Work Text:
Caitlyn Kiramman is probably the bane of your existence and still, somehow, the girl of your dreams. You’ve loved her in every way it’s possible to love someone: as a best friend, as a quiet maybe, as a ghost you can’t quite shake.
It’s embarrassing how often you still think about her, years later. You tell yourself it’s because of how much you grew up together, how deeply your lives were once entwined. But the truth is simpler: you’ve never gotten over her. Not really. Not when every version of her is still tucked away in your memory, like a favorite song you’re always half a second from humming.
You’ve known Caitlyn long enough to remember all her edges before they were sanded down to fit the mold. She used to be awkward—brilliant, sure, but stubborn and competitive to a fault, all sharp and loud. Fun.
She didn’t like showing weakness, but you knew how to spot it anyway. The tug at her sleeves when she was nervous. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when she wanted to cry but wouldn’t let herself. She was more sensitive than anyone gave her credit for. You knew that. You knew her. Back then, before everything changed.
You were best friends once. Practically inseparable. The kind of friends who fell asleep in each other’s beds and finished each other’s sentences. You were there for everything: every archery competition, every dance recital and piano concert.
You helped her run for class president—twice—and still have the campaign posters buried somewhere in a storage bin. You shared your first kiss with her, behind the Kiramman stables one sticky summer night. It was soft and shy and clumsy and you never talked about it again. But you’ve never forgotten it either.
Then came college, and with it came expectations, distance and radio silence.
You don’t know when exactly she slipped through your fingers, only that one day, you realized the calls had stopped and the texts weren’t being returned. There were no more last-minute road trips, no holiday invitations, no snuck-in coffees at her parents’ estate. She disappeared like smoke and you didn’t stand a chance to stop it.
It was like she had her whole life prewritten and you just didn’t make the final edit. You kept telling yourself it was fine, that she was busy, that it wasn’t personal. That it made sense. But nothing about losing her ever felt reasonable.
What hurt most wasn’t the absence. It was the silence. The way she never explained. The way she just...left.
And then Hotwired happened.
The band sort of exploded overnight. Loud and chaotic and unapologetically magnetic. You liked their music immediately. Raw and angry and fast, like a pressure valve being opened after years of holding your breath. You followed them on a whim and stuck around out of genuine curiosity. You loved the sound, the edge, the fact that none of them ever seemed to give a single fuck what anyone thought. It felt like a punch to the face in the best possible way.
Still, something about their bassist gnawed at you.
She was a mystery. Always in shadow. Face always covered via a ski mask with little devil horns up top, various hair colors peeking out from underneath across their many shows. She didn’t do interviews or fan meetups. No one knew her real name. Not even the band’s hardcore fan forums could piece it together. But there was something about the way she moved, the precision of her playing, the quiet intensity just under the surface. Something that made your chest ache without explanation.
You told yourself it was silly. The entire point of her whole fantasy, undoubtedly. Just your stupid heart seeing ghosts.
Because there’s no way in hell Caitlyn Kiramman is in Hotwired, right?
…Right?
It doesn’t really matter either way. The end result is the same: she wants nothing to do with you. And on some days, that truth stings less than others. Today isn’t shaping up to be one of those days, though. Which is deeply unfortunate, because you’ve already got your hands full.
Your family has insisted on throwing another of their famously unnecessary garden parties. This one is allegedly to celebrate your father’s latest business deal, though you’re fairly certain it’s just an elaborate excuse to show off the new marble fountain that was craned in last Tuesday. Imported from Florence, if the dinner conversation two nights ago was any indication. It’s all so absurd it would be funny if you weren’t expected to participate in it.
You already know what kind of game today will be. The guest list is full of strategically selected names, curated for social clout and marriage prospects, and you’re dreading the inevitable parade of eligible women your mother is undoubtedly waiting to drag you through.
When you came out, you’d expected at least some degree of family drama—perhaps even exile or disownment if the rumors about aristocratic families were to be believed. But your parents had pivoted so fast it gave you whiplash. They'd simply swapped out your would-be husbands for an ever-growing list of potential wives, and suddenly every party was a matchmaking event. Same goal, different players.
Once upon a time, Caitlyn would’ve been the crown jewel of that list.
You let out a breath and push the thought from your mind, even though it’s already rooted there like ivy. You need to focus. You need to get dressed, to play the part, to smile just the right amount and tilt your head at just the right angle.
Your outfit takes longer than it should to settle on, but the process helps keep your mind from wandering too far down memory lane. When you finally descend the grand staircase, the house is already alive with motion:
Decorations glinting in the midday sun, hired staff rushing between rooms, trays of champagne flutes and delicate hors d'oeuvres balancing expertly between gloved fingers.
The Kiramman estate might have been bigger, but no one could say your family didn’t know how to throw a spectacle.
By the time you reach the garden, guests have begun to filter in—pearlescent gowns and polished shoes stepping onto freshly manicured lawns. You offer pleasant hellos, warm nods, the kind of mild charisma that keeps people from asking too many questions. You’ve long since mastered the art of public pleasantness. It’s easier than honesty.
The party blooms slowly, like it always does: champagne corks, polite laughter, men discussing quarterly earnings while their wives whisper not-so-quietly about who’s divorcing whom. It’s a blur of posturing and polite manipulation. The kind of scene you used to enjoy, back when Caitlyn stood beside you, murmuring commentary in your ear, daring you to guess how many of the attendees were hiding affairs or second mortgages. She made it fun. Made it feel like you were both in on the joke, instead of trapped in the punchline.
Now, it’s just tedious. And worse, your mother is relentless.
She steers you from girl to girl, introducing you like you’re a prize horse ready for auction. You smile when expected, comment on shoes and hair and charities. You nod through conversations with girls you’ve already kissed in coat closets or ignored texts from the morning after. The rest hold no appeal. They’re too polished, too curated, too not Caitlyn. But of course, you don’t say that. You just keep smiling, keep sipping, keep pretending.
It’s not until your mother’s eyes light up with something vaguely smug that you get the first inkling of trouble. “Ah,” she says, tilting her chin toward the entrance, “it seems our guests of honor have finally arrived.”
There’s a barely concealed edge to her voice (equal parts excitement and irritation) and your gaze follows hers instinctively. And that’s when the world narrows to a pinpoint.
Caitlyn.
You feel it before you fully process it, your whole body locking up like the air’s been sucked out of the atmosphere. There she is, standing beside her parents at the edge of the garden, all tall elegance and controlled posture. Her hair is different—longer, darker maybe—but other than that she’s entirely the girl you once knew.
Every scenario you ever imagined for this moment evaporates on sight. Every clever line, every rehearsed smile, every chance to play it cool is now gone. Your feet move without permission, guided by your mother’s gentle tug at your wrist, and it’s all you can do to keep your breathing steady. You can’t think, can’t speak, can’t even blink without worrying that someone will notice the way your hands are starting to shake.
She looks good. Unfairly so.
You can’t tell if she sees you yet. Can’t tell if her polite smile and stiff body language are just part of the Kiramman brand or if she’s panicking just like you. But God, if she doesn’t look like she stepped straight out of the past. And just like that, every wound you thought had healed is suddenly wide open again.
Your knees nearly give out when those sharp blue eyes catch your own. You catch the faintest crack in Caitlyn’s veneer, but she smooths it over quickly. By the time your families converge in the center of the garden, she’s already slipped into something polite and unreadable.
“Darlings!” your mother coos, kissing both Tobias and Cassandra on the cheek with all the enthusiasm of someone reuniting with their prom dates. “You’ve just missed the bellinis, but we can have someone bring more.”
“Oh, don’t fuss,” Cassandra Kiramman says, warm and elegant as ever. “It’s been far too long. I’ve missed these ridiculous parties.”
“They’ve missed you,” your mother replies, looping her arm through Cassandra’s like they’re schoolgirls again. “Honestly, it’s been far too long since we’ve had all of us together like this.”
“We were just saying that,” Tobias adds, snatching a champagne flute from a passing tray.
You stand stiffly beside Caitlyn, arms nearly brushing, lips pressed into something that isn’t quite a smile.
“It’s so good to see both of you together again,” Cassandra says, beaming at you and Caitlyn like this is the feel-good reunion of the summer. “You two were inseparable once.”
“It feels like just yesterday that you were trying to hide Caitlyn in your closet so she could sleepover. You were too adorable.” Your mother coos at you, clasping her hands together.
You force a laugh. Caitlyn does too. It’s the exact same sound, tight and brittle and barely held together. Then, Caitlyn clears her throat. “If you’ll excuse us, I believe we’ll go for a walk.”
Your parents are quick to shoo you off, clearly eager that you’ve decided to spend time with each other. You open your mouth to decline, to reach for some excuse, but Caitlyn’s hand is already on your arm. Firm enough that she clearly has no intention of standing around and entertaining the idea of shared nostalgia with your families.
“Come on,” she says under her breath, her eyes locked somewhere just past your shoulder.
There’s no good reason to say no. Not one that won’t sound childish or deeply suspicious. So you let her lead you away. Your skin tingles where her hand touches your elbow, the way it always used to.
The two of you walk in silence, past rows of manicured rose bushes and marble statuary, weaving deeper and deeper into the gardens until the sound of conversation fades into a dull, ambient murmur. The hedges grow taller here, old and wild enough to have escaped your mother’s obsessive hand. You end up in a shady pocket near the old pond the two of you once frequented.
Now, you’re standing in the quiet with Caitlyn Kiramman like it’s the first time you’ve ever been alone with her. In a way, it is. You’re not sure you really know this version of her.
You clear your throat. “So,” you say, trying to sound casual and not at all like you want to crawl out of your own skin. “Still an archery ace or did fencing manage to steal your heart?”
She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t even smile. “I haven’t competed in years.”
“Oh. Right. I guess I should’ve known that.” You shift your weight and cross your arms. “You stopped telling me things a long time ago.”
Caitlyn looks down at the grass, jaw working. “Quite a childish response.”
The sharpness of it stings. You stare at her, jaw slack, barely believing what you just heard.
“You dragged me out here,” you say, the irritation finally bubbling up through your confusion. “God forbid I try and make polite fucking conversation with you. Why the hell did you bring me here anyway if you were gonna act like this?”
There’s a flicker in her eyes. It’s something like uncertainty, maybe even guilt. But it passes as quickly as it comes. “I don’t know,” she says quietly. Her voice is maddeningly level, as if that settles anything.
You take a step closer, heart pounding. “Bullshit. I know you, Caitlyn. Don’t pretend you do anything without thinking about it first.”
That gets her. Her eyes cut toward you, and there’s something sharp in her stare, something brittle. She opens her mouth, then closes it again. You watch the war play out behind her expression, and you hate it. Hate that she’s hiding it all, still, after all this time. Like you haven’t earned the truth.
“You left,” you say, voice low. “You just disappeared out of nowhere, Cait…and I tried so hard to hold on to you and I was waiting for you to show back up and tell me it was all some huge misunderstanding. Was that a mistake? Tell me.”
Her eyes fall from yours. She doesn’t answer.
Your voice cracks despite your best efforts. “Did you ever miss me? Think about me even once?”
That finally makes her look at you. Her face softens for half a second, and it’s long enough for the possibility of an answer you can live with to sneak in. But then she shrugs. Shrugs. And says, “It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t change anything.”
That’s it. That’s the moment the dam breaks. You shove her hard enough to make her stumble a step back. It’s instinct more than anything, the only thing you can do to keep from completely falling apart in front of her.
“I don’t know how I didn’t see it before. You’re such a piece of shit, Caitlyn,” you spit, turning away before she can see the tears welling up. “All those years mean nothing to you.”
You don’t wait for a reply. You storm off, heart in your throat, before she can call after you or pretend like she doesn’t feel a damn thing.
You walk blindly, past the roses, past the fountain, past the tidy white tents your parents had installed for shade. Somewhere behind you, laughter carries through the air. glasses clink. The world spins on, beautiful and hollow.
You slam your bedroom door behind you, the sound echoing off the high ceilings and polished walls. The moment you’re alone, the emotion you’ve been barely holding at bay surges up like a tide. You pace the length of your room with tight fists and a throat threatening to close up.
God, why did you let her get to you? Why did you let yourself hope, even for a second, that maybe this would be different? That she'd have something—anything—to say that would make it make sense?
You round the corner again, heart hammering, biting down hard on the inside of your cheek. You want to scream. Throw something. Cry. All of it at once. But the door bursts open before you can choose, and Caitlyn storms in like she owns the place.
“Congratulations on the show,” she says, clipped and biting, arms folded tight against her chest. “Storming off in front of all those people. Do you have any idea what kind of gossip that’s going to spark?”
You round on her, blood already boiling. “Oh, I’m the problem? You show up after years of pretending I don’t exists, playing this fucking cool girl act, and I’m throwing a tantrum?”
“I’m saying you could have some composure—”
“You don’t get to talk to me about composure,” you snap, voice rising with every word. “You don’t get to act like you’re above it all when you’re the one who started this! You dragged me into that fucking garden, Caitlyn! You made me think—fuck, I don’t even know what I thought, but you wanted something. And then you act like I’m crazy for wanting a single answer? Fuck you.”
She takes a step toward you, eyes blazing, but still, still she wears that careful mask. It’s just this side of irritated, just this side of detached. It’s infuriating.
“You’re acting like a child,” she says.
“I don’t even know why you care!” you yell, stepping into her space now, chest to chest. “So, tell me. Why the hell are you even doing this? Why come find me? Why say anything at all if you’re just gonna act like I’m inconveniencing you?”
Caitlyn’s jaw clenches. She holds it for a moment too long, and for the first time, something in her starts to crack. Her arms drop to her sides, and when she speaks again, her voice finally breaks free of that impossible restraint.
“Because I do miss you!” she shouts. “I miss you, and I hate it. I hate how much I feel every time I look at you, and I don’t know what to do with that!”
You blink. For a moment, you have to focus extra hard to remember how to breathe.
Caitlyn’s breathing hard, her cheeks flushed with color and emotion, and her voice—God, her voice—it’s like something ripped out from beneath the floorboards. “I want so deeply to kiss you, but you can barely stand to look me in the eyes. I…am ashamed and I am angry.”
You stare at her, stunned. You hadn’t even considered it. All this time, all this tension. You’d assumed that you were the one with the one-sided feelings. You would’ve never guessed in a million years that she felt the same way.
But it’s written all over her now: in the way she’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in the room, in the way her eyes flicker—just once, helplessly—down to your mouth.
And then she does it again.
Then, you’re kissing her like you’ve been holding your breath for years. Like you’ve been waiting for this exact second without even knowing it. She meets you halfway, one hand curling tight in the fabric of your shirt, the other slipping around your waist to pull you closer. It’s not careful or tentative or shy. It’s desperate and messy and full of every word neither of you have managed to say until now.
The kiss doesn’t stay innocent for long. Never stood a chance to, really. The moment Caitlyn gets her hands on you, it’s like something comes unlatched. Years of tension unravel in the span of seconds, and what starts as aching tenderness quickly tips into something ravenous.
Her hands roam your body like she’s trying to memorize it in a single go. She’s palming the curve of your ass, gripping tight, using it as leverage to grind you closer until there’s nothing separating you but fabric and heat and history.
Her thigh pushes between your legs with a graceless urgency that makes you gasp, hips instinctively shifting to straddle it. The friction is clumsy, indirect—but oh, it’s good. Deliciously teasing. Enough to make you roll your hips again, chasing more of it without shame. The soft, pleased noise you let slip is swallowed eagerly into Caitlyn’s mouth.
She pulls back just enough to breathe you in, eyes locked onto yours, and there’s something about the way she looks at you: starved, determined. And then her hand is between you, sliding around your front with practiced confidence, slipping beneath your waistband like it belongs there. You suck in a sharp breath when her fingers press against your clothed clit, slow, deliberate circles that make your knees threaten to give out.
“Cait,” you whisper, not even sure what you’re asking for.
She hushes you gently, her lips quirking into a small, devastating smile. Then she’s spinning you in her arms like it’s effortless, guiding your back into the solid heat of her chest. Her hand doesn’t leave you—not for a second. She keeps contact as she adjusts, curling her body around yours, and then she’s pushing your underwear aside with a purposeful slide of her fingers.
The first press of bare skin-to-skin is enough to steal the air from your lungs. You jolt in her arms, clenching around nothing, every nerve ending sparking to life.
“You’re going to let me,” she murmurs, voice right against your ear. There’s no question there. No room for it. “Let me have this.”
You nod—of course you nod—and that’s all she needs. Her fingers push inside, slowly at first, as though she’s savoring the tight wet heat of you. One finger, then two, curling just so, testing the give of you, how easily you open up for her.
You whimper, soft and ruined already, head falling back against her shoulder as she pumps her fingers with slow, patient strokes. Caitlyn groans quietly, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrates through your spine.
“I’ve given this moment considerable thought,” she admits, voice a low murmur at your ear. She sounds so composed, which is maddening, given the way her fingers are working you open, unspooling you from the inside out. “What you would look like when I touched you. The sounds you’d make.”
She kisses the side of your throat, right beneath your ear where your pulse flutters before curling her fingers deep, dragging them along that tender spot that makes you moan, loud and unrestrained. It echoes off the bedroom walls, vulgar and wet and real.
“That feels so good,” you pant, grinding helplessly against her hand.
She lets you ride her fingers like you need it, lets you set the pace while her other hand roams up your front, palming at your chest through your shirt. She squeezes greedily, dragging you back into her so your ass grinds against her hips, like she wants to feel every bit of you coming apart.
“Would you like me to make you cum?” she asks, smug now, full of maddening restraint. You can feel the grin against your jaw.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Fuck, please.”
Caitlyn groans and obeys, curling her fingers with more purpose now, pressing deep, dragging along your walls with every thrust. The wet sounds of your arousal fill the room—slick and obscene—as your thighs tremble from the effort of keeping upright.
Her voice is in your ear, low and relentless. “You’re dripping,” she whispers. “So fucking wet. You’ve been like this since you first saw me, haven’t you?”
You try to deny it, but all that comes out is a broken moan.
Her free hand keeps you pinned to her chest as she fucks you harder now, her pace quickening, twisting her wrist just enough to grind the heel of her palm against your clit with every thrust. It’s dizzying. Drowning. Your brain turns to static and heat and the sweet, unbearable ache of being so close you can taste it.
You’re panting now, moaning her name into the warm space of your room like it’s the only word you know. Caitlyn keeps going, murmuring something against your cheek—filthy, adoring things you can’t parse anymore—but her mouth never stops moving.
You come with a sharp cry, back arching into her, legs shaking so hard she has to tighten her grip to hold you upright. Her fingers don’t stop. They don’t even slow until you’re whimpering, overstimulated and twitching, every nerve lit up and crackling.
Caitlyn finally pulls her fingers out of you with agonizing slowness, spreading them apart just to feel the slick stretch between them. She hums, kisses your jaw like she’s trying to soothe you.
“Are you still angry with me?” she asks as she turns you in her arms, voice low. Her fingers curl softly against your waist, the heat of her palms grounding and dangerous all at once.
You hesitate, eyes searching hers. “Depends,” you say, your tone a little hoarse, a little too honest. “Am I going to hear from you after this?”
You hate that your voice cracks a bit, that the question feels like laying yourself bare on the altar. But it’s the truth, and you need it. You need something to hold onto, something solid in the wake of everything she’s stirred up inside you.
The moment the words leave your mouth, you watch it happen. You watch her flinch, just barely. Watch as her face twists into something hesitant and guilty, some raw, flickering thing before it’s shuttered over again, closed off like a door slamming in a storm. It’s like you’re watching her build up that damn wall brick by brick.
“I don’t know,” she says finally, and her voice is so small you almost don’t hear it. And god, it sounds pathetic. Limp and unsatisfying and weak in a way that makes your chest ache.
Your heart gives a violent stutter. Then the shame creeps in, seeping through your bones like cold water. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” she adds, a little too fast, a little too eager to soften the blow. “It’s just…complicated.”
You let out a hollow laugh, sharp around the edges. “I should’ve fucking known,” you mutter, mostly to yourself, shaking your head. “Of course it is. Of course it’s complicated. So, what the fuck, Caitlyn? What was all that supposed to be?” You gesture vaguely, wildly, to the space around you. “Why would you say all of that shit?”
“Because you drive me insane,” she snaps, pacing suddenly, like she’s got too much energy and nowhere to put it. Her hands rake through her hair, and you can’t stop the flicker of your gaze to them. The same hands that were just inside you, now trembling against her scalp. It makes you feel sick.
“I don’t know how to reconcile you with my world,” she breathes, and it’s so melodramatic you could scream. “I’m…different now. It would never work.”
You narrow your eyes. “What the fuck does that mean, Caitlyn? That is incredibly vague.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she says it so earnestly, so tragically, like she’s offering you some noble sacrifice. And it makes your blood boil.
“Oh my god. Fuck you,” you say, not even with venom, just quiet devastation. You’re too tired to yell. “I’m such a fucking idiot.”
“Don’t,” she pleads, stepping closer. “Don’t say that.”
She cups your face in both hands before you can move away. Her palms are warm and trembling slightly, her expression cracked wide open now, no pretense left. Just panic and longing and that deep, wretched ache you’ve never quite been able to untangle from her. Her eyes search yours like they’re desperate to find a version of you that still believes in her.
“I just need you to believe me when I say that I’m doing this for your own good,” she says.
You stare at her, your brows pulling tight together, your lips parted as you try and fail to find the words that will save you from yourself. “So, this was just a mistake? We got a little out of hand? That’s the story you wanna go with?”
Caitlyn looks like she wants to argue for a moment, but then she squares her shoulder and any warmth that once lingered in her eyes dissipates. “Maybe it can be more. With time.”
That’s the stupidest shit you’ve ever heard and you should tell Caitlyn exactly where she can shove the flimsy non-answer. All you can do is stay quiet, however, because the truth is that you will wait. A lot like a dog waiting for its owner to return home; it’s humiliating enough without you speaking it into the air between you.
“Goodbye, Caitlyn.”
And when the door clicks shut behind her, you try your best to ignore the throbbing between your legs and the tingling on your lips from where she kissed you. Unfortunately, it’s like her every breath and touch has been seared into your flesh.
—
The next time you see Caitlyn, it’s at some over-decorated gala to honor Cassandra Kirraman. You’re already four drinks in and tucked near the open bar, mentally timing how long you need to stay to avoid causing a stir when you inevitably slip out early.
It’s been weeks since the whole bullshit incident with Caitlyn, and for once, she isn’t a gilded daydream you can twist into something sweet. She’s become sharp-edged in your memory. Clipped words, cold stares, that damn shrug like you were nothing. And still, you’re not over it. Not by a long shot.
You sip your drink slowly, more out of habit than want, using the glass as a shield between yourself and the room. Your smiles are mechanical, your laugh distant. Every polite conversation feels like a sock stuffed in your mouth.
You wouldn’t say you’re drunk. Just pleasantly buzzed. Warm and dull around the edges. Detached enough that you don’t flinch at the idea of another glass. Or another after that.
Getting sloshed here isn’t ideal, sure. But you’re not the kind of socialite people write think pieces about. Your name doesn’t stretch that far. Any scandal that comes from tonight will be diluted by brunch tomorrow.
You’ve almost settled into the quiet blur of the evening when you feel her.
Caitlyn strides into the ballroom like she owns it, a hundred eyes on her in a second. She’s in a floor-length gown the color of midnight, tailored so perfectly you think it might be sewn into her skin. Her dark hair is swept up and she’s glowing in that way that pisses you off. She’s a carefully sculpted beauty that’s almost inhuman.
Your stomach sinks like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. Then it twists.
Because of course she’d show. Of course she’s late and devastating and magnetic. And of course your traitor body forgets every reason you’re mad the moment you lay eyes on her. You try—the key word being try—to look away, to turn back to the person who’s been talking at you for five minutes. But then Caitlyn starts moving. Not toward her parents or her friends or the hosts.
Toward you.
You clear your throat, slap on a half-smile, and mutter something about getting another drink. You don’t even hear your companion’s response. You’re already sliding your empty glass onto a tray and adjusting your posture, angling yourself just right, like prey stepping into the lion’s view on purpose.
You don’t know what you’re hoping for. Another argument? Another kiss? Maybe just acknowledgment that she’s been missing you just as much. Caitlyn’s steps slow as you approach the bar, like she’s not quite sure what she’s doing.
You place your order, something stronger this time. Something to settle the roil in your stomach. You hear the soft click of her heels behind you.
“Looks like you’ve already had more than enough,” she says, voice smooth but cool, “you’re swaying.”
You turn slowly. “Oh,” you reply, faux-pleasant. “Policing me, are we? Well, aren’t you a mommy’s girl?”
She meets your gaze, near unreadable. You still catch the way her shoulders tense and her eyes dart away from yours for a second. “I’m not trying to start anything.”
You laugh and take your fresh drink, cradling the glass between your palms like it might keep you steady. “Then maybe you should do what you’ve always done best,” you say, keeping your tone light, viciously amused, “and just leave me alone.”
Caitlyn exhales through her nose, expression tightening. “You think I haven’t tried?”
You sip. “You don’t try very hard.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is fingering me in the middle of my bedroom and then going ghost, but I guess life’s not really fair. Is it? You know, your mom had to tell me that you went out of town the same day.” You take a larger sip than is strictly responsible. “Same fucking day,” you mutter.
Her jaw clenches. She looks away for a moment, out over the crowd, like she’s searching for a way out that doesn’t exist. “This isn’t the place.”
“No,” you say. “But you made it the time, didn’t you?”
A beat of silence stretches between you, heavy and trembling.
Caitlyn looks back at you, and for a second, her mask slips. Just barely. Enough to show something softer underneath all that restraint.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she says quietly.
“But you did,” you fire back, because if she gets to say her part, then so do you. “You always do.”
There’s a beat where it feels like the world might tilt toward something else. Something explosive or tender or cruel. Her lips part, but the words don’t come.
You down the rest of your drink and set the empty glass on the bar.
“Forget it,” you say, and brush past her.
You avoid Caitlyn for the rest of the evening, or try to. The buzz you’d been riding starts to tip over into something messier. It's dull around the edges, a little too warm, like your body’s vibrating under your skin. You drift from conversation to conversation like a ghost, saying all the right things with your lips while your mind lingers on her. Always her.
You catch glimpses of that navy gown across the room, feel the weight of her gaze even when you don’t meet it. She’s giving you space, and somehow that makes it worse. You want her to chase you. You want her to leave you alone. You want everything and nothing all at once.
Eventually, you find yourself back by the bar, staring down into another half-empty glass you shouldn’t be drinking. You feel stretched thin, not even sure if you’re angry anymore or just sad.
The idea of slipping out unnoticed pulls at you like gravity. You're just about to start crafting an exit when the lights dim and a hush falls over the room.
Someone’s taking the stage.
A spotlight blooms, and Caitlyn steps into it like a ghost conjured from your longing.
She’s traded the navy gown for something simpler but no less elegant: a long black dress, sleeveless, her hair still pinned up with delicate care. And it's just like her to have a fucking outfit change.
There’s a cello waiting for her at the center of the stage, gleaming darkly beneath the lights. She sits, and for a second, the room forgets how to breathe.
Then she begins to play.
The sound is…beautiful doesn’t quite cut it. It’s aching. It’s slow and mournful and whole lifetimes unfurl in every drawn bow. She plays like the instrument is part of her, like this is the only language she’s ever truly spoken.
You forget to blink.
Your drink stays untouched in your hand as the music coils through you. It digs up every buried feeling, every sharp thing you tried to dull with liquor. And when the final note fades into silence, when the applause erupts around you, you realize there are tears in your eyes.
Just one or two. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
You stand amidst the ovation, caught in the golden glow of it, and you look up. Caitlyn’s eyes are already on you.
It’s nothing. It’s everything. Just a look. Just the kind of look that makes your chest ache.
And before you can get swallowed up by it, you slip away. The crowd’s attention is still fixed on her, applause still thunderous, and you duck out into the hallway like your legs might collapse if you stay any longer.
You fumble with your phone as you step out into the night, your fingers clumsy on the screen. You’re not cold but you shiver anyway. The buzz has turned to a low throb behind your eyes.
You’re scrolling through contacts when you hear the click of heels behind you.
“Fuck's sake,” you mumble without turning. “What is it now?”
“I wasn’t going to let you wander off drunk and alone,” Caitlyn says, her voice even but quiet.
You sigh and keep tapping at your screen, pretending you don’t feel her eyes on you.
“I’ll call my driver.”
“Do you really want your parents knowing how undisciplined you are?” She replies. “You know how people talk.”
You whirl around to glare at her. “Then I’ll get a ride-share.”
She just raises an eyebrow, like really?
“I can walk,” you say, fully ridiculous now.
“It’s an hours-long walk and you’re not exactly wearing running shoes.”
You grumble something in reply and start walking anyway. Petty. Stubborn. Anything to keep her at arm’s length.
Caitlyn doesn’t follow. At least, not on foot.
After a while of silence and the lingering regret of your tantrum, her sleek black car rolls up beside you, the passenger window lowering with a soft whir.
“Get in,” she says simply.
“No.”
She slows the car to match your pace, effortlessly keeping up. “You’re being ridiculous.”
You shoot her a sideways glare. “You’re being annoying.”
“Well, will you at least come be ridiculous in my nice, warm car? I think I deserve some obedience from you, after all I did just bring you to tears. Of joy and awe, I presume.”
Your cheeks flare hot, and you can't help seriously considering strangling that look off of her face. “I didn’t cry.”
“I was watching,” she says. “You did.”
The silence that follows is louder than anything.
You stop walking. She brakes gently. The car idles at your side.
You swallow. Hard.
“If I get in,” you say, barely above a whisper, “I don’t want to go home.”
Her expression flickers, softens, breaks open just a little. Her fingers tighten around the steering wheel.
“Okay,” she says. “Then we won’t.”
Caitlyn’s apartment is everything you expect it to be: high-rise, impossibly clean, floor-to-ceiling windows that spill the city’s lights across her pale hardwood floors. The furniture is sleek and minimal, like it belongs in a magazine. It feels curated, not quite lived-in. The kind of space that doesn’t leave room for mess or softness.
But right now, it’s strangely warm.
—
The two of you are still in your formalwear. Your shoes kicked off somewhere near the door, her shawl discarded over the back of the couch. She’s unzipped the back of your dress for you and you haven’t quite found the energy or the motivation to get changed. You’re both curled up on her oversized sectional, a bowl of popcorn balanced between you, the sharp scent of sea salt and butter cutting through the polished stillness of the apartment.
Strangest of all, you’re laughing.
Real, full laughter. Not polite or restrained, but the kind that takes you both by surprise, bubbling up as you recount some mutual acquaintance’s disastrous engagement party. Caitlyn’s eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs like that, and you think it’s criminal how rarely anyone gets to see it.
“I swear,” she says, catching her breath, “it isn't my finest moment, but I did secretly hope your ankle would require medical intervention. Only so I could leave with you!”
“That's fucked up, Cait,” you shoot back, grinning around a handful of popcorn. “You told me to wear those stupid heels. I nearly dislocated my ankle on that stupid dock.”
“I had all plans to nurse you back to health,” she teases, nudging your knee with hers.
There’s a pause, the laughter fading but leaving something warm in its place. Comfortable. You glance over at her. She’s so close, you could rest your head on her shoulder. So you do.
And she lets you.
For a moment, everything feels right.
The ache of the last few weeks softens. The confusion and longing and frustration quiets under the steady pulse of the city outside and the flickering movie on screen.
You don’t even remember what you put on, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just background noise to the hum of Caitlyn’s presence beside you. You let your fingers skim hers in the popcorn bowl. She lets them stay there.
You’re not sure what this is. You’re not sure what you want it to be. But for once, that doesn’t feel like a problem you need to solve tonight. The questions can wait. The complicated feelings can wait.
Right now, this is enough.
Somewhere in the second act, your eyes slip shut. You don’t mean to fall asleep—just resting them for a second—but then Caitlyn’s arm winds around your waist and her shoulder becomes a pillow, and the soft lull of her breathing makes it impossible not to drift.
By the time the credits roll, you’re tangled up together on the couch, limbs askew, breath rising and falling in sync.
Caitlyn’s phone starts buzzing sometime around dawn. A low, persistent vibration against the coffee table that pulls you out of a dreamless sleep. Your neck aches from the awkward angle and you blink against the soft morning light filtering through the windows, disoriented but cocooned in warmth.
Caitlyn’s arm is slung around your waist. Her breathing is deep, even, undisturbed by the buzz of her phone. You shift gently, careful not to wake her as you lean forward to read the screen.
Jinx L.
You blink again.
No, that can’t be right.
But the photo confirms it: Jinx Lanes, grinning wide, flashing two middle fingers at the camera, hair a wild tangle of dyed blue, eyeliner smeared haphazardly.
There's no mistaking her. The same Jinx Lanes who lives for protesting, disregarding authority and petty crimes. The same Jinx whose lyrics include “fuck the feds, fuck your dad, fuck a badge, fuck your flag.”
You glance down at Caitlyn’s peaceful face. The Caitlyn you know has a monogrammed robe and a wine fridge organized by region. She drinks gin and tonics with too much lime and has never jaywalked in her life. Her mother is literally the director of the FBI.
No. No fucking way.
You set the phone back down.
Maybe it’s a joke. A nickname. A contact she saved ironically. Some weird inside thing she never explained. That makes sense. That has to make sense.
You slowly extricate yourself from her hold, planting a gentle kiss on her shoulder before padding quietly through the apartment. You’re mostly just looking for water (maybe aspirin) but the quiet hush of the morning and the lingering weirdness of that phone call has your curiosity humming just beneath your skin.
That’s when you see it: a door near the hallway, one that’s usually bolted with an enormous padlock if the one hanging open on it is anything to go off of. It’s ajar now.
You hesitate.
You know you probably shouldn’t...
But the lock is hanging open and the house is silent and Caitlyn is still fast asleep on the couch. And if you're honest, part of you has wanted to poke around. She’s such a closed book most of the time that it’s impossible not to want to flip a few pages.
You push the door open.
And stop cold.
The room is...obsessive.
Concert posters from small basement shows to massive arena tours. Guitar picks strung on thread like rosaries. A bass guitar mounted on the wall—black, sleek, and unmistakably familiar. Stacks of old amps, tangled cords, worn-down boots. Framed newspaper clippings, magazine covers. A glass case with a ski mask propped neatly inside, matte black with little devil horns stitched into the crown.
You don’t breathe for a moment.
You’re staring at a shrine. Or maybe a closet. Like the fucking Batcave.
And right there, in plain view, a trio of identical C.K. masks. One-time-use pieces you remember seeing in every concert promo for the past six months.
Your mouth goes dry.
You turn in a slow circle, heart thudding. The puzzle pieces are all here, scattered and shining. The gear. The masks. The guitar. Jinx calling her at seven in the goddamn morning.
And the initials. Of course the initials.
You laugh—once, sharply—then clamp a hand over your mouth.
There's no way Caitlyn is C.K.
There’s no way Caitlyn is C.K.
It’s too insane. Too sloppy. Too impossible. You know her. You know her. She wouldn’t do something like this. Use her own fucking initials in her secret identity? She couldn’t.
"Shit."
You whirl around.
Caitlyn stands in the doorway, barefoot, looking uncharacteristically shaken. Her hair is mussed from sleep, and her face betrays the sheer panic she's feeling.
You look at her, really look, and then glance back at the room. The C.K. mask on its mount. The carefully curated chaos. The secret, laid bare like an exposed nerve.
"This is it?" you ask, your voice low. "This is what you've been hiding? The big, dangerous secret?"
Caitlyn doesn't flinch. She steps into the room slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “Yes,” she says. “This is it.”
You cross your arms, heart still pounding. “You’re in Hotwired.”
She nods once. No excuse. No backpedaling. Just truth.
“And no one knows?”
“No one outside the band. Not even my parents.” She says the word like it tastes sour. “It would…do terrible things for their image to have their own daughter running around in an anarchist rock band. Not to mention what it would do to my own.”
You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “You thought I’d tell someone.”
“No.” Her voice is sharp, immediate. “No. That’s not it.”
You raise an eyebrow, waiting.
Caitlyn exhales. Her shoulders sag, just slightly. “I wasn’t scared of you ratting me out,” she says. “I was scared of what would happen to you if people found out and we were together. This was always my secret. My risk to take. I made that choice a long time ago.”
She steps further into the room, gesturing to the walls, the masks, the hidden second life. “I didn’t tell you because it wouldn’t have been fair. I didn’t want you wondering why I was always late, or why I cancelled plans, or why I was constantly lying to your face about where I’d been. You didn’t deserve that.”
Your throat tightens at her words. Something fragile inside you buckles.
“I thought I was protecting you,” she says softly. “But the truth is, I was protecting this. My ability to have something mine. I admit, I joined up originally because I was just a bored rich girl with nothing better to do. This band is everything to me, now.”
The silence stretches between you.
“You deserved better than a girl who disappears at midnight and comes back with nothing to say.”
You stare at her, the hurt dulling just slightly beneath the weight of her honesty. “And what if I didn’t want better?” you ask, voice quieter now. “What if I just wanted you?”
Caitlyn closes the distance between you in a few slow steps. Her fingers brush against yours—tentative, unsure—and when she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper.
“That would be incredibly foolish of you.”
You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know what to feel. But her hand is in yours now, and her eyes—blue and soft and still afraid—are searching your face like it holds all the answer.
You don’t know who moves first, only that the space between you disappears all at once.
Caitlyn’s mouth is on yours—urgent, breathless—and her hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting there for months. You kiss her back just as hungrily, teeth clashing, breath hitching. Every press of her mouth feels like an apology you almost believe.
“You’re such an idiot,” you murmur against her lips.
“Yeah,” she breathes, kissing you harder. “I'm aware.”
You try to push her away, or maybe pull her closer, but her hands are already skimming up your back. Her fists are curling into the fabric of your clothes like she might tear it clean off. She kisses down your neck, teeth scraping lightly, tongue smoothing over the sting.
“You—” your voice stutters as her hands find your ass and squeeze “—you should’ve just told me.”
“I'm aware,” she says again, but she doesn’t sound all that sorry. Not when her lips are at your collarbone, and her hands are slipping under fabric and along skin like she’s starving.
Your knees go a little weak. You try to hang on to your irritation, but it’s like trying to hold water in your fists.
Caitlyn pulls back just enough to look at you, her pupils blown wide, hair slightly mussed. “I’ve got practice in an hour,” she murmurs. “But I’ve got time for a shower.”
You arch a brow. “That a proposition?”
“I should think it's obvious,” she says, already walking backward a few steps toward the bathroom, the corner of her mouth curling in that infuriatingly smug way she does when she knows she’s already won.
You pretend to hesitate, crossing your arms, even as you start to move. “I don’t know. You’ve been lying to me for a while. I might need a little convincing.”
Caitlyn just smiles, slow and dangerous, like she already knows exactly how to do that. "I can do that," she promises.
You roll your eyes, but you’re moving, following her across the room with every bit of practiced indifference you can fake. You let your dress slip off one shoulder, then the other, stepping out of it without breaking eye contact. Caitlyn halts in the doorway, her breath caught halfway in her chest as you toss your dress neatly onto the couch.
“Coming?” you ask, your tone light, already unhooking your bra.
The two of you settle inside the shower and steam curls around you in thick ribbons, clinging to your skin as the water pulses hot against your back. The bathroom is dim but golden, the morning light bleeding through the frosted window, casting soft shadows against the tile. Caitlyn kisses you with a renewed kind of enthusiasm.
Her hands are firm on your hips, pressing you into the tiled wall with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. You whimper softly when her mouth finds the crook of your neck again, this time wetter, bolder, her teeth dragging just enough to make your skin prickle.
“You’re different,” you murmur, your fingers slipping into her damp hair. “You feel…different.”
Caitlyn pulls back just enough to look at you, water streaming down her temples. “Different how?”
You shrug, eyes trailing down her flushed throat, the curve of her collarbone, the slick gleam of her bare skin under the spray. “Less...careful.”
Her lips twitch, not quite a smile. “You bring out that side of me, I suppose.”
That earns her a kiss. Slow, grateful, and far softer than the way she was just touching you. But it’s a different kind of surrender. You melt into her, let her mouth move over yours until the world gets fuzzy at the edges.
She’s the one setting the pace now, hands roaming slowly, confidently, like she’s mapping you out all over again. Her fingers drag up your sides, her thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before she cups them with practiced ease.
You tip your head back against the tile, lips parted, and she takes that as permission. Her mouth closes around your nipple, tongue flicking and slow, her hands never still as they knead and explore.
You moan softly, more breath than sound, and clutch at her shoulders, needing something to hold onto. She hums at the sound, pleased, and lets her teeth graze lightly before switching sides.
“You’re not gonna make me late, are you?” she asks, voice muffled against your skin.
“That's up to you, Cait,” you shoot back, your voice shaking with the effort to sound unaffected.
Caitlyn’s laugh is low and rough and it settles in your chest like static. She kisses her way up to your mouth again, then pins your wrists gently to the slick wall, her body flush against yours.
“I must make a note to do something about that mouth of yours.”
“Big words,” you manage, even as your thighs shift to try and pull her closer.
You let her take her time. Relish the steadiness of her touch, the control she finally lets herself have. And in return, you give her everything: soft sounds, shuddering exhales, nails dragging lightly over her back. You give in without hesitation, because for once, it doesn’t feel like a risk.
The water beats down steadily around you, turning everything soft and golden and slow. Caitlyn’s fingers are under your chin, tilting your face up toward hers with that maddening composure. Like she has all the time in the world, like she knows exactly what she’s about to do to you.
Her thumb brushes your bottom lip. “Down,” she says, voice low but firm. “On your knees for me.”
The tile is cool beneath you, slick with steam and water, but you barely notice. Your heart’s hammering, your lips parting on instinct as you look up at her. Completely under her, in every way that counts.
Caitlyn cups your face in both hands, her thumbs stroking over your cheekbones with surprising tenderness. “Look at you,” she murmurs, like you’re something precious. “Is this what you've wanted all this time?”
You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yes.”
“Yes what?” she says, and there’s something sharp in her tone now. A test.
“Yes, this is what I wanted,” you whisper.
She smiles and steps in closer, one hand sliding to the back of your head as she tilts her hips forward. “Good. Then make it worth the wait.”
You kiss her thighs first, slow and reverent. You want to savor this, to prove you can. Caitlyn is cupping the side of your cheek, stroking her thumb along the high point.
When your mouth finally closes around her, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours. Her hand lifts to grip your hair as she rolls her hips forward, slow and steady, just enough to set a rhythm.
“That’s it,” she says softly, almost like she’s trying not to ruin the moment by speaking too loud. “Just like that, sweetheart. God, you look good like this.”
You moan around her, dizzy with the way her praise winds around your ribs like ribbon. She starts giving you more then, slow thrusts that grow bolder, more confident, until you’re practically breathless with it. Her fingers thread deeper into your hair and she rocks her swollen clit along your eager tongue.
“You’re doing so well,” Caitlyn murmurs. “Taking me so well…fuck.”
It’s not just the physical that's causing the heat that blooms low in your belly. It’s the way she says it. The way she looks down at you like you’re hers, like you belong here more than anywhere else. You want to stay like this forever, on your knees with her hand in your hair and her voice in your ear.
“You wanted this, didn’t you?” she pants, guiding your head again. “Always throwing a fit, so mouthy, but this is what you needed.”
You nod, or try to. She groans at the feeling and pulls you in deeper, her thighs trembling slightly now.
“Such a good girl,” she whispers, “Look at me. Let me see those pretty eyes.”
You meet her gaze and it undoes you. There’s heat and want there, but also something so incredibly tender. And her chest is flushed the prettiest pink. She throws her head back and comes with a breathy, bit-off noise.
She pulls you up not long after, pulling you into a lazy kiss. She hums at the taste of herself and you can't help the arousal that climbs up your spine.
Caitlyn’s lips are still on yours when she says it, voice hoarse and raw against your mouth: “I have to have you. Just once. If I don't, it'll be all I think of all day.”
You barely have time to register the words before the shower cuts off with a sharp twist of her wrist. She grabs your hand and leads you, dripping and breathless, from the bathroom into her bedroom.
It’s all blur and urgency now: the warmth of her palm, the cool air against your wet skin, the plush give of her carpet beneath your feet.
She snatches a towel from the back of a chair and starts running it over you in brisk, efficient passes. It’s not sensual. Maybe a little hurried and borderline obsessive, like she needs you dry so she can fuck you properly. You can’t help but laugh, even as your heart pounds.
“There she is,” you tease, smiling. “There’s the uptight little control freak I—”
“I’m sure,” Caitlyn cuts in smoothly, one brow arched as she tosses the towel aside, “we can find more creative ways to wet my sheets, darling. Make the clean up actually worth it?”
Your laugh dies in your throat.
She turns you around, presses a kiss to the base of your neck, and bends you over the edge of her neatly made bed. You brace yourself against the mattress, heart thudding, skin still damp and tingling.
You hear her behind you—footsteps, a drawer opening, the rustle of something being unwrapped and fastened. Then: silence.
And then the cool, deliberate press of a dildo against your entrance. Your breath catches.
Caitlyn hums softly behind you, one hand firm on your hip. “Breathe for me,” she says, steady and confident, that familiar clipped accent wrapping around you like silk. “You’re going to take all of it.”
She starts slow. Almost agonizingly slow. She rocks her hips in shallow, teasing thrusts, just enough to make you gasp and writhe beneath her. Her fingers dig into your skin, keeping you right where she wants you.
But the control doesn’t last.
Something shifts in her. Some line crossed, some restraint snapped. Her pace changes. She starts to fuck into you with sharp, hungry thrusts, each one more forceful than the last. You hear her breathing shift, growing ragged and uneven.
“So fucking tight,” Caitlyn growls, and it sounds nothing like the composed girl who plays cello at formal events and is the picture of icy grace. “You were made for this, weren’t you? Bent over my bed, letting me use you however I want.”
You try to answer but it comes out a whimper. She slaps your ass, not too hard, but enough to sting.
“Speak up,” she commands, voice breaking slightly with lust. “Tell me who’s making you feel this good.”
“You are,” you gasp. “Caitlyn—fuck.”
“Mm, that’s better.” Her pace stutters, then doubles. “You love this, don’t you? Love being under me, entirely at my mercy?”
You’re soaked, shaking, barely coherent beneath her. She’s panting now, murmuring filth in that sinfully proper accent, telling you how perfect you are like this, how much she’s dreamed about this exact moment. And she's fucking into you with a downright devastating precision.
“Say it,” Caitlyn pants, her voice cracking, “say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you moan, collapsing forward, fingers clutching at the sheets. “I’m yours, Caitlyn.”
She groans, slamming into you deeper, harder. “That’s fucking right.”
Caitlyn’s grip on your hips slackens, but only for a moment. She’s pulling out of you when she leans forward, breath hot against your spine.
“Turn over,” she murmurs, voice wrecked but steady.
You obey, dizzy and pliant as she helps flip you onto your back. The room spins just slightly, your body humming with friction and heat. She hitches your knees over her arms and slots herself between your thighs again, dragging the toy through your folds with a slow, possessive roll of her hips.
But she’s not watching where she’s moving anymore. She’s watching you.
“Had to see you,” Caitlyn says, her eyes locked to yours, her voice like velvet dipped in fire. “I had to see your face when I made you come.”
She starts to fuck you again, deep and relentless, her gaze never wavering. Her control is stripped down to something pure and carnal now.
She's still so damn elegant, still poised, but with this terrifying single-mindedness behind it. Her hand finds your throat, fingers curling around your windpipe with the lightest pressure at first, just enough to make you gasp and arch into her.
Then she sees it. Feels it: the way your eyes flutter, the way your body locks up beneath her.
She tightens her grip.
“That’s it,” she says, voice low, almost reverent. “Come for me.”
And you do. It's a helpless, explosive thing. You're crying out as your body clamps down around her. Caitlyn doesn’t stop. She fucks you through it, steady and ruthless, ignoring the way you twitch and try to pull back.
“Don’t run from me,” she pants, her pace never faltering. “You’re not done yet.”
Your eyes are wide and glassy when you meet her gaze, your lips parted around half-formed pleas. She leans in, nipping at your jaw as her hand slips down between your legs.
“You can take one more,” she breathes against your skin. “Tell me you can.”
You’re shaking as you nod, your voice wrecked. “I—I can. I can take one more.”
“Now, there's a good girl.”
She strokes your clit in tight, practiced circles, the toy still working in and out of you. The sensation is too much, every nerve on fire, your body already too close. You're wetter than you've ever been your entire life and you can feel the orgasm hurtling towards you.
You try to hold it back, but she knows exactly how to break you. “There it is,” she murmurs, her thumb pressing down. “Let go.”
You come again with a strangled cry, your body jerking against hers as a gush of wet heat spills between your thighs. Caitlyn groans softly, proud and awestruck, slowing only when you’re sobbing and writhing beneath her, undone.
Only then does she finally still, pulling out with a quiet murmur of praise, fingers ghosting along your trembling thighs. You’re a mess beneath her. Drenched, gasping, and half-lucid.
She leans in and kisses your temple.
“You were perfect.”
—
Caitlyn emerges from the bathroom in full gear, and it’s honestly a bit unfair.
Black cargo pants hanging low on her hips, a worn band tee clinging to her still-damp frame, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. Her hair’s pulled back in a loose bun, but a few strands hang artfully around her face.
She looks like bad news, like the kind of girl your parents warned you about. Like every fantasy you didn’t realize you had until just now.
She tugs on a pair of fingerless gloves, then grabs her sunglasses from the counter and slips them on. A black baseball cap follows, low on her brow, hiding most of her face.
You’re wrapped up in her sheets, barely awake and still sore in the best possible way. You make a mental note—ask her to fuck you in the full get-up sometime. That’d do irreparable damage to your sense of self-control, but what a way to go.
Caitlyn walks over, leaning down to press a soft, unhurried kiss to your lips. When she pulls back, her voice is warm and low.
“Will you be here when I get back?”
You smile, lazy and sated. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”
And the look that crosses her face—god, it’s so stupidly soft. Like she doesn’t know what to do with the joy she’s feeling. Like you’ve knocked the wind out of her in the best way.
She kisses you again, this one a little quicker, like she can’t stop herself, like she’ll be late if she lingers but she might just risk it anyway. Then she pulls on her face mask before turning towards the door.
With one last glance back, she heads for the door.
And just like that, C.K. is gone.