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
Her room didn't have a color palette. It had posters peeling off the wall and a mattress on the floor. Laundry mountain. Ashtray full. She was lying on her back, smoking with the window open, because if she didn't, the fire alarm screamed at her.
She hadn't moved in an hour.
Not since getting home. Not since her.
Lexi-fucking-Babcock.
God, Syl hated her. That smug, shiny, perfect little bitch. Always raising her hand, always correcting people, always walking like the hallway was her fucking runway.
And now Syl knew what her cunt tasted like.
"I am so fucked," she muttered.
She rubbed her face, groaning like a haunted Victorian woman. "This is gonna ruin my life."
Then she grinned.
A little.
Because Lexi had broken. Shattered like glass in her hands. Clutching at her. Gasping. Begging.
And Syl hadn't even taken her panties off. Just slid 'em to the side like a goddamn degenerate.
Her grin faded.
It wasn't the sex that was haunting her.
It was Lexi's eyes, afterward. Wide. Honest. Like for a second she forgot how to lie.
Syl put her cigarette out. Didn't light another. She lay there in the half-dark, one arm slung over her eyes, whispering:
"I do not like her."
Pause.
Longer pause.
"...but fuck, she liked me."
LEXI
She swore she wasn't going to.
She really, really tried.
She went through her whole nightly routine--serum, eye cream, silk pillowcase, matching pajamas like a goddamn pageant queen. She even lit a candle. Lavender. Calming. Fucking useless.
Because when she closed her eyes, it was Syl.
Again.
That damn hoodie. Those lips. That voice--low, mocking, filthy. The way her fingers moved, like she'd done it a hundred times, like she'd thought about it even more.
Lexi twisted under her covers, thighs rubbing, breath catching. She reached down, flushed and furious.
It was supposed to be quick. Functional. A release.
But she came with a whimper and Syl's name half-formed in her mouth, muffled by the back of her hand.
Afterward?
She didn't feel better.
She felt empty.
More hollow. More raw.
She stared at the ceiling, disgusted with herself.
"I'm not doing this again," she whispered.
But she didn't sleep.
SYL
She didn't usually jerk off to feelings.
She jerked off because she was bored, or high, or pissed off at the world.
Tonight? She was fucked.
Because it wasn't just Lexi's body. It was her mouth--that bratty, biting mouth--and the way she whimpered when she finally gave in. The way her lip quivered when Syl kissed her slow. That little noise she made when her legs shook.
Syl kicked off her jeans and shoved her hand between her thighs like she was trying to erase it. Trying to take the edge off.
She didn't last long. It was brutal. Fast. A groan into her pillow, a half-mumbled "fuck you, Lexi" that sounded more like please.
And then nothing.
Nothing but sweat and guilt and a clock that said 2:43 a.m.
Syl threw her arm over her eyes. "This is so bad," she muttered.
But it was already worse in the morning.
