Both Alexis Leigh Babcock and Sylvia Rose Connor are 18, in their final weeks of high school.
Blonde Lexi had that smile. That perfect-teeth, too-much-lip-gloss, "I'm-better-than-you" smile. The one she wore like armor, or like a fucking weapon. It gleamed across the quad that Monday morning, slicing through the cigarette smoke that always hung around Syl like a middle finger to the school dress code.
Dark-haired Syl looked like she hadn't slept in days. She probably hadn't. She was wearing her brother's hoodie again--ratty, oversized, the sleeves chewed up--and those combat boots that made her look like she stomped on dreams for breakfast. Her eyeliner was smudged. On purpose. Her eyes locked with Lexi's for a split second.
Boom.
Neither of them flinched, but the static between them? Unreal. The kind that made the air buzz. The kind that made your stomach drop and your thighs ache.
"You gonna keep staring, or you want a selfie?" Lexi's voice was sugary-sweet, all fake-nice and passive-aggressive, like a cupcake with a razor blade in the center.
Syl exhaled smoke in her direction. "Relax, Barbie. Your tits aren't that hypnotic."
That was a lie. They were. They so were.
Lexi's nostrils flared--just a twitch--but Syl saw it. Noticed everything. She was observant like that, like a crow. Nothing got past her, especially not the way Lexi's nipples were hard under that preppy little cardigan, even in the sunshine.
"Jealous much?" Lexi purred. "You could always buy a training bra. Or some actual shampoo."
"Oh, sweetheart," Syl drawled, voice low and smoky, "if I wanted to be like you, I'd eat glass."
They should've walked away. They never did.
By fifth period, they were still circling each other like feral cats in a perfume aisle. Lexi in her tight white blouse and plaid skirt, Syl in ripped tights and a band tee no one could name. Teachers kept pretending they didn't notice the eye contact. The whispers. The tension so sharp it could have drawn blood.
In the bathroom between classes, they collided like it was scripted. Lexi turned too fast. Syl bumped into her. Lip gloss on flannel. A stumble. A grab.
Hands on waist. Nails on ribs. A hiss. A breath caught.
"I swear to God," Lexi whispered, their faces too close, her voice trembling with rage?
Or was it need?
"If you touch me again--"
"What?" Syl's hand was already on her hip, fingers splayed, daring. "You'll melt?"
Lexi shoved her. Syl shoved back. It wasn't a fight. Not really. It was something else. Something filthier. Lexi's cardigan was tugged off one shoulder. Syl's hoodie was caught on a door handle. Neither cared.
"I hate you," Lexi whispered, panting.
"Liar," Syl said, and kissed her.
Teeth clacked. Lip gloss smeared. Tongue and tension and Lexi's back slammed against the tiled wall. Syl tasted like nicotine and stolen gin. Lexi tasted like strawberries and fucking envy.
They pulled apart like the room had exploded, eyes wide, breathing wrecked.
"You tell anyone," Lexi breathed, flushed and furious.
Syl grinned like she just got away with murder. "Please. As if anyone would believe it."
But Lexi didn't move. Not right away.
And Syl's fingers?
Still curled in the waistband of Lexi's skirt.
Syl's hand didn't stop.
She moved lower.
Confident. Slow. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she'd been waiting to do it since forever ago, when Lexi answered a question without raising her hand and looked so smug Syl wanted to strangle her or kiss her--she hadn't decided which.
Lexi let her.
That was the worst part.
She didn't push her away.
She pressed in, breath catching, thighs shifting just enough to make space--like her body was already ahead of her brain. Like permission had been granted hours ago, and this was just gravity following through.
Syl's fingers moved with purpose.
Lexi buried her face in Syl's shoulder.
It wasn't quiet.
But it was contained--barely. Ragged breath, muffled gasps, the soft rhythm of motion against tile and denim and damp skin. Lexi's whole body shuddered like a live wire. Her nails dug half-moons into Syl's arms.
And Syl?
She didn't smile.
Not this time.
She just watched Lexi come apart. Whispering "I got you, princess."
Eyes wide.
Awestruck.
Like she'd stumbled into something too big to name.
Afterward, Lexi sagged against her. Panting. Ruined.
Syl kissed the corner of her mouth.
"I hate you," Lexi whispered again.
But this time, it sounded like a prayer.
Afterward, they sat too far apart.
Lexi was back in the front row, legs crossed tightly, pen between her fingers like a knife, like a lifeline. Her lipstick was smudged, but not badly--just enough to suggest she'd eaten something too sweet and too hot. Her blouse was still buttoned, mostly. Her thighs were still shaking.
Syl was sprawled again like nothing had happened. Like her fingers hadn't just been knuckle-deep in someone she claimed to despise. One boot bounced lazily. Her hoodie was stretched out of shape. Her face glowed like she'd stolen the sun and smoked it.
Neither of them spoke. Not out loud.
But inside?
Lexi was a storm.
What the fuck did I just do.
What the fuck did she do to me.
Why did I like it so fucking much.
Why do I want to do it again.
And Syl--Syl was watching the window like it owed her money, but her eyes kept flicking forward. To Lexi. To the rigid line of her spine. To the little curl of blonde hair stuck to her damp neck. She remembered how her tongue tasted on that neck. How Lexi moaned. It wasn't a sound you could un-hear.
"Time's up," Mr. Fallon said, barely glancing at the clock. "Go home. Or wherever you people go."
Lexi bolted. Grabbed her bag, strutted like she hadn't just fucked her enemy against a door. Like she wasn't soaked through.
Syl followed. Of course she did.
In the hallway, Lexi spun. Fast.
"You ever speak of this," she hissed, "and I will end you."
Syl blinked slow. "Babe, you came so hard I thought you saw God."
Lexi shoved her. Hard. Right into the lockers. It echoed. She didn't let go.
"I hate you," Lexi said again, like it might still be true.
Syl grinned. "I know."
Then kissed her. Soft this time. Just the press of lips. No war. No fire.
Lexi melted.
Just a little.
And when they pulled apart, Syl leaned in and whispered:
"Same time tomorrow?"
Lexi didn't answer.
But she didn't say no.
I want her. I hate that I want her.
LEXI
Her room smelled like vanilla and panic.
Everything was pink and curated--plush rugs, fairy lights, a vision board with glittery letters spelling out VALEDICTORIAN VIBES. And there she was. On her bed. In a tank top that stuck to her still-sensitive skin. Phone in hand. Hairbrush untouched.
She couldn't even look at the physics homework.
Every time she blinked, she saw Syl.
Saw that cocky little smirk, those ruined nails digging into her thighs, that filthy fucking mouth whispering "I got you, princess."
Lexi groaned. Out loud. Rolled over, face-first into a pillow, and screamed.
Muffled, ladylike screaming.
"She's so gross," she hissed, talking to no one. "She's disgusting. She probably hasn't washed that hoodie since freshman year. She listens to music that sounds like a demon jerking off."
She paused.
"She smelled good, though. God damn it."
Her thighs clenched. Reflex.
She hated that her body was still betraying her. Still slick, still needy.
She bit her lip and whispered it, because saying it out loud made it more real:
"I want her again."
SYL
