ellie rubbed the back of her neck, not looking directly at you. “That wasn’t — I mean —“

“I know.” You said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s fine.”

Neither of you moved. The air between you felt heavier now. More aware. You glanced at her hand, then the cone, then back up at her mouth, and couldn’t quite figure out what part of it made your stomach twist — like the moment had happened in a dream and you weren’t fully awake yet.

“Yeah…” Ellie says, her voice soft, like she’s trying to pretend the last two minutes didn’t just shift the entire air in the room. Like if she plays it cool enough, the tension will dissolve on its own. But it doesn’t. It just lingers. Hot and slow in your throat. In hers, too, by the look of it.

You swallow. Hard.

The cream still clings to your mouth somewhere — you feel it in the way her eyes stick to your lips, not entirely subtle. You think she’s trying not to make it weird. Or maybe she’s trying to justify what just happened in her own head.

“You’ve got some…” she murmurs, lifting her hand vaguely toward your face, “right there.”

You instinctively lick the wrong side of your mouth.

Ellie watches. Blinks. Then shakes her head once and steps closer. The soles of her shoes stick slightly to the tiled floor, that faint suction sound cutting through the silence like a pin dropping.

Her fingers brush along your chin, gently. You freeze. You’re not even breathing as her thumb trails higher and catches the edge of your bottom lip, smearing the remaining lemon cream away with one slow, uncertain stroke.

Your brain short-circuits.

What in the actual hell.

She doesn’t pull away.

Her fingers hover there like they’re waiting for permission. Your skin lights up under her touch —cool and warm all at once— and you can’t tell if you’re trembling from how close she is, or how long she’s staying there. You stare. So does she. There’s something barely shy in her expression, like she’s silently asking, what now?

And because your body is on autopilot —and your nerves are fried— you do the dumbest thing possible.

You shove the cone gently toward her face.

Not hard. Not mean. Just enough to press the cold against her lips, startle her, break the moment. Her eyes snap wide, then crinkle as she exhales a stunned laugh, muffled around the lemon cream you just smeared into her mouth. Her shoulders jump from the cold, and you can’t help it — you laugh too. Shoulders shaking, stomach curling up like it needed release from all that held back tension.

Ellie doesn’t hesitate this time.

She leans in and catches your mouth with hers in one sudden, dizzying press. It’s wet and sweet and a little too much, the taste of weed and sugar clashing but not in a bad way. You gasp softly against her lips, stumbling a small step. Her hand shoots out, catching your waist to steady you, her fingers squeezing just slightly before she lets them settle. Like she’s giving herself permission, piece by piece.

Your body follows the movement, your back arching instinctively into the space between you. One hand clutches the cone, the other pressed flat against her damp chest, the thump of her heart loud beneath your palm.

You accidentally step on her foot as you shift again, too tangled in limbs and sensation to register it right away. Your lips drag across hers, then part again as your teeth scrape her lower lip. You suck gently, tasting the last edge of the zesty cream, your breath hitching as her hands —now both at your waist— clutch firmer.

“You taste better with the ice cream,” you murmur, mouth brushing against her jaw as you pull back to speak. Your voice sounds far away. Like it’s floating underwater. Fuck.

Ellie exhales a shaky breath. Her cheeks flushed, pupils wide. “Yeah?” she manages, voice wrecked and hoarse.

You nod, eyes half-lidded. You lick your bottom lip once more and lift the sad, melted cone between you again. “Yeah.”

Ellie watches you, eyes flicking between the cone and your mouth. She lets out a small chuckle, biting her cheek. “I could say the same about you.”

That makes you smile. An actual one. Crooked and giddy. You lean in, giggling now as you give the cone a last swipe. Ellie licks her lips, then leans in to do the same. You meet in the middle. Your tongues bump. And then linger. The moment doesn’t break this time — it just morphs. Thickens.

Your breathing gets louder. The silence between breaths feels stretched and strung tight. You lick again, and this time, so does she — and the overlap turns into another kiss. More desperate.

Ellie’s hand slides from your waist and curls under your shirt, her palm flat and warm against your skin. Her fingers tremble slightly as they press in — testing, not rushing. Her other hand braces behind your shoulder, drawing you in like she needs to hold you steady.

You melt into it. Quite literally.

The cone drips down your wrist, forgotten. Your fingers sticky. Both of you are chasing the flavor, the contact, the way it all blends together and drowns out the world outside this moment. The cool steel of the freezer behind you jolts against your back as she gently nudges you there, close. Anchoring you.

You gasp softly as she wipes the corner of your mouth with her thumb again. Gentle. Careful. Her touch slowing things down again, like she’s afraid of where it’s going next, or maybe just trying to commit this version of you.

“Might regret this tomorrow,” Ellie murmured, her voice low, almost thoughtful. Like the words weren’t meant to be said aloud. Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth — nervous.

You were quiet for a second. The room was still, except for the quiet hum of the freezer behind you. The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward, but charged. Full of all the things neither of you knew how to say yet.

“We’re already here,” you finally say, and your voice comes out quieter than intended. A little breathy. Your teeth sink lightly into your bottom lip as the moment stretches again. Your skin prickles all over, the cold room doing nothing to calm the warmth pooling in your stomach.

Ellie scrunches her nose. “You’re a bad influence.”

You don’t answer. Just press your forehead against hers for a moment, your breathing syncing up — shallow, a little uneven. Her hand finds your hip again. She doesn’t grip. Just rests it there, fingers splayed like she’s steadying herself.

Tangled up against the fridge door, time feels slippery. You’re not sure how long you’ve been in the parlor. Ellie doesn’t seem to care. Neither do you.

Your lips find hers again, slow and soft at first. Then deeper. Hungrier. The taste of citrus and sugar still lingering, though faint now — buried beneath something warmer. Heavy. Your mouth drags lower. Down her jaw. Along her neck. You pause every so often to breathe her in, feel her pulse flicker under your tongue, your lips swollen and clumsy from how long she’s been on them.

She leans into it. Her hand sliding up your back, fingernails lightly scratching at the fabric of your shirt. You shift closer, your thigh slotting between hers as your hand moves higher, sliding over the curve of her chest. Her breath catches.

Your fingers squeeze lightly.

“Gosh,” she exhales, voice catching somewhere in her throat. Her neck arches, exposing more of her to you. Your tongue follows the dip between her collarbones. The skin is warm and faintly sticky, from the earlier cone or maybe just sweat. You don’t care. You lap it up, soft and slow, your hands smoothing over her sides.

You tug lightly at the hem of her shirt. She opens her eyes slowly — flushed.

“Woah,” she whispers, blinking a little like she’s trying to keep her balance. Her fingers trace a slow, grounding circle on your lower back. “You wanna go there? Not a lot to see.”

You huff out a breath. “Just — take off your shirt.”

There’s a moment where she just looks at you. Like she’s reading your face for something. A sign. A window. You don’t flinch.

So she reaches for the hem. Pulls it off slowly — her arms moving over her head, the fabric sticking a little from heat. Her hair falls back around her face as she tosses the shirt on a clean counter, then leans back against the freezer again.

No bra. Just skin, slightly freckled, still holding the faintest tan lines across her shoulders and chest—uneven and sun warped. She’s slightly self conscious about them. You know that. You’ve teased her before, casually. Joked about the insane pattern her surf suits must leave behind.

Now, you just stare. Not in shock, or lust.

“Impressed?” Ellie says, and her voice is that same Ellie-tone: dry, just on the edge of a joke. But there’s a small flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

You tilt your head slightly, eyes dropping. “Can’t say.”

You duck down and kiss the underside of her breast, soft and slow. She twitches just slightly.

Your tongue flicks the spot where the ice cream had spilled earlier, and you smirk against her skin. “Just cleaning you up.”

Ellie lets out a shaky breath and scoffs, her chest rising under your mouth. “Playing janitor?” she teases. “Boring.”

You kiss her again, right over her heart. “You should’ve thought about that before you dropped half a lemon cone down your front.”

Her laugh vibrates, soft and real. One of her hands slides into your hair, tugging lightly — not pulling, just holding. The moment slows again, not from hesitation, but reverence. Both of you sinking deeper into the intimacy like it’s pulling you under the tide.

There’s no rush. Not here. Not tonight. Just the hum of cold appliances, your breaths mingling, and her bare skin warm beneath your palms.

You suck gently on her nipple, warm skin fitting perfectly between your lips. Then, with a careful nip of your teeth, you tug lightly — just enough to make Ellie groan. Her breath stutters, and her palm finds the back of your neck, pressing it deeper against her chest. Your skin is clammy from heat and nerves and everything else that’s built up between you two, but she doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, she pulls you in closer.

Your other hand cups her opposite breast, fingers squeezing just enough to earn another quiet noise from her throat.

“Keep that up,” Ellie mutters, her voice thick with arousal, “and I’m gonna have to teach you a little lesson.”

She pinches your side— just enough to make you jolt in surprise. You shoot her a look.

“Save your lecture for after,” you say, voice low as you mouth your way down the curve of her breast. You suck lightly at the skin there, leaving faint, wet marks in the wake of your tongue. You kiss where you bite. Bite where you kiss. It’s messy, a little sloppy, but god it’s good.

Your hand slides down, slow and curious. You trace along the soft ridges of her stomach, fingers skating over sun warmed skin and the subtle muscle underneath. The faint outline of her abs is enough to make your breath catch.

Of course she had a nice body. The idiot surfed nearly every damn day. She was insane at it, too. All that paddling and balance and salt and sun — yeah, of course she looked like this.

“You’re wasting time,” Ellie murmurs, tugging gently at your hair again. This time her grip leads you down, tilting your head until you’re staring back up at her, lips still ghosting the edge of her chest.

Your eyes lock. Yours: dazed, glassy. Hers: dark, a little glazed over too, like she’s holding back more than she’s letting out. Your phone buzzes again across the room, for the fourth time now, but neither of you flinch.

She notices.

“Up,” she says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“I said up.” Ellie coughs once, eyes darting to the side. Her voice tries to sound stern, commanding, but there’s a crack in it. Like she’s unsure whether she’s being too bold.

You straighten slowly, confused at first, but letting her guide the moment. Ellie steps forward, hands firm at your hips, and gently walks you back until the edge of the counter catches behind your thighs.

She taps at them, and you get the memo. You hop up with a soft laugh, and she steadies you as you settle on the cold metal surface. Legs parted on either side of her, knees bent loosely. She leans in, her hands soothing along your thighs, rubbing slow shapes with her thumbs like she’s mapping something. Then she pats them —twice— just soft enough to earn a glance from you.

She’s grinning. Just a little. High and trying not to show it too much.

You nearly laugh, but bite the inside of your cheek to stay in it.

Her fingers dip lower, to the button of your shorts. She pauses, looking up.

You nod.

Ellie pops the button open gently. Her fingertips work the zipper next, slow and careful, before easing the waistband down. You lift your hips to help, and she guides the shorts to your ankles. She tosses them in the direction of her own discarded shirt without thinking.

Then she sees it.

The small, spreading wet patch on your underwear. The room suddenly feels heavier, quieter, like that alone said more than either of you had yet.

Her gaze lingers. Yours drop to the floor.

She doesn’t say anything.

But her breathing deepens, and so does yours.

“That’s cute,” Ellie says, her voice laced with a hint of teasing. She taps lightly at the center of your underwear, right over that fucking damp spot, and the sound it makes is barely there — but it echoes through you like a bell.

The world seems to narrow, sounds dimming at the edges. You can’t even hear the hum of the freezer anymore. Just your pulse in your ears and the soft shift of her breathing.

That tap shouldn’t have made your knees tremble, but here you were — already dizzy from the build up. Your chest tight, your lungs forgetting how to breathe for a beat too long.

There’s something a little tentative in the way Ellie holds herself still afterward. Like she doesn’t want to push you, even though her hand hovers exactly where you need it. It’s kind of sweet, really — how she waits.

How she always seems to need your permission a hundred different ways before her confidence kicks in.

You know her well enough to read the hesitation between the lines of her expression. She wants you, but she won’t move first. Not all the way. Not unless you give her something back.

“Cute won’t do it,” you murmur, voice low and throaty with want. You reach down and place your hand over hers, gently curling her fingers so they press more firmly against you. Heat blooms through your stomach as the pressure deepens. You swear you can feel the pulse in your core against the tips of her fingers.

Yeah, that’s nice.

Ellie breathes in, slow and shaky. Her lashes flutter once as the scent of your arousal hits her. You see it, it stuns her for a second; and her fingers twitch slightly under yours. She doesn’t move them away, though.

Not even close.

Your hips roll forward without much thought, nudging your slick heat into her palm. The friction is faint, buffered by fabric, but you chase it anyway. You want her hand there. You want her everywhere.

She blinks, dazed. “Y’sure?” she whispers, her voice so quiet it feels like it was meant for the air between your mouths and nowhere else.

She still hasn’t moved her hand. Just lets it rest there, the pads of her fingers soft over your slit, like she’s waiting to be told again. Like she won’t take more than you give.

You nod, fast, eager. “Yeah,” you breathe. It comes out needy. Honest. Maybe too much, but she deserves your too much.

Ellie swallows. And you swear, her pupils blow wide enough to swallow the green around them.

Ellie blinked slowly, pushing her thoughts aside as her fingers found the edge of your underwear. She hesitated for half a second —just long enough to collect herself— before gently nudging the fabric to the side. The cotton clung for a moment, then gave way, revealing the heat underneath.

The sound that followed was barely audible, but thick — sticky, wet, and unmistakably obscene. It made Ellie’s knees falter, breath catching in her throat like she hadn’t fully prepared herself for how turned on you were.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she hovered, then carefully let them glide down the soft length of your pussy.

She moved slowly —curiously— drawing her fingers through the warm wetness to get a feel for you, her brows knitting the tiniest bit as her touch mapped out something new. Her gaze stayed fixed between your legs, lips parted just a touch. Reverent. Almost awestruck.

You twitched under her hand and exhaled hard, unable to keep quiet even though she hadn’t even touched your clit yet. The tension in your core had already twisted so tight it felt like you were teetering right at the edge. Every part of you fluttered and pulled tight, your gut flipping over itself like you were about to fall.

“I hope you don’t have sand under your nails,” you rasped, trying for teasing but landing somewhere closer to breathless. You weren’t sure if you were joking or praying.

Ellie’s eyes flicked up at you, amused. Her head tilted to the side, that sly little smile appearing: faint, but definitely there.

“You want an audience?” she murmured, fingers still tracing lazy, feather light strokes. She didn’t wait for an answer before dipping lower again, the pads of her fingers slick from your arousal.

You blinked fast, heart stuttering. “No?” you managed, quieter now.

“Then keep it down,” Ellie said, barely above a whisper. “Save your voice.”

And with that, she shifted her thumb up, easing it over your clit with an infuriating amount of patience; just the lightest, circling pressure. You gasped, hips jumping under her touch.

Then she slid her fingers down, gathering more of you before slowly easing two of them inside. The stretch was steady, careful.

You clenched around her without meaning to.

Ellie breathed in through her nose, calming herself. Her hand moved with such slow precision it made your eyes flutter shut. But her gaze never left you.

She wanted to see what she was doing to you.

All of it.

Ellie’s fingers moved deeper, pushing in with intention but never rushing it. She let you adjust to the length before she even thought about thrusting, holding still in that first stretch as your body clenched, then gave way around her. You felt her shift slightly—just enough for her fingers to gently curve and test how your body responded.

You made a noise —small, involuntary— and her hips twitched like the sound shocked her, like she wasn’t ready for how much it affected her. One of her hands shot up to cover your mouth instinctively, and the other still inside of you. She needed something to hold on to. Some kind of anchor while she watched you fall apart.

“Relax,” Ellie whispered. Her voice was low and warm, soft against the tension rippling through you.

Relax?

She was stroking right against that place that made your own fingers curl and your spine arch off the counter. Her thumb slid up, barely there, and flicked once over your swollen clit before moving away again. Like she knew just how much to give you, and how much to withhold. Your jaw dropped open with a stuttered sound that never really made it out, and you could feel yourself spiraling.

Your head lolled back. Eyes rolled. The heel of your sneaker jabbed against her hipbone, like you were trying to get closer, to grind yourself deeper into her touch. The overhead light from your phone lit the sharp lines of her collarbone, the rise and fall of her bare chest, her eyes narrowed as she watched you unravel in real time.

“Deeper—” you gasped out, voice ragged. “Yeah. Oh, yeah, that’s fucking good. Curl them a little mor—”

You didn’t even finish the sentence. A full bodied groan split out of you, deep and open mouthed. Your thighs trembled around her hand. You swore you could feel every detail of her fingers — every flex and drag. The pressure, the shape of her nails, the way she filled you just right. Almost too right.

Ellie slipped her fingers out suddenly. Your hips jolted at the loss.

“Wha—?”

She didn’t explain. She just placed her hands firmly on your hips, pulling you toward the edge of the counter, urging you forward like she needed you closer. You nearly lost your balance. One hand instinctively shot back to catch yourself. Your cap had shifted, crooked on your head now, forgotten. The sound of the bonfire outside barely registered anymore.

“Push,” Ellie murmured. You blinked down at her, confused — but she wasn’t talking to you. She was talking to herself.

She lowered to her knees with calm focus, her expression unreadable but her movements full of purpose. She hooked your underwear the rest of the way down your legs, handling them with surprising care — folding them and setting them aside like she didn’t want them to touch anything sticky or grimy. Her fingers slid up your thighs again, firm and slow.

Then she leaned forward.

Oh, no way.

“Roll,” she said, almost under her breath.

Her tongue rolled up over your clit in a slow, confident stroke, and at the same time, her fingers slid back inside — sinking in with ease, like they’d never left. The sudden double-sensation made your legs clamp around her shoulders and your whole body tense.

A helpless, mewling sound left your throat. You tried to hold it in.

Failing.

The finger-tongue combo was insane. She kept the rhythm steady at first —almost taunting— then gave in to the way your hips rolled against her mouth, matching your pace with small, sure movements. She flicked her tongue just enough to send your nerves lighting up again, mouth sealed to your clit in a way that made your thighs shake.

“Mm, and enjoy,” Ellie murmured against you.

You groaned, loud. “Did you just fucking quote me—?”

You tried to laugh, but the sound came out broken, chopped up by a series of shudders and breathless exhales. Your hips bucked. Her mouth was warm, so warm, and she was sucking gently now, tongue flicking in practiced circles like she’d been waiting for this, thinking about this.

She smiled against your skin. You could feel it.

“I guess I did,” she said, voice muffled.

And then she hummed.

The low vibration against your clit hit you like a jolt. You forgot how to breathe. Your fingers gripped the counter so hard your palm ached, the only grounding point in a moment where everything else —your thoughts, your nerves, your body— felt like it was spinning out.

────────────────────────

“Where the hell did you and Ellie go off to last night?” Dina asked, lazily mopping up a spill behind the counter. Her voice was scratchy, like she hadn’t fully woken up yet — or was halfway through recovering from the night before.

You adjusted your sunglasses on the bridge of your nose and kept your eyes on the countertop you were already wiping down for the second time. Today wasn’t blazing hot like the others. You hadn’t even bothered with a proper fit. Just the shirt, shorts, and the ball cap from last night, which now sat abandoned on the edge of the counter, slightly sand-stained and bent out of shape.

The morning rush had passed. You’d shown up earlier than your usual shift and scrubbed everything down with an obsessive rhythm, spraying until the glass shimmered and the stainless steel reflected your flushed face.

“A walk,” you say, flatly. “We went home after.”

You clear your throat and keep wiping. Dina doesn’t seem suspicious — just nosy. Her face is pale, and she’s moving like someone who had one too many beers and zero Advil.

The bell above the door jingles. Your hand freezes.

“Lemon Peel Creamery,” you say automatically, eyes flicking to the glass window of the order counter.

And then you see her.

Ellie. Wet hair, skin sun-pink and tight from saltwater. A crumpled dollar in her hand. You blink. She blinks back, face unreadable.

“A cone,” she says, tossing the dollar your way. You catch it. Nod.

“Lemon,” she adds.

You nearly flinch.

“Lemon?” Dina pipes up, wrinkling her nose. “You don’t even like lemon.” She nudges you with an elbow. “That was, like, your one personality trait. Strictly mint-chocolate chip, or nothing.”

You manage a small laugh.

“I do now,” Ellie says, eyes still on you. Smiling just enough to make your stomach turn.

────────────────────────

264 notes · View notes

soltwent · 6 months ago

Text

LOATHING YOU | vi arcane

Highland Parks keeps its secrets sealed — what happens there, stays there. You’re a seasoned FBI agent on New Jersey’s top crime-solving team, known for getting things done. Your partner, Violet West, is just as sharp — maybe sharper. The rivalry is real, the bond even more so. Together, you’re unstoppable. Apart? Something’s missing.

🔍 ONE SHOT & AU | 18+

inaccurate descriptions of profession (I’m not a professional), slow-burn, eventual sex, modern fbi!au, sub!reader, dom!vi, work rivals, afab reader, reader is an envious overachiever, vi and powder aren’t related (friends), so much banter, spitting, a bit of sexual praise, fingering (r!receiving), pussy eating (r!receiving), crime scenes briefly mentioned, vi’s last name is: west, reader’s last name is “thorne”

15k word-count.

────────────────────────

"Great," you muttered, rolling your eyes at the red light like it had personally offended you. One hand gripped the leather steering wheel, while the other balanced a bagel slathered in thick cream cheese and peppered with everything seasoning. You took a bite, savoring the soft, fresh bread — a far cry from the jaw-breaking bagels they served at the headquarters.

No need to spend the rest of your shift nursing a sore jaw, right?

South Jersey always gave you this weird ghost-town vibe. It was like all the real Jersey energy got stuck up North, and down here? It was all tumbleweeds and out-of-towners. And the drivers? Somehow even worse.

"Dude, go!" you groaned, smacking the horn with your free hand.

The truck in front jolted to life at the sound of your obnoxious horn, hesitating like it couldn't decide if it actually wanted to move. But you were late for work, and patience wasn't exactly on the menu today. The light had barely turned green when the Ford finally screeched forward, turning right without so much as a flick of its blinker.

Not even surprised.

Okay, maybe calling this place a 'ghost town' was a bit dramatic, but it wasn't exactly buzzing with life either. A population of five thousand? It wasn't tiny, but small enough that you pretty much knew everyone, or at least recognized their faces.

You rip off another chunk of your breakfast, chewing thoughtfully as you kept her eyes on the road ahead.

The headquarters sat smack in the middle of town, like the town's claim to fame. Not that it had much else going for it, anyway. The place was known for one thing and one thing only: a team of agents who dealt with crime and shady stuff, navigating the waters of illegal activities with professional ease.

And you were one of them. FBI agent — living the dream. Except for mornings like this, you weren’t so sure. Some days you questioned all of it. Why didn't you go for Wall Street like every other uptight, middle-aged guy who loves his over priced suits and has a receding hairline? But, of course, you were not a man. And would never be a man. So, that was that, unfortunately.

Other days though? Absolutely loved it. The thrill, the purpose. It kept you going.

You slammed your car door shut, the headlights flickering as if saying goodbye. Your boots clicked on the pavement as you tossed her brown paper bag with trash into a nearby bin, finishing off the last bite of the bagel while juggling your bag and keys in one hand.

Thorne. Not exactly a name that struck fear into anyone's heart. You were, after all, everything someone would want in a woman: totally normal. And boring as hell.

"G'morning," you called out, voice rippling through the main office full of her co-workers as you scanned your ID and pressed the door open with your forearm. Inside, it was warmer — nothing fancy, just your typical government building. Functional, plain, and definitely not the kind of place that got decorated for Thanksgiving.

November in Jersey wasn't exactly charming. Sure, it had its cozy moments but it was mostly cold, wet, and kinda depressing. You shrugged off her trench coat, and tossed your bag onto the desk, just as Jayce swiveled around in his stool, that annoying smirk plastered across his face.

"Wow. You're late," he teased, his eyes darting to the clock behind her.

"Like, late-late. Late as hell."

You then shot him a look, knowing full well that you was over half an hour late. Unlike everyone else who was seated and working as usual.

"You think I don't know that? I got caught up in traffic," you say, the lie slipping out as easily as it always did on mornings like these. The truth? There was almost never traffic in Highland Parks. Maybe during the holidays or when something big was going on, but never on a random weekday morning.

You started unloading your personal bag, pulling out the essentials: a still-steaming insulated cup of coffee, pens, some files you’d taken come to look over, and your planner. Everything else was digital of course, but you liked having these things on hand. It just made you feel more grounded.

Jayce raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying her excuse. "Traffic? Don't tell me you're coming down with schizophrenia.”

You then rolled your eyes, brows pinching together. "You don't 'come down' with schizophrenia, Jayce. It's not a cold that comes and goes." You didn't bother looking up at him, already used to the back-and-forth banter. They both were close enough for this to be just another day in the office.

"That still doesn't explain whatever you've got smeared around your mouth," Jayce quipped, pointing at you like he'd just caught you in some criminal act.

You halted, then swiped at your lips, just now realizing the cream cheese from the bagel you were eating earlier had betrayed you. "Shut up."

Jayce spun back around to his dual monitors, both lit up with the usual chaos. One screen was a mess of opened unnamed files, highlighted sections jumping out at him like some kind of fucking neon nightmare. The other? A classified CIA document he probably shouldn't have access to but, hey, Jayce was Jayce. A pain in the ass sure, but damn good at what he did, and you could respect that at least.

You plopped into your chair and rolled it forward, the familiar hum of the workspace coming to life. Resting your head in your hand, and letting out a sigh that felt as if it had been building up for days on end. Sleeping through your alarm again. It was becoming a pattern, and you was starting to seriously think about just camping out here at headquarters.

At least then you wouldn't have to rush to work every other week because of your growing habits.

You glanced around the room. Everyone else was locked in, focused on their screens, their tasks. A hushed few conversations floated in the background — just the usual work chatter between people you’d known for years now. They were solid. Resilient. You felt lucky to be surrounded by a team you could count on, even on days like this where your brain felt like it was running dry.

You wiped away the last remnants of cream cheese from your lips, still mildly annoyed that Jayce had been the only one to point it out. Not that you wanted everyone in the office to make a big deal out of it, but seriously, not one person gave you a heads-up?

Jesus Christ. It was way too early to care about that kind of stuff, especially right now.

Outside, the sky hung heavy with thick clouds, the kind that obviously promised rainfall later — great just what you needed. You moved your hand over the cursor, pulling up the files for the marriage fraud case you’d been slogging through. It was equally as exciting as watching paint dry on a fence. But a job's a job, and no one ever said working for the government was supposed to be fun.

Your eyes scanned the screen, index finger clicking away as you moved through the organized files. Your routine, monotonous. It was keeping your hands busy, at least. If nothing else, the day had nowhere to go but up from here.

────────────────────────

“The money transferred to the spouse was unlabeled, and we're talking a decent amount. Anywhere from a grand up to five grand. Normally, separate bank accounts wouldn't draw too much attention, but in this case it's a red flag." You say, half to yourself as you rummaged through the stuffed file drawer. One folder was delicately tucked under your chin, held in place as you flipped through files with your manicured fingers. Brows furrowed in concentration as you searched for a similar case.

Tax fraud cases were like the PP&J to your workload, with a few shady marriage fraud scenarios thrown in to mix things up. Sometimes the scandalous ones were entertaining enough to break the pattern, but this one? Torture.

Jayce stood nearby, leaning back against the spruce-wood counter, which was digging into his lower back. He took a slow sip of his iced oat-milk latte, listening to you work and ramble through your day's work. It had been a quiet morning, with nothing dramatic or exciting happening, which should've been a good thing.

Still, it left you with that uneasy feeling — like the calm before a storm.

You were never relaxed for this long. Clocked in for almost three hours and had surprisingly plowed through a solid amount of work, even with a fried brain that was practically begging for a nap. That was another thing you found weird. You were usually a mess by now, half-distracted or complaining about some new crisis.

The files slapped onto the counter with a loud thud as you set them aside, hands brushing together like you were dusting off the whole ordeal. Jayce’s eyes flicked to your bare hands: no ring, no sign of marriage or any serious relationship. You were always all work, never any talk about a significant other or anything personal.

You slowly sighed pushed your hair back from your face, shutting the file cabinet with a firm click and locking it for good measure. Sliding your personal key into your pocket, ready to move on from whatever boring task awaited you next.

"This Wren Staples woman is kind of smart. I mean," Jayce held up a hand before you could even start to question his logic, giving you that familiar look. "I'm not saying it's right, but if someone offered me five grand a month to stay silent and just show up to some fancy business dinners… you wouldn't have to ask me twice."

He paused, waiting for a reaction, but you just stared at him, face scrunched up like you couldn't decide if you were more irritated or confused. Clearly not amused. Jayce let out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes like this conversation was nothing but a lost cause. Adjusting his belt, he gave it one last go, this time sounding more defeated than the first time.

"Forget it." He waved it off dismissively, taking a long sip of his drink while you mentally rubbed a hand down your face in pure frustration.

"Yeah, I will forget it," you say dryly. "Because if anyone heard you say that, you'd be stuck at the front desk while a janitor took your position. Or," you added, picking up your files, "you'd just be fired."

Jayce smirked, a dimple creasing his cheek. "You're obsessed with the idea of me getting fired, but who else would have your back when West over here starts breathing down your neck?"

At the mention of West, your mood took a nose-dive. Violet West — the co-worker from the literal pits of hell. If you had to sum her up in three words it, was be easy: haughty, a know-it-all, and self-indulgent.

You’d like to say you didn't hate West, but that would be a lie. And sure, lying wasn't illegal, but pretending to tolerate Violet felt criminal. The woman was all sharp words, choppy hair, and superiority complex wrapped in a suit.

"Yeah, you mean 'she-who-must-not-be-named'?" you mutter as you both walked down the dim hallways, the usual morning light blocked out by the overcast skies. Jayce snorted.

"What? Is she a forbidden topic now, Ms. Thorne?" Jayce raised an eyebrow, teasing as they headed back to the main room. You shot him a long side-glance, silently telling him to knock it off as they neared West's usual... territory.

You scanned your ID at the door, unlocking it with a beep and pushing it open for the both of them. Your expression blank, and voice deadpan.

“Just very, very taboo.”

────────────────────────

You rip a piece of tape off the roll with your teeth, holding it between yours lips for a moment before carefully sticking it onto the document you were patching up. The team had already gone through a ridiculous amount of ink today, and printing another copy of this page would be a waste. A little tape, and it was good as new. Well, good enough. No one would notice unless they were trying to be a detective about it.

Smoothing the tape down with the pad of your thumb, you stood up and pushed your chair back with a small scrape. So far, this week wasn't too bad. It was only Tuesday, but still better than the disaster that was yesterday. Not that it mattered much — work was work, and that was that.

"Lunch started ten minutes ago,"

You turned to see Mel, stirring honey into her ginger tea, the spoon gently clinking against the glass. The smell hit you, and seconds in you were already fighting the urge to grimace. Tea wasn't your thing. It always left this weird aftertaste, like lukewarm juice that had been forgotten in a car on a hot day. Gross.

Mel wasn't bad, though. Laid-back, easy to deal with, which was more than you could say about most people at the HQ. In your mind, everyone had something annoying about them, and you weren’t shy about digging for it. Nobody's perfect, why pretend?

You laid your stack of papers down, giving Mel a tight, thin-lined smile with a small shrug. "Who else is gonna organize our cases by date, importance, and agent?"

"You do know there are six other people working in this office, right?" Mel raised an eyebrow, amused but not surprised by your martyr complex.

You knew you were not technically responsible for everything. You weren’t dense. But every time someone else tried to handle the file-work, things ended up in a chaotic mess, and that drove you crazy. You’d rather just do it on your own, your way, even if it meant taking on more. Loosening your tie, slipping a finger into the knot and giving it a tug as you got back to sorting through the paperwork.

Policy guides? Tossed onto the pile on her left. Investigation files? Those got dropped into a drawer with a firm hip-check to shut it. Personnel records? Neatly tucked into a black folder. You had a system, and it worked.

"Exactly," the words came out as a drawl, not really in the mood for chit-chat as you worked through the stack. You still needed to collect some files, but that could wait until later, maybe even tomorrow. The week had been more relaxed since most of the tasks were in-office, which was honestly a relief. The days when public affairs or training sessions were on the agenda? Those were the ones that pushed you to the edge of madness.

As you started to walk away, Mel called after you, "Tell Jayce his phone's rung fifteen times in the past twenty minutes!"

Of course it had. Jayce avoided work calls like the plague.

You shut the door behind you and slipped a hand into your right pocket, pulling out your cellphone. It was mostly your work phone — you kept your personal life strictly separate. The idea of mixing the two was a disaster waiting to happen. Scrolling through your contacts, you found the number you were searching for, and tapped it. You needed to update the attorney general. Your boots clicked softly against the floor while stroding down the hallway, phone pressed to your ear.

It rang a couple of times before a voice answered. "FBI Legal Division."

You inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly to gather your thoughts before responding. Tone direct, professional. "Thorne speaking. Just calling to update you. We've covered all files and documents this past week. Fingerprinting is being handled by Shimes, and the lab services are currently in progress. Everything else looks good for now. If anything changes, I'll let you know as soon as possible."

You kept it short and to the point, just the way it needed to be.

A satisfied hum came through the line. "Great work, I'll review the details and let you know if I need anything else."

You thanked your attorney, lowering the phone as you pushed open the doors to the lounge. You had about twenty minutes to eat which was more than enough, though the thought of food didn't exactly thrill you. When your mind was full of work, your stomach didn't have room to complain. Sliding your cellular device into your pocket, you noticed a few co-workers giving you a glance.

"Where've you been?" Powder asked, nosy as ever. Powder Shimes was hunched over, chewing on what looked like the remains of a sad, microwaved breakfast burrito —probably from hours ago— and washing it down with a can of Dr. Pepper that looked far too room temperature. Was that ketchup on her burrito?

Ekko tilted his head, giving her a once-over. "Probably the HQ. She looks pretty pissed."

You rolled your eyes and yanked open the lounge fridge. Taking your time to riffle through the bagged lunches, each marked with large initials to avoid any office food theft drama. You grabbed your pre-prepped Caesar salad —the one you didn't have time for the day before— and a small bottle of water.

"Where's Jayce?" you asked, settling into a chair a seat away from the two of them. You ignored their commentary about your supposed "pissed off" look. It wasn't like you were mad, but your resting face had always given off those vibes. "Matter of fact, where's everyone at?"

Powder and Ekko were always together, so their presence wasn't exactly surprising. Mel was eating at her desk while taking phone calls. Jayce was MIA for reasons unknown, even though he was usually first to hog the entire couch in the break lounge. Caitlyn popped in sometimes after training, but you hadn't really expected to see her today.

You popped the lid off the salad and grabbed a plastic fork from the tin holder nearby. As for West? Well, she wasn't here either, which was a relief. Lunch without Violet West around was a small victory in itself. It wasn't like seeing her would brighten your day. If anything, the distance was a blessing.

You stabbed at the Caesar salad, spearing a few leaves and bringing them to your mouth. A quiet lunch was all you really needed right now.

"Caitlyn went to grab some stuff from Home Depot. Something about the sink breaking. Something with the piping. I don't know," Ekko shrugged, digging into his half-full peanut butter cup ice cream with a plastic spoon. Meanwhile, Powder took another horrific bite of her ketchup-slathered burrito, opening yet another packet of ketchup like it was a delicacy.

You uncomfortably clenched your jaw, doing your absolute best to ignore Powder’s obnoxious eating habits. She gulped down her food with an unnecessary loud sigh and crushed her soda can with a loud crack. "Like Ekko said, Cait’s at the store. Jayce? Off doing whatever, said he'd be back after lunch. Vi?" Powder raised her hands once mentioning the girl in mock surrender, a crumpled napkin in her palm. "No idea where she is, and honestly? Don't care."

You picked at the chicken in the Caesar salad, chewing slowly. You really needed to up your protein intake, especially with how grueling training days had been. But Caesar salads? The only kind you could enjoy without wanting to throw the bowl out the window. "So, it's just you two?"

"Yup," Ekko confirmed, licking his spoon clean.

Spectacular. Stuck with these two for the next fifteen minutes. Not that long, but in moments like this, you found herself wondering how they were the same people she did real-world investigations with. Ekko, a grown man, devouring ice cream like a five-year-old, and Powder, well.

"That's disgusting, Shimes," you deadpanned, eyeing the ungodly amount of ketchup Powder was consuming. Ekko barely stifled a laugh, grinning against his spoon. You rubbed your temples, trying to ease the headache that had started creeping in. Who knew the break room could actually make things worse?

Powder scoffed, leaning back in her chair, her work jacket tossed aside. Now just in a wrinkled button-down, she looked far too comfortable for someone whose eating habits were under fire.

"Like I care. That was delicious. I'd give it like an eight out of ten — only because it was kinda cold in the center."

That earned a grimace from you. You did not need to know how cold her burrito was or how much she enjoyed it in great detail. As much as Jayce could be a pain, you’d trade this scenery for his company any day. At least Jayce wasn't… this.

Just as you were starting to imagine a more peaceful lunch break, a gruff female voice broke through your thoughts. "Thanks for saving me a seat."

The sound of the chair scraping against the floor made you freeze. Ekko shot you a knowing look, and Powder’s shitty grin only widened.

"Surprise guest!" Powder announced with a clap, running a hand through her hair like she was prepping a show.

Surprise guest? More like surprise loss of appetite. Because who else would be sitting next to you, shoulder to shoulder, than Violet West herself. No invitation, no polite "is this seat taken?" just West, plopping down like she owned the place.

Your fork hovered above your salad, chewing coming to an abrupt stop. You stared down at the greens, the moment of peace you had been savoring now utterly ruined.

You've got to be kidding me.

────────────────────────

Three shots rang out. You adjusted your earplugs with one hand and tightened your grip on the Glock 19M with the other. The gloves were pulled snug over your hands, and you squeezed the gun a little harder than usual. You didn't bother with safety glasses during training. What was the point? You didn't wear them on the job.

Agents like you often practiced shooting all kinds of targets — stationary, moving, from cover to cover, on the move. The whole deal. Training days like these were crucial for staying sharp, and even though they ran these drills once a week, you always tried to push yourself, especially with your Glock. The gun had a way of making your skin crawl every time you fired it, but you had to be good with it. You hadn't had to use it much in the field, thankfully, but when you did, it never felt great.

"Not bad, Thorne," Caitlyn muttered as she patted your wrist, adjusting it slightly and motioning for you to fix your posture. You hadn't even realized you were holding the gun so close to your body until she gave that look. A lump of saliva slid down your throat and you nodded. Caitlyn was a solid instructor. She didn't sugarcoat anything, if you were doing something wrong, she told you straight up, step by step, how to fix it.

You deeply appreciated that.

The days rotated every week. Monday meant outdoor training, Tuesday indoor, then back outdoors on Wednesday, and so on from there. Weeks of drills. Not your personal favorite, but it was part of the job, and you had to be ready to reach for your waist when things went sideways.

You bit your cheek, thinking about how unpredictable this town was. The citizens too. Not that you were any better — you weren't exactly a poster child for predictability yourself. You let out a breath, firmly holding the handle of the Glock as if it could settle your nerves.

Caitlyn handed you a pair of safety glasses, breaking your focus. "You need to wear these. None of that 'I'm too good for this' nonsense. If you lose an eye because you're being stubborn, you're not touching a firearm again. Take them."

Irritable but not wrong. You weren’t offended. Rumor had it someone lost an eye once because they ignored safety, though that was before her time here at the HQ.

"Thanks," you say, slowly taking the glasses from her hand. She stomped off, her heavy boots thudding against the ground as her vest shifted with each step. You put on the glasses and popped your knuckles, already feeling that strain in your hands that would stick until the end of the month.

Nearby, Powder was lounging with her legs spread, while Jayce gnawed on a marshmallow-studded protein bar. Powder’s face was slick with sweat as she gulped water, some strands of her azure hair sticking to her forehead. Ekko was swapping out his gun, peeling off his thick vector gloves.

You placed your weapon down and rolled your tense shoulders, feeling a knot in your neck release. The relief was short-lived, though, she glanced over at Caitlyn, who was now standing in front of West. Another knot formed in your gut, this one a mix of annoyance and envy. You clenched her jaw unconsciously.

Of course, Caitlyn was probably praising the hell out of West. She was the best with the weapons out of everyone, aside from Caitlyn herself. Powder was more into forensic work, Ekko handled lab services, and Jayce was a crime-solving machine, and you?

Just... good. At a little bit of everything. You were organized, which was great, but that was also Mel’s job. A deep inhale filled your lungs, and you sighed heavily. You were useful — a great help, a mix of skills, but nothing extraordinary.

Ekko’s voice snapped you back to reality. "Dude, instead of choking back a hundred protein bars, try starting with eggs in the morning. Those are good, but God damn."

He was talking to Jayce, who was hunched over, elbows on his knees. You resisted the urge to critique his posture. You didn't, but that was primarily because it would make you a hypocrite. Caitlyn had just corrected yours. You slipped off your own gloves, then decided to stand and stretch your legs, feeling more awake on your feet.

"Eggs are nasty as hell," Jayce waved Ekko off, and he shrugged, half agreeing as he lazily sipped his water.

"Cottage cheese? Tofu? Greek yogurt?" Ekko continued, trying to offer solid protein options, but Jayce’s chewing slowed at his suggestions. Even though Ekko’s advice came from someone who clearly knew what he was talking about, Jayce’s eyes narrowed, his tanned skin glistening under the fluorescent lights.

A firm smack on your back snapped you upright before you could even think about it, body reacting on instinct. Caitlyn’s voice echoed in your mind, reminding you about your posture, and for a split second, you wondered if you'd hunched over under the weight of your responsibilities again. But when you turned to see who had hit you, it wasn't Caitlyn and her sharp, fine eyebrows. Instead, you were met by a different pair — thick and scarred along the edges.

West.

Your stomach dropped. Caitlyn, you respected. Caitlyn had the right to correct your posture, whether in training or in office. Violet, on the other hand, had not. Jayce could get away with being a little touchy sometimes, and Mel, if it was educational, but Violet? No. Never.

"You aren't a Pilates teacher," you say in a calm, yet perfectly passive-aggressive tone. Your brows furrowed as you tried to smooth out the back of the suit jacket you had on, trying to ease any trace of Violet’s unwanted touch. In another timeframe, you might've smacked her hand away, but today you settled for being politely firm.

Violet, of course, gave you another pat, this one being more condescending than the first. "Another profession? I'd be making bank. Every housewife would be in my classes," she replied, her voice smug and dripping with fake charm.

Your skin prickled with irritation, patience running thin by the second. You would've given everything for earplugs at the moment. The sound of Violet’s voice was enough to make your head throb. Meanwhile, Jayce, ever the opportunist, chose this exact moment to stay silent, focusing more on his marshmallow protein bar than on you, who was clearly about to bite down hard enough to crack a molar.

"You'd be making below minimum wage. No one would willingly attend those classes," you dragged out, voice flat and uninterested, though the tension in your jaw spoke volumes. Violet didn't have to do much to get under your skin, and honestly, she didn't even have to try. She was the walking embodiment of something that made your veins itch.

"Realistically, that is."

Violet studied your face, noticing the way your expression had tightened, a visible vein of pure irritation. It wasn't like you abhorrd Violet — if you did, you would've moved locations a long time ago. But there was a fine line between tolerance and whatever the hell this was. Tolerable, in your world, meant zero contact. Silence. Absolute distance. And right now, West was far too close for comfort.

"Realistically, a business run by someone confident in their growth is more likely to succeed than someone who's just a follower."

Violet’s smug response hit you like a match to gasoline. You could feel the heat of your frustration under your skin, a familiar sensation that always seemed to bubble up during your rare, but tense interactions. Most days, you two kept your distance, sticking to cold, judgmental glances. But on days like this, when they were forced into the same space, it was inevitable snarky exchanges, backhanded compliments, and that thick, suffocating air of competition.

You bit back the flood of insults threatening to slip out. Pressing your chapped lips together, irritated by the dry, rough feeling but too focused on the current situation to care. "You can't speak from experience," you finally muttered, knowing full well that it was a weak retort. You weren’t in the mood to come up with anything smart. Keeping it safe was the safest bet for your sanity right now.

Violet, naturally, didn't miss a beat. "I'll have that privilege one day." she flicked her ID badge with a cocky flourish, the engraved letters of her last name catching in the light. Her face was twisted into a self-satisfied smirk, the kind that made you want to roll her eyes so hard they'd get stuck.

There was nothing motivating about Violet’s arrogance. Only aggravating.

You cleared your throat, forcing a thin smile.

"Fun talking to you, as always," you said, determined to get the last word in, as usual. Your exchanges were like a never-ending thumb war, both of you pushing for dominance without truly getting anywhere. Two years of this, and absolutely nothing had changed.

Violet smirked, clearly enjoying herself. "I'm flattered, but I can't help wondering if you're considering stand up comedy for those with lobotomies." She punctuated the remark with a firm hand on your shoulder.

Your stomach churned at the touch, and you shrugged off Violet’s hand like it was a spider crawling on you. Resisting the urge to vomit right then and there, you reached down for your Glock, thumb brushing over the magazine release as it could somehow end this insufferable conversation.

You needed to reload, which at least gave you a reason to focus on something else.

"Be my guest," you said flatly, eyes fixated on the gun, not on the smug asshole hovering over you.

Her lips quirked again in amusement, but she stayed quiet, watching as you methodically reloaded the 19M, clicking the slide back in place with more force than necessary. You were hyper-focused now, anything to block out Violet’s presence.

You slipped the gloves back on, fastening the Velcro tightly, mentally preparing yourself to get back to training.

"Training's over for the day, you know," Violet said, casually reminding you. She was annoyingly familiar with your habits on the range, probably because she always kept an eye on you, just waiting to see if you messed up.

You didn't bother looking up. "I'm aware. I prefer extra training."

"You hate training," Violet replied, her tone laced with smug knowingness. She clearly enjoyed pushing your buttons, and right now, you kinda wound tighter than the Velcro on your gloves.

"Like you'd know know." you simply say, cocking your head to crack your neck.

Your raised the Glock and fired at the nearest dummy, ending the conversation with a bang.

────────────────────────

The sweet relief of coffee never failed to satisfy Violet, even on days when everything else seemed to fall apart. She let her calloused fingers linger on the coffee maker as it hummed, her other hand twiddling a packet of sweetener absentmindedly. With nothing pressing on her mind or plate today, she pulled the pitcher from the machine and dragged her New York embroidered mug forward. The coffee poured steadily, just below the rim, and she tore the sweetener packet, dumping it in with practiced precision.

But before she could savor a sip, her forearm nudged open the lounge door, and — splash. Hot coffee cascaded over her freshly pressed suit, drenching her work pants and top in a scalding, sticky mess.

What—the fuck?

Violet's eyes slowly drifted down to the damage, the burning liquid stinging her skin beneath the fabric.

Her grip tightened on the mug as she looked up, fury already simmering behind her eyes.

And there, frozen in shock with wide eyes, was none other than you. Of course. Violet could see the words forming in your head before they even left your mouth; you never missing an opportunity to make things worse.

"Watch where you're going next time," you grumbled, tone dismissive, like the whole thing was somehow Violet’s fault. You had also whispered something under your breath, and it couldn't have been good. The coffee dripped silently between them, pooling on the floor and marking its territory on Violet’s ruined clothes. She had managed to get through the rain this morning without so much as a spot, but your clumsiness had managed to wreck her in mere seconds.

Violets’s scarred upper lip twitched in irritation. Was she being blamed? Really? "What are you in hurry for, the last few munchkins in the fridge? You don't exactly look busy, Thorne.”

Your eyebrows drew down slowly, eyes narrowing in offended disbelief. Violet might've found it amusing to mess with you in any other circumstance, but right now? Right now, it really irked her. She was being blamed for this, and she wasn't going to let it slide.

"If you've got time to throw insults, why don't you go and do Mel’s job again? After all, you went to school for years to play assistant at headquarters, right?" Violet’s words were sharp, deliberately cutting. It was a bitchy move, but she was indeed not in the mood.

You’d had been riding her nerves all week.

Monday, you’d shredded Violet’s files by "mistake," chalking it up to be tired. Tuesday, you’d nearly wrecked her Glock 17M and tried to convince Caitlyn it was just a mix-up. Wednesday, there were dirty looks and backhanded compliments in the middle of a meeting. And yesterday? You’d almost derailed an entire investigation with your impatience.

Two years of this, and it was finally pushing Violet to her limit. It wasn't just competitive banter anymore — it was real animosity. Violet had always tried to keep things light, a little teasing here and there, but you? You downright hated her or something, and it was getting mutual.

You, ever so unfazed, didn't even glance at the mess you’d made. "Who pissed in your coffee this morning?" you shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. "And don't worry about how I handle my tasks around here. Why don't you go cozy up to Caitlyn while I keep things easy and simple for you? Sound good?"

Violet clenched her jaw, her fingers tight around the now empty mug. This woman...

"You've got a lot of nerve," Violet snapped, her voice low but sharp, each word deliberate. "I don't have an issue with you, but for some reason, you're always trying to get on my bad side. I try to be halfway decent with you, but you always find a way to ruin that too." Violet stepped closer, exaggerating her words, hoping it would hit you harder. For someone who walks in heeled boots everyday, the shorter woman still hadn't quite figured out how to own them.

Before you could fire back, Violet cut you off.

"And if you want to accuse me of cozying up to Caitlyn, then take a good look at yourself, Thorne. Your surname fits you precisely. You're like a thorn to someone's side.“

You let out a sharp huff, clearly caught off guard by Violet's sudden willingness to stand her ground. You weren’t used to being confronted, especially by someone you considered to be an annoyance. Violet could see the gears turning, the effort you put into keeping your voice steady as she shot back.

"At least I have a good relationship with everyone. You pick and choose who you talk to. You're not down to earth. You're just a shitty person."

You felt your blood simmering, but you kept your expression neutral, even as the insult landed. By habit loosening your tie, fingers trembling just slightly with adrenaline, and tossed your now-empty mug into the trash bin by the door without a second thought.

The satisfying crack of glass echoed through the room, but she didn't care.

Not about the mug, not about your words. Not now.

She brushed past you, not sparing a second glance as she headed toward the restroom. The coffee was already soaking into her clothes, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to her skin. She peeled off her ruined pullover as she walked, letting it fall down her arms before she entered the bathroom, where she was greeted by her reflection.

Violet stared at herself for a moment, hair falling messily over one eye. It had grown longer than she liked, brushing just past her nose slightly. She pushed it away impatiently and leaned over the counter, scrubbing at her button-down with frustration. It was practically see through at the stain.

"Come on," she muttered through gritted teeth, working at the larger stains with more force than necessary. The top had cost her over fifty bucks, and the thought of it being ruined because of your clumsiness made her blood boil. If it had been some cheap shirt, she wouldn't have lost her cool like that, but it wasn't.

"Fucking come out, Jesus." Violet’s voice cracked slightly as she scrubbed harder, knowing full well she was only making it worse. But she couldn't walk back into the HQ with this mess on her. Not after what had just happened. She wasn't about to give you the satisfaction of seeing her like this.

As the stains slowly faded, her mind raced. Were you insecure? Violet didn't know, and frankly, she didn't care. The woman was a confusing mess of contradictions, and Violet had no desire to decipher her. All she knew was that you got under her skin, and made her head throb with frustration. An impatient groan escaped her lips as she managed to get some of the deeper stains out, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip.

Violet stared at the shirt, feeling like the whole situation was ridiculous. And yet, here she was, scrubbing out coffee stains and stewing over someone who should've been nothing more than an office inconvenience.

The urge to tell you off bubbled up again, but Violet bit it back. Sure, she was pissed, but wasn't trying to escalate this any further. She had done the right thing by standing up for herself, like anyone else would. There was no point in pushing things to the point of no return, where they might both end up fired and jobless.

She slung her ruined pullover over her shoulder and walked out of the women's restroom, her steps heavier with the weight of her lingering frustration.

She wasn't about to let it go, not completely, but she wasn't going to make it worse either.

If nothing else, she thought, I'm not worse than her. That was for sure. Violet had rattled her pride a little with the teasing, but it wasn't like she'd gone overboard. In fact, if you had any sense of humor, they could've had some fun with the back-and-forth. But no, the hostility from you felt different, like it was more personal. You ribbed Ekko and Powder too at times, but with Violet, it felt deeper, like there was something else fueling it.

As she exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping, she made her way down the hallways of the HQ, her mind still buzzing with the aftershocks of their argument.

"That was my favorite shirt," she muttered under her breath, glancing down at the faint coffee stains that still clung to the fabric.

────────────────────────

You grimace, hesitating before fully letting your eyes take in the crime scene photos clipped to the case folder in front of you. One side is filled with notes detailing the body discovered, the evidence collected by officers and K-9 units, while the other holds the photographs. It’s never easy looking at the dead, but this case in particular —one involving children and animals— settles like a weight in your stomach.

Just suck it up and focus.

Jayce is out today, which means his ridiculous pile of files is now your responsibility. For someone who jokes around constantly and eats while reviewing these kind of things, he’s got a stomach of fucking steel. You, on the other hand, find yourself letting out a quiet, uneasy strings of grunts as you shuffle a set of dated photos into an envelope hastily. You barely register your own signature as you scrawl it across the front before tossing it into the small brown box beside you leveled on Jayce’s chair.

The barely touched coffee on your desk doesn’t help your mood. Mel had been nice enough to bring drinks from the local coffee shop for everyone, but yours? It tasted watered down, and the undissolved brown sugar left a grainy texture that made it hard to enjoy. You had set it aside, already planning to let it get cold so you could toss it out without feeling guilty.

Bad coffee is worse than no coffee. You’d rather suffer through exhaustion than force yourself to drink something made by a barista who clearly didn’t know a basic coffee rule: to stir the damn sugar while it’s hot.

You bite the inside of your cheek, inhaling deeply, forcing yourself back into work mode.

Outside, thunder grumbles in the distance, and the printers rattle beside you, filling the silence of an otherwise empty space. The office is quieter than usual, the seat next to you noticeably unoccupied. Rainy Novembers are typical in Highland Parks, but in all honesty you don’t have much of an opinion on the weather. You spend most of your time indoors anyway.

Working.

Your stomach interrupts your train of thought, rumbling loudly in protest. You unconsciously glance at the digital clock near Jayce’s empty desk, its red numbers flickering back at you. Lunch passed a while ago. Not that it mattered. After spending hours handling Jayce’s case files, your appetite had somewhat disappeared. Your meal, along with your Diet Coke, was probably still sitting untouched in the lounge fridge.

Powder and Ekko are out training one-on-one with Caitlyn. Not your business, but you’re curious anyway. You always are. Why didn’t you ever get one-on-one training? Everyone else did.

Are you lacking something?

You chew on your thumbnail, the thought making an unwelcome home in your head. This always happened.

A sudden tap on the top of your head yanks you from your inner turmoil. You glance over your shoulder, expecting Viktor, the guy who fixes the printers and every other broken thing in HQ. Jayce is good friends with him, so, you are as well in that case. But instead, it’s Mel. Your shoulders loosen slightly. You’ve been tense all week.

“Not exactly the best way to get my attention, Mel,” you say, stacking some of the finished files on your desk, head still heavy with lingering doubt.

“Lighten up a bit. You’re such a pessimist,” Mel hums, dropping the stack of documents onto your desk. “You should go eat. I saw you skipped lunch. Plus, Jayce can finish the rest tomorrow. You’ve done more than enough.”

You exhale, considering her words. Why didn’t you just work a role like Mel? She had a clear job, an essential purpose. Meanwhile, you felt like you spent most of your time quietly filling in the gaps — like a seat filler, temporary, replaceable. All that school for what?

A stubborn voice in your head protests the comment about your pessimism, but your hunger wins out. You push back your chair and stand, rolling your shoulders to shake off the stiffness.

“You can take the file box then. I’ll be back.” Grabbing your ID lanyard, you stride out of the office, making your way through the mostly empty space.

The walk down the same hallway you’d been pacing for two years somehow felt longer every day. Realistically, nothing had changed. It was the same damn stretch of floor, the same fluorescent lights buzzing above. But lately, the need to move your feet, to just get to where you were going, had started to feel like a chore.

You had three keys to this building: one for the main office where the bulk of the work happened, another for the lounge, and the third just to get into the damn building in the first place. Underwhelming. Your pay was the same as Jayce’s, even Ekko’s. You were making more than both Powder and Mel combined.

So why did it still feel like you were scraping for something?

You pushed open the lounge door with your elbow, only to immediately regret it.

Violet.

A grumble of annoyance rumbled in the back of your throat as she turned her head to glance over her shoulder at you. Her cool, ashy-blue eyes flicked to you for only a moment, but it was enough to make your skin prickle uncomfortably.

It felt like every time a coworker looked at you, it was out of pity, not respect. As if all the work you put in was just something to be tolerated, not acknowledged. The thought made your heeled boots feel loose, like you were one wrong step away from rolling your ankle under the weight of Violet’s occasional, unimpressed glances.

Why was she even here?

Yes, this was the employee lounge, but she never lingered here long. And yet, here she was. You weren’t even sure if she had food, and she definitely wasn’t making coffee.

You ignored her gaze, forcing yourself toward the fridge. Your hands were already clammy before you saw her, but now they were straight up sweaty. The cool air from the fridge was a small relief as you reached for your neatly labeled chicken and lettuce wrap, along with your untouched sealed Diet Coke.

It had been this way ever since the coffee incident. Ever since you’d —“accidentally”— ruined an entire month’s worth of her research.

West had actually stopped making jokes around you.

At first, that satisfied you. But now? Now, it made your gut feel like a crumpled-up sticky note.

Had you actually liked the attention? No. Absolutely not. Jayce spoke to you every day, cracked his ridiculous jokes around you, so it wasn’t that. And it wasn’t about communication. You and Violet didn’t even work in the same department. You weren’t exactly friends, either. Strictly coworkers. Two people who knew just enough about each other’s flaws to be annoying and pick at them.

So why was she bothering you so much?

Your flimsy fingers tightened around your wrap as Violet finally looked away. But she didn’t move. Didn’t eat. Didn’t make coffee. Just existed. Silently.

Judgment was awful, but silent judgment? That was even worse.

“Can you quit watching me like that?” you snapped before you could stop yourself, your voice sharp with the bitterness that always seemed to linger between you two. “It’s weird. And aren’t you supposed to be working?”

Violet barely reacted, she just blinked at you, unimpressed.

“Lunch ended three hours ago,” you added, “unless you’re digging for Caitlyn’s crumbs.”

Your jaw clenched as you unwrapped your lunch, your teeth sinking slightly into your torn up bottom lip. Uncalled for. You knew that. And Violet knew exactly how to weaponize the moment.

“Thanks for the reminder, Thorne,” she said, her voice steady but laced with something biting. “But I actually don’t have to make that effort. Cait pays attention to me without me having to act like some crazy addict who thrives off her validation.”

Your fingers stilled.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t said worse to her before. The difference? Violet never hid behind her words. She always said them looking you dead in the eye, unwavering, direct.

The comment shouldn’t have hit a soft spot, but it did.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, forcing yourself to play it off, pretending it didn’t get under your skin.

“You know me so well,” you muttered with a strained chuckle, though your jaw ached with the effort of keeping it together.

Because deep down, you knew exactly where your problem with Violet had started.

It wasn’t out of nowhere.

You’d been intimidated by her from the moment she got the job — without even needing an interview. To make it worse: she made more than you right off the bat. Caitlyn warmed up to her almost immediately. It wasn’t like Violet had ever rubbed it in your face, but envy was something you never handled well.

Do this better. Do that better. Finish this. Try harder. Ask to do more.

Violet ran a hand down the front of her work suit to smooth out the cotton. Ever since the coffee incident, she’d switched to wearing black button-downs under her blazers, likely to avoid another purposeful coffee disaster.

“You don’t exactly make it hard to read you,” she mused, her voice irritatingly casual. “Especially when you have a vein bulging from your forehead every time you see me.”

Your first instinct was to snap back. Who wouldn’t be irritated when you think everyone is your friend? But you knew better. And honestly? You didn’t have the energy for another round of verbal sparring this week either.

Jayce was out. Your workload was heavier than usual. You hadn’t had coffee, and you hadn’t eaten all day.

So, instead of feeding into it, you focused on your food. You took a bite from the edge of your wrap, careful not to let the contents spill from the sides. It hurt to open your mouth too wide. Your lips had been painfully chapped for a month now. February was creeping closer, and with it came dry skin, exhaustion, and the growing desire to sleep at your desk instead of work.

Your bottom lip had split more times than you could count in the past week, but you hadn’t done much to fix it either. No time for chapstick when you could barely keep up with everything else.

Violet had noticed.

You always got like this in the winter; pushier, more irritable. You weren’t as unbearable when the weather warmed up, but your attitude toward her never thawed either. You were always on edge around her, always competing, always watching.

She had caught you staring the day Caitlyn pulled her aside to discuss a raise, the same day you had taken on extra side gigs and hadn’t gotten so much as a mention. She had seen you fist your hair at your desk after downing your fifth cup of coffee. She had been on the receiving end of your little retaliations, the way you’d ruin her things in ways so small they could almost be called accidents.

Violet had always noticed.

“Blood with a side of chicken wrap,” she mused lightly, resting her hip against the counter.

Your chewing slowed for a beat before resuming, brows furrowing just slightly. You still curled and coated your lashes every morning for work with an older tube of mascara you couldn’t seem to let go, still maintained some things about yourself, but you weren’t oblivious. You knew you looked rough lately.

“You seriously need chapstick,” Violet continued, eyeing your lips with something between amusement and concern. “That’s gotta hurt.”

It was the first semi-joke she’d made around you since November. It wasn’t even really a joke, but it was… easier to hear than the usual biting remarks.

You swallowed your food and huffed. “My lips are none of your business, nor your concern. I’m applying chapstick just fine. It’s allergies.”

Wrong.

Allergies were the least of your problems. You had been biting your lips raw and were probably vitamin deficient in more ways than one. Even Jayce had commented on it the other day, asking if you were cosplaying as a grumpy vampire or some other nonsense.

Violet scoffed. “Are you looking to eat your lunch or the skin off your lips?” She rubbed her own lips absently, likely remembering the thin scar that stretched across her upper lip from training. “You’re running on nothing but caffeine. Have you forgotten what real food tastes like?”

You scowled, cutting her off before she could continue. “Why are you in here?”

Violet blinked, seemingly caught off guard by the abrupt change in conversation.

“I mean, I could be just as annoying, but I’m not in the mood, West.”

She raised an eyebrow, then shook her head with a small smirk, arms crossing over her chest. Your eyes hesitated for just a second, catching the way the layers of her uniform —button-down and blazer— did nothing to hide the toned muscle beneath them.

What kind of moron actually wore both their blazer inside the HQ?

“Why?” she taunted. “Because you’re finally getting a taste of your own medicine? Or because Jayce isn’t here today to defend you?”

Your jaw clenched.

“Are you fucking serious?” you huffed, your voice laced with disbelief. “You think Jayce not being here affects how I feel?”

The defensiveness in your tone was embarrassingly obvious, and Violet knew it. Her lips quirked upward, her smirk deepening.

“Well,” she dragged the word out in fake thought, pursing her lips in a way that made your eye twitch. “Can you blame me? Your only real friend isn’t here, and now you’re just moping around HQ. Moping around with your head down, and your ass up.”

“Do not say that,” you snapped, your irritation spiking.

Violet grinned like she had just won a prize. “Really? You draw the line at a simile?”

Your brows furrowed. “A what? That’s a metaphor, you slow beet.”

Violet should have been offended. I mean, you had just called her slow, but instead, she froze for half a second, her expression shifting to something almost amused.

“…Did you just call me a beet?”

“Yes,” you deadpanned. “A beet-root. For a choppy haircut, you’d think you’d at least change the color to redeem yourself. You look like a damn beet.”

Violet’s lips twisted into a half-smirk, half-grin.

“Wow, Reader,” she murmured. “Did you just make a joke?”

Your stomach dropped.

Your pride plummeted.

She thought you were joking. Violet —Violet fucking West— thought you had joked with her?

The realization made your grip tighten around your soda can, your lips pressing inward as if disgusted by yourself. You wanted to grab the words back, throw them out, insist that you meant that as an insult, not a joke.

But you couldn’t.

And that grin on her face?

It made you want to rip your hair out.

“Never-fucking-mind.”

────────────────────────

Violet undid the cuffs of her button-down, rolling up the sleeves until the fabric no longer restricted her movements. Tattoo work peeking out. The uniform was fine. Professional, sleek, practical, but nobody actually liked wearing it. Not in the HQ.

Across the office, Jayce’s voice rang out, louder than necessary, pulling her attention. She glanced up briefly, watching as he bantered with one of the techs. Jayce was easy to get along with. Smart, good with computers, and a complete slacker when given the chance. She had no issue with him personally. When the two of them worked together, they wasted time more often than not, but when Jayce worked with you? Somehow, he managed to joke around and get things done. Maybe that’s why Caitlyn didn’t mind having his desk right next to yours.

Violet exhaled in amusement but didn’t say anything. She wasn’t in the office much, her job kept her busy elsewhere. Restocking gear, replenishing ammunition, training the interns who wanted to join the department someday. It was a privilege, but it was also pretty exhausting. Still, she knew she was the favorite around here, and that privilege came with its own set of complications.

Caitlyn had once commented on it —on you and her— during a routine weapons inventory.

“Everything good between you and Thorne? You don’t seem close, but your work styles mesh well. You’re both dedicated.”

The statement had been so off-base she almost laughed. Close? Not even remotely. But that wasn’t on Violet.

You had been different lately. More distant.

No spilled espressos on her desk, no mysteriously shredded files, no petty, one-sided beef getting in the way of the workday. Odd.

Then again, you had been odd lately in general.

The banter had lessened. Sure, a few snide remarks here and there, but the tantrums, as Violet fondly called them, had also significantly decreased. She wasn’t sure if she found that concerning or relieving.

Casually, her gaze drifted across the office until it landed on you.

You sat with your legs crossed, the tip of your heeled boot absently twisting under your desk. Your trench coat hung over the back of your chair as it normally did. You only wore it when the building’s heater was busted or if you had gotten caught in the rain.

Pencil skirt. Off-white ironed button-down. Navy tie. Black pantyhose.

Mel didn’t always bother with the extra layers or formalities, but you did. You had to, for some fucking reason.

Violet huffed at the realization. You had fashion preferences, apparently.

Funny. And a little uncanny, imagining you caring about anything other than being annoyed, irritated, or outright pissed. That’s all you were to her: a tightly wound ball of something pent up and ready to just snap.

Though… she did sort of pity you at times. Emphasis on 'at times'.

You turned in your chair, handing Jayce a stack of printed files, speaking lowly to him before refocusing on your own work.

Violet continued watching, still as an observer. Bored. You, Jayce, Mel, and Viktor held the office together while she spent most of her time outside of it. She only came in once a week, just enough to notice that, despite all your efforts, you were stretching yourself too thin.

You made things harder for yourself. She knew that.

Her gaze dropped, almost unconsciously, to your legs.

She blinked.

She had never really looked at you before, not past all the other stuff; the petty rivalry, the constant need to one-up her, the way you made every little thing a competition.

It wasn’t exactly easy to look beyond that.

And yet, she hesitated before glancing back, this time without moving her head, just her eyes.

You weren’t… unattractive.

Her fingers tensed slightly against the armrest of her chair before she shifted, leaning into her palm instead.

You had good facial harmony. Nice skin — tired, sure, but even Jayce had made jokes about you cosplaying a grumpy vampire lately. It was funny, but to you? You were furious, but hey, you started to apply chapstick more often throughout shifts. Your makeup was always neatly applied, and your uniform fit well — not too tight, not too loose.

You also cared about appearances. Not just your own, but others’.

Violet silently grinned at the memory of your voice echoing through the office just a few weeks ago:

“So unprofessional. It’s embarrassing. Don’t wear a badge and walk around in saggy pants. You went to university for what? To not know how to measure your own hips? Gosh.”

You’d aimed it at Jayce after he had opted for a more relaxed fit, but your commentary extended to everyone who slacked off in dress code.

Violet exhaled slowly.

Then, unfortunately, you caught her staring.

Her body tensed as your gaze flickered to hers, and she immediately cleared her throat, shifting to cover her mouth with a closed fist like she had just zoned out. Definitely not like she had just been looking at you for longer than necessary. Longest than she had ever looked at you, really.

You furrowed your brows, shook your head slightly, then returned to work.

Violet sighed, pressing further into her palm.

Her eyes shifted to Mel as she strode across the office, posture perfect, heels clicking at a steady pace, files balanced in one arm. A sweetheart. Objectively, Mel was a beautiful woman, but Violet didn’t know her too well. Certainly not as well as she knew you.

When Mel passed, she caught sight of you again, now looking down at paperwork with those stupid reading glasses perched on your nose. Looking like you were gonna pop a blood vessel.

They looked ridiculous on you, far too big for your face, because Jayce had so helpfully gotten you the wrong size.

“Didn’t know they’d be big on you, man. Relax, relax.”

Indeed, you did not relax. You had thrown a fit.

It was kinda cute.

Violet blinked, her lips parting slightly.

No.

She must be losing her mind. She straightened in her chair, biting the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t blind, she could admit when someone looked good — but this was you.

You, of all people. The epitome of stress and irritation in her damned life. So what if you were pretty? Every woman was pretty in their own way. It didn’t mean anything.

Violet forced her gaze away, focusing on the stack of paperwork she had been handed—a rare task for her, but one she had to do nonetheless. Maybe she was just stressed. Maybe her cycle was about to start. Definitely not you.

────────────────────────

Another week passed. Your workload was heavier than usual, keeping you out of Jayce’s business, out of Mel’s, even out of Viktor’s. Caitlyn had given you a detailed to-do list. You. Not Jayce, not Ekko, not West. Agent Thorne.

You had come into work on Thursday morning already exhausted, having snoozed through all three of your alarms. You almost knew this week was going to end badly. Your track record with jinxing yourself was near flawless. But for once, it didn’t.

Your hands hovered over the case file on your desk. A fresh case. Not one of Jayce’s hand-me-downs, not something already combed through a dozen times. The seal along the side was still intact, a loud, physical reminder that no one had read this yet. Your heartbeat thrummed against your ribs.

Your fingers tensed as you looked up, scanning the office. Everyone was busy.

Was this actually for you?

The doubt crept in before you could stop it. Was it bad that you questioned this? That you questioned being given your own case? Mel's voice echoed in the back of your mind — “You’re too hard on yourself. Just take the opportunity.” You wanted this. You had been waiting for this. Caitlyn was trusting you with the first glance, the first look, the first opinions, the first impression.

You exhaled, shaking off the nerves as you sat down. The file was thin, because you were the one who would be passing it around, not the one receiving it after five other agents had already picked it apart.

“Soft tacos,” Jayce whistled in pure delight, stretching his legs out under his desk.

You didn’t even have to look up to know he was grinning like a damn idiot. No one but Jayce would be eating soft tacos at eight in the morning. And not even the good kind, these weren’t the ones he brought back after holidays at his mom’s house. These were microwaved, doused in sour cream, and inhaled like he was running late to something.

Jayce plopped into his chair beside you, lifting the taco to his mouth, but he barely got a bite in before his body jerked forward, his eyes going wide.

You turned, brows pulling together. “Jayce, it’s a Dollar General taco. You—”

“No way! You got a case?”

Jayce cut you off, speaking through the mouthful of scalding hot taco, eyes glued to the file in your hands. You grimaced at the sight. He hadn’t even swallowed before rushing the words out. But then, you realized that’s why he had burned himself. He had been so excited to say something that he hadn’t waited for his food to cool.

Pride? Your heart picked up slightly at the thought. Jayce, your desk partner, your closest ally in this damn office, looked genuinely excited.

“Oh, yeah. I— I think I did?” you said, unsure. “I mean, Caitlyn could’ve meant to leave this on your desk for all I know.”

Jayce raised his brows, leaning back in his chair. His taco hovered in his left hand, airing out now that he’d learned his lesson. “Mel was right. You are a pessimist.”

“What?” You put the file down carefully. “It’s not pessimism. It’s called being realistic.”

“That sounds boring as hell,” Jayce mused, clearly amused. He was a realist too, but unlike you, he had an open mind when it came to cases. You treated every file like it was life or death, like one wrong note would collapse the entire operation.

“Whoever highlighted the third section word for word is an absolute idiot. No one is reading that. It doesn’t support the evidence or the tax fraud either.” You had once scoffed, tearing open a fresh pack of sticky notes.

Or: “Let me guess. Whoever started this case let an intern do the honors. Jesus. What is happening.”

“I’d rather be boring than wrong,” you countered, turning back toward your desk, firing up your computer. You draped your coat over your lap for warmth. Your office chair was always too cold in the mornings.

“You’re often both of those things.”

“Sorry—? Oh. It’s just you.”

Your voice flatlined the second you spotted Violet standing behind Jayce. Your face dropped, irritation slipping in as she leaned against the back of your chair, one hand perched on her hip.

Jayce twisted around, his face lighting up at the sight of her. “West! Cool to see you, as always. Even if Cait put us on opposite ends of the HQ.”

You blinked in confusion as the two of them exchanged a ridiculously complicated handshake, your stomach twisting slightly.

Of course Violet was buttering up Jayce. He was your closest friend in HQ, and yet here they were, shaking hands like they had some kind of inside joke you weren’t a part of. Not even you had a handshake with Jayce.

“Yeah, yeah,” Violet brushed it off. “I’ll talk her into putting me right between you and grumpy over here.” She nodded toward you.

“You wish,” you scoffed, clicking through your unread emails. The blue light from your screen reflected on your face, making your eyes narrow slightly as you read. Your legs pressed together under your coat, absorbing what little warmth you could get.

Violet teasing you in front of Jayce wasn’t new. Not even close. But something else was.

This wasn’t the first time you had caught her looking at you differently.

It wasn’t just the usual watching to make fun of you anymore.

It had happened in the lounge, on the training field, even when she thought you hadn’t noticed. She was good at eye contact —everyone knew this— but lately? Lately, she had been slipping.

Apparently, you had also grown an extra pair of eyes on your uniform. Violet had been staring at you more than usual.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

Unfortunately, Jayce kept talking.

“Thorne got her first case,” he grinned, pointing at you with his thumb. You felt your fingers tighten around the mouse. Jayce. Seriously?

Violet tilted her head, attention shifting fully to you. “Cool. I can give her a few tips and tricks, as someone who’s gone through a dozen or so.”

The last thing you needed was Violet West handing you advice. If she did, she’d rub it in your face for weeks. She’d take credit for half the investigation. She’d never shut up about it.

You snapped your gaze up, meeting hers.

“I’m good,” you said, your voice flat. “I don’t need your help.”

You barely moved, but there was a twitch, something small, something almost unnoticeable. Violet’s eyes flickered from yours, down to your tie. Your fingers moved automatically, adjusting it. She reached for her own and tugged it into place like she was mirroring you.

Was she taunting you?

“My desk has enough room for two,” Violet said, pivoting on her heel. As she turned, you caught a glimpse of that Roman numeral tattoo under her left eye, barely concealed beneath a thin layer of lazily blended concealer. It didn’t concern you. Why would it? Who the hell got a tattoo on their face?

So unprofessional.

“Yeah, I bet it does. Call a therapist.” You muttered the words just loud enough to be caught in the silence of the HQ. Violet didn’t miss a beat, letting out a laugh that shook her shoulders slightly. Your eyes flickered to the way her body moved with it, a ripple of motion.

“Not what I meant, but alright, Thorne.”

Jayce, still chewing, raised a brow and looked between you and the door as Violet exited, then turned back to you.

“Is there something going on, or…?”

“Always,” you said, voice rough but not nearly as irritated as it should have been. That realization bothered you. Normally, you’d be clenching your fists, itching with irritation, but the usual sneer wasn’t there. Jayce definitely noticed, blinking at your quick response.

“…Ooookay then.” He dragged the word out but shrugged, returning to his disgusting breakfast taco.

Still nasty.

────────────────────────

Never in your life had you thought you’d enjoy working on a murder case. It sounded strange from an outside perspective, but getting your first solo case had been something you had wanted —had waited for— for three years. And it was worth it. You had spent overtime in the office, completely immersed.

Highlighting sections, sticking tabs on documents, writing down key notes. By the time you finished, two markers had dried out, and a busted pen had leaked ink all over your palm from how hard you had pressed it against the paper. But it was done. You finally dropped the completed file on Caitlyn’s desk before clocking out.

Walking outside alone, the night air was cold, biting at the skin of your legs despite the sheer pantyhose you had layered under your knee-high boots. Practical, comfortable. You weren’t a fan of showing too much calf, it just felt better this way.

By the time Monday rolled around, you were dead on your feet. No one enjoyed a Monday morning, especially not in early March when climate change was kicking everyone’s ass. Walking into the HQ, the air inside was warmer than the entrance, and shrugging off your trench coat felt like a small relief.

“Finishing an entire case file in a day. That’s impressive.”

You almost jumped out of your boots.

Some idiot had breathed down your neck, not literally, but close enough. You whipped around, half-asleep daze completely shattered.

West.

Again?

You exhaled sharply, so close to snapping. “Can you not go around scaring people half to death for once?”

Violet didn’t even look sorry. She stood there, perfectly smug, like she had just told the funniest joke of the century. You wet your lips, easing the sting from the cold. Your jaw tensed before you finally said what had been lingering in your mind for the past two weeks.

“Are you okay?”

Violet tilted her head slightly, her sharp eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Yeah, I’m all good. Perfect, actually. Woke up today, had breakfast for once. It was delicious. Had a cup of coffee, and—”

“I don’t care about your damn coffee,” you cut in, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Or how perfect and sparkly with unicorns your morning has been, West. You know what I’m asking. Don’t act dense.”

You weren’t the only one who had noticed.

The way you two spoke had changed. The fights were less. The banter was different. You had stopped arguing over stupid things; eye contact, for example. It had stopped feeling taunting and started feeling like…

Like something else.

Something you hated.

You scolded yourself for it, constantly. In meetings, when Caitlyn said something that involved Violet, your eyes automatically found her. You expected her to look back.

It made you uncomfortable.

And now, here she was, grinning like this wasn’t a big deal at all. “I think unicorns are pretty cool, though. Can’t lie.”

You inhaled sharply.

“This isn’t about unicorns—! You’re actually going to give me a headache.”

You dragged a hand down your face, exasperated. Violet laughed, the sound light and unbothered, as she toyed with her lanyard. Her ID badge swayed slightly, catching the overhead lighting.

You hated that look.

Mostly because you had no idea what it meant anymore.

The air felt different. It wasn’t just the stares that carried a new weight — it was the shift in body language, the subtle shifts that were hard to ignore. Your temper had settled, your instinctive irritation toward Violet dulled. Her jokes still grated on your nerves, but the feeling in your chest wasn’t heavy anymore.

Humiliating. That’s what it was.

Not liking Violet was what kept you going. As terrible as it was to admit, hating her pushed you, forced you to be better, to work harder, to be faster than her. But now? Now, that loathing had soured into something sickly, something different. Interest. God, even thinking that word made you feel ridiculous.

You shouldn’t be this hung up on whatever unspoken thing was happening. It was probably a joke. Another way for her to get under your skin. Or maybe she was just bored, looking for entertainment at your expense. You needed to cut this off, now, before it spiraled into something even worse.

You turned, walked back to your desk, and dropped your bag beside your chair with a sigh that rattled through your chest. You weren’t stupid. You were looking for something, some kind of reassurance, confirmation that Violet wasn’t thinking the same things you were. But it wasn’t there. She was still watching. And when she got up, taking something of Caitlyn’s to the lounge, your body moved before your brain caught up.

Jayce didn’t even bother questioning it. You’d been making excuses to leave all week. Tugging down the hem of your skirt, you inhaled deeply and stepped out, boots clicking steadily against the floor. You swiped your ID at the lounge door, pushing it open, already knowing exactly who you’d find.

Violet did a double take.

She hadn’t expected you to follow. A conversation in the office? That was normal. You coming to her without Jayce nowhere nearby? Not so much.

“Had a feeling you’d follow me here,” she lied.

“Sure you did,” you deadpanned, dropping your ID onto the counter and leaning against it. Violet eyes flickered, hesitated. She was staring again, and you noticed. You both noticed.

This wasn’t the usual hostile tension between you two. It wasn’t irritation or resentment. It was something else, something you didn’t want to name. Something that made your skin burn.

“This needs to stop,” you cut in before she could say anything.

Violet's brows knit together, feigning confusion. But you knew she understood.

“Never thought I’d hear those words come out of your mouth, Thorne.” Her voice was slow, calculated. “You started this. All of it, I mean... picking fights, sabotaging me, making this job feel like a competition.”

You didn’t have an ego. That’s what you told yourself. But your pride? It had always been fed by approval. A nod from Caitlyn, praise from the department, respect from your coworkers.

But none of that ever filled the hole, did it?

You exhaled sharply, shifting your weight, irritation slipping into your tone. A familiar reaction. One Violet was used to by now.

It shouldn’t be her attention that made your chest tighten. It shouldn’t be her opinions that made your skin tickle. And yet, here you were. A few days ago, you had actually questioned whether thinner tights would make your legs stand out more. Whether a thicker lash would make your eyes more striking during those lingering glances. Whether she had noticed the slightly darker tie you had worn that day.

She had noticed all of it.

Violet’s gruff voice cut through your thoughts. “Do you hate me?”

Your breath caught. You stiffened. Yes. Yes.

But your lips pressed together.

“No,” you managed.

“No?” Violet repeated.

“Yes, I do,” you corrected, but your voice wobbled. It sounded weak, like even you didn’t believe it. Violet head tilted slightly, her maroon hair slipping over her face the way it always did.

How was she not dying in a suit like that every day?

“Yes, no, yes, no,” she mused, her tone deliberately teasing. “You’re stuttering.”

Your legs pressed together instinctively, your pencil skirt suddenly feeling too much, too tight, too revealing.

You were a pain in the ass. That was the best way to describe you. Someone who knew exactly what to say, what to do, to get a reaction out of you.

Violet was someone who never needed approval, who carried herself like she owned the room. And now, that smugness was focused entirely on you.

The room felt hot. You reached for your collar, but before your fingers could slip beneath the fabric, Violet voice stopped you.

“You don’t have to wear that tie if you have to keep loosening it.” Her voice was softer now, but still edged with something knowing. “But again, you have tons of bad habits. Can’t expect you to just stop.”

Your fingers froze around the fabric.

Then, she stepped forward.

Her presence was impossible to ignore. Broader frame, heavier stance, rougher edges. Her hands slid into her pockets, the motion easy, casual, like she wasn’t closing the space between you two on purpose.

She was.

You were still against the counter, meaning she had the height advantage now. Even though the difference wasn’t that much, standing above you like this, she felt taller.

Her fingers hesitated before brushing against the smooth white collar of your shirt. Your breath hitched. Your skin burned.

Your eyes flickered, searching for an escape — except you didn’t want to escape. Her thumb traced up and down along your pulse, slow and deliberate. Your stomach curled.

Then, she nudged your chin up. The silence was unbearable.

“Violet,” you breathed.

Her hand faltered.

Three years of a strict last-name basis, and now you had just said it.

No one called ever really called her Violet. No one. It was always something shorter, sharper, less personal.

You sounded good saying it.

“Violet? So intimate,” she taunted, her fingers tapping against your cheek. It wasn’t meant to piss you off. But you wanted to piss her off.

Your fingers shot out, grabbing the tie between them, yanking her closer. Embarrassingly, your noses bumped. But that didn’t stop you. One hand fisted around the tie, the other gripping her bicep, steady, grounding. You felt the way her muscles tensed beneath your palm, felt the pause as her breath hitched.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your lips caught hers, firm, certain, and when she didn’t pull away —when she didn’t resist— you took.

You finally felt the scar along her upper lip, traced the curve of it with your own mouth, tasted the hesitation that melted into something hotter, something heavier. Mapping her out.

Violet didn’t know what to do with her hands at first. They hovered at your back, hesitant, but her eyes were barely cracked open, watching, waiting. Either you could stop here, or you could throw everything out the window.

Then you bit her fuller bottom lip, tugging and letting it ripple into place.

Violet groaned.

And suddenly, the second option sounded so much more appealing.

Violet hadn’t expected this ever.

You had always been untouchable. Not in the literal sense, but in every way that mattered. Unreachable, impenetrable, untamed in your own rigid way. You did what you needed to do: woke up, worked, excelled, then left the HQ like none of it ever touched you.

But this?

Violet barely had time to register it before her hands moved, gripping your hips, pulling at your pencil skirt with little care, silently begging, urging for things to move further.

Your knees buckled as Violet backed you against the edge of a table, the cool marble pressing into the backs of your thighs as she settled between them, crowding you and consuming every ounce of space.

Her fingers looped through the knot of your tie —that stupid, fidgeted-with-like-a-necklace tie— and with a single sharp tug, it came loose. Slipping down. Forgotten.

Then, her hand cupped the back of your neck, pressing her lips against yours with something so deep, so thick with years of this, years of tension, of misplaced resentment, of fuck, how did we get here.

And yet, neither of you wanted to stop.

Violet's fingers traced from the back of your neck to the front of your throat, just barely gripping. It was already hard to breathe, but the idea of that, of her taking it just a little further? It had your stomach twisting.

Kissing the woman you had despised for years was going to be hilarious to explain.

But later.

Not now.

“Is the door—locked?” you barley managed out, your glossed lips brushing against hers, voice raw, uneven. Violet shook her head, hummed, lips curling against yours.

“Doesn’t matter,” she muttered, Her hands moving. She slid one down to your thigh, gripping and propping it around her waist.

Then her mouth descended.

Hot, wet kisses trailed down the slope of your throat, her tongue flicking out just slightly, savoring the mix of sweat and whatever faint perfume lingered on your skin.

Your pulse pounded beneath her lips, and Violet felt something deep in her tighten at the sound of your breath hitching, the way your body gave just slightly, as if caught between pure instinct and resistance.

Her palm landed against the underside of your thigh, firm, not particularly harsh, but a deliberate smack.

A sharp, raspy gasp broke from your lips, your body twitching against hers, bottom lip swollen from the way you had abused it between sloppy, desperate kisses.

Violet’s eyes flickered, catching the way you tensed, how your cheeks were burning, how your hands trembled against her chest.

Everything needed to come off.

Her fingers dragged up your thigh. Rubbing in slow, lazy circles before moving up, slipping beneath the first few buttons of your work blouse.

One by one with one hand.

Meticulously.

You slowly sucked in a breath, your own hands fisting the fabric of her blazer.

Violet let go of you entirely, her fingers deftly working the rest of your buttons open, sliding the blouse off your shoulders before carelessly tossing it onto the chair beside the table. Her gaze swept over you, dark and unreadable, before she bit her bottom lip, teeth smoothing over it as she exhaled through her nose.

She didn't know what was better: finally having you, the woman who had spent years making her job hell, unraveling beneath her touch, or the sheer fact that you looked this damn good doing it.

Her hand moved instinctively, fingers splaying across the lace covering your chest, feeling the warmth of your skin through the fabric. She pressed a kiss between the valley of your breasts, slowly before trailing up, tongue flicking over your collarbones.

The sounds leaving your lips sent something sharp through her, something she had never allowed herself to acknowledge before now. Your legs tensed around her hips, a burning heat building between them. Your pussy was drenched.

Then, she moved. Rolling her hips forward, pressing herself against you, the friction earning a shaky grunt from your throat.

You felt good.

Her hand traced down your spine, unhooking your bra with ease. The straps loosened, fabric slipping from your body, and Violet took a step back to let her eyes drag over you.

She dampened her lips. "I'm so lucky to see you like this. You're so gorgeous.”

Her voice was lower now, rougher, hands returning to you. Thumbs circling your nipples, before sliding down to your waist.

She sat you up, lips grazing your jaw, before murmuring, "What happened to that mouth of yours?"

Her fingers flicked over your erect breasts, and your breath hitched, body arching slightly before you could stop yourself. The sound you made earned a knowing chuckle from her, and before you could snap at her for it, she was moving again, pressing you back against the table.

Her hands slid down your thighs, rolling your skirt up at an agonizing pace.

Violet huffed, giving your knee a light tap.

"Is the pantyhose really necessary?"

You exhaled sharply. "Yes, It is."

She rolled her eyes, but there was something amused behind it, something fond — before her fingers traced slow circles over the thin, black fabric covering you.

And then, without hesitation, she hooked her fingers through the material and tore it.

A sharp gasp left your lips. "Vi! Those were expen—"

She silenced you with another sharp tug, the ruined fabric giving way enough to give her the space she wanted. She could have pulled them down, but this was much better.

The sight of you like this, obedient beneath her, legs trembling slightly, breath uneven.

She wanted to ruin you further.

Jesus.

Her hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting and adjusting them until they rested over her shoulders.

Your breathing hitched, erratic. You knew what was coming, felt it before it even happened, but when her lips finally met your pussy; wet and painfully slow. You gasped, your spine curving inward, nails curling into the marble beneath you.

A broken sound left you, high and breathless. "That’s so good."

Violet huffed a quiet laugh against you. "I haven't even started yet."

She hooked your panties aside, her mouth pressing against you fully, tongue dragging slow, then flicking, savoring, sucking on your swelled clit. She worked like she had time, like this was something to be unraveled piece by piece, something she could take apart and put back together again.

Your clammy hands flew to grip the edge of the table, your body shifting under her touch, her mouth sending sharp waves of pleasure coursing through you.

"Fuhh—ck, Vi." Your voice cracked.

That only spurred her on, hands gripping your thighs tighter, nails pressing into your skin as she curved her tongue, shifting her movements, searching, memorizing what made you fall apart.

She had spent years watching you, knowing exactly how to get under your skin. It was fun to put it to use.

Violet’s mouth worked you over with hungry desperation, her tongue sucking every inch of skin she could reach. Your folds, pulsing clit, labia — every so often, she flicked her gaze upward, watching you writhe against the table. Back arching, lips parting in helpless, breathless sounds.

If she had known this was the key to shutting you up, to finally silencing that sharp mouth of yours, she would have done this sooner.

Her lips curled against you, satisfaction lacing her voice as she murmured, “Good girl. How’s this? Yeah? So good?”

Her breath was hot and damp against your skin, sending a shudder through your sopping core.

Your only response was a whimper, your hand sliding up to your chest; grasping at yourself, desperate for anything to ground you. But the moment you tried to regain control, Violet sucked on your clit once more with enough force to break it.

Your spine arched off the table. Another sharp, wrecked gasp slipped past your lips. Violet’s grip tightened on your thighs, dragging you closer, forcing your legs to stay apart as she devoured you like you were her last damn meal.

The pleasure was too much —too sharp, too overwhelming— but stopping now wasn’t an option.

“So—” your voice trembled, barely coherent, “so, so good, Violet.”

Your hips rocked against her mouth, helpless against the way she was working you over, keeping you open, keeping you hers.

This was insane.

Doing this in the employee lounge? Absolutely wrong.

“Keep your legs around my shoulders,” Violet ordered, voice rough, edged with something close to command. “If you move, I’m stopping.”

Your breath hitched. Before you could protest, she lifted her hand to her lips, sucking two fingers between them, coating them with her own spit. Saliva moved down the digits in thick beads.

Then, she thrusted them inside of you. Wet enough to take them in one go.

Your body jolted, your nails scraping against the table as the pressure spread you open, slick and hot and perfect. You were definitely breaking a nail today.

Violet whistled lowly, amused, before curling them just right—

“My—God!”

The sound ripped out of you raw and shameless.

Violet hummed, the vibration shattering against you, her fingers sinking deeper, curling again, chasing that sound like it was her new favorite thing in the world.

The sound of your squelching pussy that sucked her in and tightened when she moved even just a second too quickly. She loved it.

“You’re a mess, baby.”

Violet’s voice was thick with amusement, her palm coming down to deliver a second sharp smack against your reddened thigh. Before you could react, she spit. A slow gesture. Watching as it mixed with the release already dripping down your swollen, aching core.

Her right hand never stopped, fingers still working in and out of you, dragging along every sensitive spot. Rough, but slow. Just enough to make sure you felt everything — every curl, every drag, every time she pulled out just to push deeper. Your insides protested, torn between needing a break and wanting more.

She smirked, tilting her head. “Look at you.”

She blew a soft stream of air over your glistening cunt, watching the way your body twitched in response.

Your head was somewhere else. Your hips moved on their own, helpless to the sensation coursing through you. Strings of moans and profanity fell from your lips, your body tightening around her fingers, pulsing — begging without words.

“Vi,” you whimpered. Your lashes damp with unshed tears.

She hummed in response, but didn’t let up, her fingers keeping that same relentless, torturous pace. A shaky moan ripped from your throat, your thighs trembling over her shoulders.

“I think—I think I’m going to come.”

Violet’s ashy eyes flicked up to you at your words, dark and heated, before her lips curled.

“Yeah?”

She then went faster.

Your gasp turned into a cry, body jolting at the sharp, intense pleasure flooding your sensitive nerves. There was no way no one had heard you two — not when you were here, back arched, lips parted, begging for her, falling apart because of her.

“No—! Vi! I can’t—!”

Your legs snapped shut around her head as your body tensed, spine bowing as the orgasm hit you. Ripping through your system, spilling over Violet’s fingers and dripping onto the marble beneath you.

Your breathing came in heavy. Overstimulation setting in as your body shuddered through the aftershocks.

Violet finally pulled her fingers from you, gaze flickering between your spent, trembling form and the slick coating her hand. Then, without hesitation, she brought her fingers to her lips and gave them a slow and greedy suck.

Your back falls flat on the cool marble.

Fuck.

Vi had won, again.

#arcane #vi x reader #vi arcane #vi league of legends #vi fanfic #vi lol #vi #vi arcane x reader #vi arcane smut #rivals to lovers #arcane league of legends #league of legends #arcane smut #arcane fanfic #arcane fanfiction #modern au #really long post #soltwent

295 notes · View notes