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Chapter Text

 Kyle woke up to the smell of vanilla-sugar candles and fake syrup. His stomach twisted. Not in a good way.

“Rise and shine, birthday boy,” Heidi sang from somewhere off to his right, her voice already pushing the upper limit of what a human throat should be capable of. Off-key. Vibrato.

He opened one eye.

There were balloons. Translucent pink, tied in bunches to the footboard of her bed, one of them shaped like a giant number 1, the other a 9. The room smelled like perfume shop got into a turf war with a pancake house.

He blinked slowly as Heidi set a wooden tray down next to him.

“Did you...” he sat up halfway, squinting, “Did you put glitter on the fucking eggs?”

She giggled like it was a compliment.

“It’s edible shimmer dust,” She said, her long cotton sleep shirt clung to her in all the wrong ways, and it hit Kyle violently that she looked like his mom in the early mornings. Puffy-eyed, smiling too wide, trying too hard.

“I made heart-shaped pancakes,” Heidi added.

Kyle stared down at the plate she’d set beside him. The butter was pink. There was a strawberry on top of the stack.

He pressed a palm to his face, “Jesus Christ,”

Heidi hummed as she poured him juice.

“Oh my god, wait, don’t move,” she gasped, sprinting toward her speaker like her life depended on it, “I have a surprise!”

“Heidi...” Kyle muttered.

But it was too late.

Taylor Swift started blaring from her phone, and Heidi began softly, tragically, singing along. She twirled like this was a moment in a wedding montage, not the living embodiment of a hostage video.

Kyle stared straight ahead.

“I thought we could go get brunch,” Heidi was saying, hair swishing like that could distract from the fact she was flat-out bombing, “Or we could go back to that little hot springs place we liked last semester, remember?”

He sat up fast, “Heidi,”

She froze mid-step, her sock sliding awkwardly on the rug.

He sighed, hand dragging over his curls, “I have plans,”

Her mouth moved. Nothing came out.

“Stan and Kenny are taking me shooting,” he added, grabbing his pants off the floor and yanking them on under the covers, “Cartman’s driving,”

“Oh,” She said.

Her mouth stayed in a polite little pout while her eyes tracked him like a deer spotting headlights.

“I thought we could just, you know,” she swallowed, “Spend time. Just us. It’s your birthday,”

He didn’t answer.

She sat on the edge of the bed, just far enough that he didn’t feel the mattress move.

“You used to love this kind of stuff,” She said quietly.

Kyle stared down at the pancakes. Glitter sparkled like a threat.

He grabbed his shirt next.

A knock pounded on the front door, sharp, obnoxious, and followed immediately by the sounds of it cracking open.

“Kahl,” Eric called, already halfway inside, “We’re burning daylight. You coming, or what?”

“Oh my god,” Heidi squeaked, yanking the sheets up over herself like she’d been naked instead of aggressively Mormon-coded.

“Hey,” Cartman stepped in the bedroom eyeing the balloons with a smirk, like he’d just walked into the aftermath of something scandalous.

“Cartman,” Kyle growled, voice already going hoarse.

“I brought a gun,” he beamed.

Stan and Kenny poured into the room after Cartman.

Stan was quiet, dressed down, arms crossed like he regretted all his life choices, especially this one.

“Are you coming or not?” he asked Kyle.

Kyle grabbed his jacket off the dresser, “I’m coming,”

“Kyle…” Heidi sighed.

He turned, shrugging on his jacket.

She blinked at him, “Don’t you want to open your gift?”

He looked at her, really looked this time, and saw the cracks in the performance. Her hands were clenched at her sides. Her eyes were too wide. She’d probably been up since five trying to pull this off.

But all he felt was heavy.

“I’ll open it later,” He said.

Cartman grabbed a pancake with his bare hand on the way out.

“This tastes like ass,” He said with his mouth full of glitter.

Kenny let out a loud snort, nudging Kyle as they headed toward the stairs, “How many times did she sing to you?”

“Just once,” Kyle muttered, “Felt like more,”

They stepped out into the crisp morning air, cool and bright and sharp with the smell of frost and motor oil. Cartman was already unlocking the truck.

Kenny pulled up the hood to his parka, “You ready to shoot some shit or what?”

Kyle didn’t answer.

He was already thinking about the way Charli used to hum off-key when she was brushing her hair. About how she’d sneak up behind him and whisper Tichen against the back of his neck just to watch him jump.

He climbed into the back seat without a word.

“You good?” Stan asked, climbing in beside him.

Kyle shut the door harder than necessary.

Cartman grinned in the rearview mirror, “Next stop: Jimbo’s Guns,”

Kenny leaned forward, “Dibs on the .22,”

“No way,” Kyle said, “That one’s mine,”

Stan scoffed, “You literally shot a mailbox with it last time,”

“Because Cartman distracted me!”

The truck rattled over a patch of frozen gravel as they turned off the main road toward Jimbo’s. The sky was pale and spitting snow.

Cartman cranked the heater to hell and back.

Kyle had his arms crossed. His leg bounced.

Kenny leaned back and turned to look at Kyle, “So what exactly did Heidi do last year, again? Was that the scavenger hunt?”

Kyle’s jaw tensed, “Scavenger hunt,”

Stan coughed into his sleeve, “You got stuck blindfolded in that shop downtown,”

“That was Cartman’s fault,” Kyle snapped.

“Wrong,” Cartman said, gunning the wheel through a slush puddle like he was trying to kill them, “Your girlfriend told us the next clue was hidden behind ‘the scent of passion and purity’ which, I’m sorry, is either a sex cult or a Lush store. I just connected the dots,”

Kyle flipped off Cartman without a second thought, “We don’t have to go through every birthday failure I’ve ever had,”

“Oh,” Kenny said, eyes gleaming, “You mean last year and the year before?”

Kyle turned toward the window, pretending to ignore him.

“She sang to you,” Kenny added.

“She always sings,” Kyle muttered.

They pulled into Jimbo’s lot, the gravel crunching under the tires.

Cartman killed the engine, “Anyway. Happy birthday, Kosher Boy,”

Kyle slammed the door again.

Inside, the air smelled like gun oil, coffee, and stale masculinity. Jimbo was nowhere to be seen, but a teenage cashier behind the counter nodded them toward the range out back. They grabbed ear protection, signed the waiver that basically said If you die, it’s your fault , and filed out the back door.

The range was a wooden platform built behind the building, overlooking a frosted field with beat-up lawn ornaments for targets. Someone had duct-taped a Barbie doll to a plank.

Kenny was already loading up the .22, Kyle grabbed the Winchester.

“God, he’s already rock hard,” Cartman muttered.

Stan snorted, “He hasn’t even shot anything yet,”

“Shut up,” Kyle said.

He braced, aimed at the metal turkey near the back fence, and pulled the trigger.

The recoil slapped his shoulder. The turkey clanged and spun sideways.

Kenny gave a low whistle, “Damn. You’re still pissed off, huh?”

Kyle reset the barrel, “No,”

“So. Just to recap. You ditched your girlfriend on your birthday morning, after she cooked you glitter food, might I add,” Cartman said as he flopped into a folding chair behind them, “To come shoot things with three other dudes in the middle of fuck-all Colorado?”

Kyle ignored him.

“Sounds normal,” Cartman continued, “Totally heterosexual. Definitely not masking emotional collapse with firearms and male bonding,”

Stan adjusted his grip on the handgun, “Can we not do this today?”

“What?” Cartman shrugged, “I’m just saying. If I’d spent two back to back birthdays with Heidi I’d probably be one Taylor Swift song away from killing myself too,”

Kyle lowered the rifle, “Shut up,”

Cartman smirked, “Too real?”

“Dude,” Kenny said, “Let it go,”

Stan raised an eyebrow, “You ever think maybe Kyle just didn’t want to give pity-sex to someone who treats his birthday like a Pinterest board?”

Cartman stretched as he lounged, “You’re just mad I have more emotional intelligence than the rest of you combined,”

“You cried when Heidi blocked you on Coonstagram,” Kyle shot back without missing a beat.

Cartman pointed a finger at him, “That was a betrayal of trust,”

Kenny cracked open a new box of ammo and sat beside Kyle.

“Speaking of trust,” He said, loading calmly, “Clyde said something interesting yesterday,”

Kyle didn’t look over.

“Apparently,” Kenny continued, “Some rich girl rolled into town last week in a purple ‘69 Charger. Parked it at the old apartment building near Stark’s Pond. Supposedly she bought out the entire top floor,”

Stan raised a brow, “Wait, that place has a fourth floor?”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Cartman leaned forward, “Purple Charger? That’s a bad bitch car,”

Kenny shrugged, “Clyde said it was two girls. Real hot. Loaded. Definitely not from around here,”

Kyle’s heart kicked against his ribs.

He didn’t move.

“Didn’t catch their names,” Kenny added, “He said one of them, Martine, looked like she eats guys for breakfast. The other was shorter. Real pretty. He said she looked like a sexy cupcake,”

Cartman narrowed his eyes, “That’s oddly specific,”

Kyle gripped the gun until his knuckles went white.

He hadn’t seen her since the dance. Since the photo booth. Since that look in her eyes that said don’t forget me even as she was pulled away.

Stan reloaded with a quiet clack, “Dude. You okay?”

Kyle didn’t answer.

Kenny cocked his head.

Kyle looked up, “Purple Charger?”

“Yeah,” Kenny blinked, “Shiny. Loud as fuck. Kinda hard to miss,”

Cartman snorted, “Bet one of ‘em’s a stripper. If we’re lucky,”

Kyle stood too fast, his chair screeching across the wood.

“Whoa,” Stan said.

Kyle lifted the rifle again, heart pounding now, too loud in his ears.

His voice came out rough, “How long ago did Clyde say they showed up?”

Kenny looked at him, eyebrows raised, “A few days,”

Kyle stared down the sight.

He didn’t answer.

The rifle cracked again, sharp and fast, metal target rattling like a death knell.

Kyle didn’t blink.

Another shot. Clang. Another. The Barbie doll was completely obliterated. The plank splintered. Kyle barely registered it.

“Jesus,” Kenny muttered.

Cartman rolled his eyes, “You shoot like you're trying to commit a hate crime,”

Kyle didn’t answer.

His heart was hammering, and his palms were sweating and all he could think about was a bow in her hair. Not now. Not here. Not again. Not after years. She wasn’t here. She couldn’t be here. His brain was just short-circuiting from the glitter breakfast and testosterone fumes.

It didn’t mean anything.

He reset the barrel, cocked again.

“Alright, calm down, John Wick,” Stan said, nudging him lightly in the ribs, “You wanna slow down?”

Kyle lowered the rifle, still staring down the sight.

Cartman stood with a groan, “Okay, I'm starving and Kyle’s psychotic break can wait,”

They packed up and headed for the Jeep, cold wind biting at Kyle’s face. His fingers stung where the metal had kissed too hard, too long.

Cartman shoved him toward the front passenger seat, mumbling something about Kyle’s birthday entitlement clause.

As Cartman fumbled with the keys, Kyle’s head jerked at the sudden screech of tires across the street.

A vintage muscle car ripped into the lot of Nueva Familia. It glided in slow, then barked to a halt, engine purring like it got off on attention. It shimmered purple like a bruise.

All four boys froze.

“Holy shit,” Kenny breathed.

From the passenger side, a girl stepped out in heels. Tight pink dress, flared skirt, satin bow in her hair. She moved like she’d never fell off a wall and into his arms, like she knew people watched her and had the nerve to enjoy it. Brown skin gleaming in the afternoon light. Hair flat-ironed to perfection. Tiny waist. Legs that had no business still looking that good in this weather.

Kyle’s chest felt like someone had punched him in the lungs.

Charli.

His mouth went dry. His thoughts started screaming over each other: Mine. Mine. Nope. Not yours. Still mine. Not anymore. She left. You remember? She left.

He couldn’t breathe.

She was still short. Still her.

She hadn’t changed. Except she had. Her face was the same but sharper, older. Smarter. Meaner. Her eyes scanned the lot like she was bored of it already. Her lips parted mid-laugh, mouthing something to the driver.

The driver.

Door slammed on the other side.

Martine stepped out like a goddamn Bond villain. Heels first, silk blouse tucked into wide-leg designer pants, sunglasses bigger than her actual future. Her honey-blonde curls bounced over her brown skin with the weight of ancestral judgment. She adjusted her rings before handing the keys to Charli.

Kyle blinked.

“Is that…?” Kenny started, leaning forward with reverence, “That’s Martine?”

“Who the fuck is Martine?” Cartman asked.

Kenny didn’t even hear him, “I’m gonna marry her,”

“You’re gonna get turned into a frog,” Stan muttered.

Kyle still hadn’t moved.

Charli walked ahead of her cousin, twirling her car keys around her finger, lip gloss gleaming like it was daring the self restraint of every guy in a 50 foot radius. She headed straight for the restaurant entrance, hips swaying, no hesitation. Kyle’s stomach dropped.

She didn’t look. Not once.

Not at him.

Stan shifted beside him, “Dude,”

Kyle couldn’t answer. His chest was static. His pulse was loud in his ears and his hands were curling into fists and he couldn’t move and...

Kenny clapped him on the back.

“Bro?” he grinned, “You okay?”

Kyle looked away fast, “I’m fine,”

“You’re not fine,” Cartman said, squinting, “You look like you just saw a ghost and a wet dream,”

Stan tilted his head, “Kyle...”

Kyle turned back to Stan, “Don’t,”

“Okay,” He said carefully, “Okay. Just... I didn’t know she was back,”

Kyle stared across the street.

The restaurant door closed behind her.

The four of them stood there like idiots for a second too long, just watching the door shut behind her like it might open again.

Like she might walk back out, meet his eyes, say something smart. Soft. Scathing. Anything.

She didn’t.

Kyle exhaled hard through his nose and headed for the restaurant. His legs were moving before the rest of him caught up.

The others followed.

Kenny still grinning, Cartman huffing as he held in a chuckle, Stan trailing quiet.

“Dude,” Cartman called, “You really wanna follow them?”

Kyle didn’t respond.

Kenny elbowed him lightly as they crossed, “Just gonna walk in like it’s a romcom?”

“I said I’m fine,” Kyle snapped.

They stepped into Nueva Familia. The warm rush of spices, tortillas, and carne asada hit immediately. The hostess barely glanced up before waving them toward an open section in the back.

Kyle didn’t see her right away.

He saw Martine first. she had claimed a corner table like royalty, curls bouncing with every head turn. She clocked them immediately.

“Oh look,” She said, “I didn’t realize we ordered an entourage,”

Charli was beside her. Laughing. Shoulders bare in that pink dress, a menu flipped open in front of her like she hadn’t just detonated Kyle’s nervous system across two lanes of traffic. She looked up at Kenny first.

“Oh my god,” She grinned, “You brought the porn addict,”

Kenny smiled wide, “You brought jokes,”

Charli laughed again, biting the corner of her lip like it didn’t mean anything.

Kyle stood there, burning alive.

“You coming or are you just gonna brood by the hostess stand?” She asked sweetly, still not looking at him.

Kenny slid onto the chair beside Martine. Cartman followed, less subtle.

“Hey sexy,” Kenny said, winking way too slow, “You want a side of this queso blanco?”

“You know she does,” Cartman smirked.

Martine didn’t blink, “I want you to shut the fuck up,”

Cartman’s grin widened like it turned him on.

Stan sat down on Charli’s left. Kyle moved toward the remaining seat. His legs were jittery. His hands weren’t working right. The plastic menu felt like it was cutting into his fingers.

Charli angled her body toward Stan, “He still doesn’t have table manners, huh?”

Stan smiled, “He hasn’t changed at all,”

“Thank God,” She said, but she still hadn’t looked at him.

The menu in his lap blurred a little.

She was right there. Laughing. With Stan. Like Kyle didn’t exist. Like she hadn’t curled up beside him in the attic when she was nine, whispered Creole into the dark and pressed her heart against his ribs.

She leaned into Stan again, shoulder brushing his, “Martine, it’s his birthday,”

Kyle blinked. Looked up.

Martine’s eyes snapped to him.

“Yours?” She said, cocking her head like she was deciding whether or not he deserved to live.

Kyle swallowed, “Yeah,”

She raised her glass, “Then happy fucking birthday,”

Charli reached for a tortilla chip like the words hadn’t meant anything. She still hadn’t looked at him.

Kenny was ogling Martine like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to fight her or let her step on his throat. Cartman grumbled about the salsa.

Kyle could barely hear anything.

Charli leaned closer to Stan, laugh soft, fingers twirling her straw like she was nine again and had never needed Kyle for anything. Her knee brushed Stan’s under the table.

Kyle couldn’t breathe.

He looked between them, heart thudding, confusion crawling under his skin like static. His jaw clenched.

He hadn’t even known they talked, but as he watched them, he figured it out.

That they kept in touch. That Stan fucking knew she was back.

And he didn’t.

She finally looked up.

At Stan. Again.

Not him.

Cartman leaned across the table, fake whispering loud enough for the entire town to hear, “I don’t wanna alarm anyone, but Kyle’s about two seconds away from flipping this table and crying into a tamale,”

Kyle turned, fast, “Shut the fuck up,”

Cartman leaned back with a satisfied sigh, “God, I love birthdays,”

Kenny tapped his fingertips on the table, “You think they make cakes here?”

Charli stirred her drink, “Don’t worry, Kenny. I ordered a tres leches for Kyle,”

She finally looked at him.

Brief. Measured. Dismissive.

Then turned back to Stan “So, tell me more about this band you’re in,”

Kyle’s voice came out cracked, “You kept in touch,”

Stan paused, “What?”

He turned toward Kyle slowly.

Kyle’s hands curled under the table, “You didn’t tell me,”

Stan looked at Charli.

Charli didn’t say anything. Her lips pressed together. Her shoulders didn’t move.

Kyle stared at her.

She didn’t even blink.

But Kenny was practically vibrating.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off Martine since she shut Cartman down with a single sentence and a slow blink. He leaned back like he wasn’t obvious, arm draped over the back of her chair like he was trying to pretend he hadn’t already made eye contact with her boobs twice. When Martine stood and glided toward the bar, he was up and after her before Kyle could blink.

“I’m gonna help her carry stuff,” Kenny said, already halfway gone.

“You just wanna watch her walk,” Cartman muttered.

Kenny didn’t deny it.

At the bar, Martine ordered like she ran the place. David Rodriguez showed up behind the counter, nodding once before disappearing into the back like he didn’t even need an explanation.

Kenny leaned on the bar, close, “So what made you pick South Park?”

Martine didn’t look at him, “You ever had someone you loved get stuck in the kind of place that kills you slowly?”

Kenny blinked.

She glanced at him, voice low, “She was seventeen the first time. Bleeding in a parking lot in Louisiana. I figured Colorado was safer,”

Kenny swallowed.

Back at the table, the silence had teeth.

Charli had her nails hooked into the edge of her glass, eyes still fixed on the condensation running down the sides like it was more interesting than the rising heat between her and the boy six inches to her right.

Kyle’s leg was bouncing.

“You didn’t tell me,” He said again, quieter now.

“Look,” Stan cleared his throat, “It wasn’t a big deal,”

Kyle turned sharply, “She shows up after six fucking years and that’s not a big deal?”

Stan frowned, “We just texted a couple of times,”

Charli finally looked up, “I asked him not to say anything,”

Kyle’s head snapped toward her.

Her eyes were steady now. Too steady. Like she’d rehearsed this moment in the mirror and was sticking to the lines no matter what.

“I didn’t want to make it weird,” She said.

He scoffed, “Right. Not telling me anything, showing up like a hallucination, and then ignoring me in a restaurant counts as not weird,”

She smiled, “You’re not owed my grand entrance, Tichen,”

His breath caught.

She saw it. Of course she saw it.

Cartman leaned back, arms folded, “This is the best birthday party I’ve ever been to and no one even sang,”

Kyle glared at him.

Charli lifted her glass and took a small sip, “We texted occasionally. It wasn’t some grand conspiracy,”

Kyle’s voice was tight, “You disappeared,”

She didn’t flinch, “You didn’t exactly come looking,”

“I was thirteen,” He hissed.

“You had a phone,” She said, “You had my diary. You had my story, Kyle. I gave you a whole story full of big feelings and you ghosted me,”

“I didn’t know what to say,” He said, too fast.

“Then say that,” She snapped, “But you didn’t. You didn’t. You just left it on a shelf and moved on,”

“I didn’t move on,” His voice broke around the edges.

Cartman let out a soft chuckle.

Charli leaned forward, hair brushing the table, eyes sharp as hell, “You really think I came back to chase someone who forgot how to care?”

“I never forgot,” Kyle said, low and raw.

She stared at him.

“I know you’re dating Heidi,” She said.

He winced.

“That’s what I thought,” She said, sitting back.

Kyle clenched his jaw. His hands were fists under the table. Every inch of her skin was driving him insane; Her wrist, her collarbone, the edge of her mouth. He could smell her. Lavender and white tea. She was close enough to touch and every molecule in his body was screaming Mine.

She wouldn’t even look at him properly.

He wanted to grab her. He wanted to kiss her until she stopped pretending none of it mattered. He wanted to flip the goddamn table and press her into the wall and ask Why the fuck did you leave? He wanted to tell her he still thought about her every day. That she broke him at thirteen and he never got over it.

Instead, he said nothing.

And her eyes didn’t soften.

Behind them, Martine returned with six shots of tequila, Kenny in tow, dazed and reverent.

She slid one across the table to Kyle, “Tequila for the birthday boy,”

Charli didn’t toast. She reached for her phone.

Kyle stared at the glass.

“I don’t drink tequila,” He muttered.

Martine raised a brow, “So learn,”

Cartman clapped once, “God, I love her,”

Kyle reached for the tequila.

Charli’s phone lit up.

She didn’t pick it up. She didn’t look at him.

She just smiled at Stan. Quiet. Sweet.

Kyle drank the shot. It burned all the way down.

“Fuck this,” Kyle muttered as he clapped the glass back down on the table.

He shoved his chair back hard enough that it squealed across the tile. Every head at the table turned. He didn’t wait. Didn’t give her time to brace. He just grabbed Charli’s wrist, not hard, just enough to feel her pulse kick under his fingers, and tugged her out of the chair.

She didn’t resist.

Martine raised a brow, “Touch her without asking again and I’ll make you regret it,”

Charli waved her off.

“It’s fine,” She said, already moving.

Kyle yanked the door open with more force than necessary and dragged her out into the cold. The parking lot lights buzzed overhead. The pavement was still damp from melted snow, puddles reflecting neon off the sign above them. His hand dropped from her wrist as soon as they were clear of the entrance.

She didn’t look at him.

He spun, “You really weren’t gonna tell me?”

She crossed her arms, lips tight.

“Six fucking years, Charli,” His voice was raw, “I thought you were in Louisiana living your best life, writing your little stories and forgetting I ever existed,”

Her eyes flicked to his, “You never asked,”

“I didn’t know,” He shouted, stepping closer, “You think if I knew something was wrong I wouldn’t have–”

“I was in the hospital,” she snapped, “And Stan’s the one who texted. Stan, Kyle. Not you.”

He froze.

Her voice softened, “He’s the one who told me to leave. That I didn’t owe anyone anything. That I should come back somewhere safe. You never checked in,”

Kyle’s stomach dropped. His hands curled at his sides.

“No,” He said, low, “He knew. You told him and I was just– What?”

“You ghosted me first,” She said, voice tight, “I gave you everything. And you didn’t care,”

“I was thirteen!” He shouted.

“So was I!” She yelled back.

The words hung between them, breathless and awful. Cold air swirled around their ankles. The sound of laughter inside barely reached them.

Kyle stepped back, chest heaving.

“I could’ve protected you,” He said quietly, “If I’d known. I could’ve done something,”

Her arms dropped. She looked at him like he was a stranger. Like she didn’t know how to be mad at him without wanting to kiss him in the same breath.

“That’s not your job,” She said.

“It was,” Kyle snapped, “I would’ve done anything. You don’t get it. I thought you were okay. I thought you were just gone. Just over it. Just...”

“Living without you?” She said.

He looked away.

Behind them, the door creaked open.

Stan stepped out slowly. He didn’t say anything.

Kyle turned fast, “You knew,”

Stan’s brow furrowed.

“You knew something was wrong and you didn’t tell me,”

Stan’s voice stayed measured, “She asked me not to,”

Kyle stepped towards him, “And you thought that was okay?”

“I was trying to help,” Stan said.

“You went behind my back,” Kyle growled.

“You ignored her,” Stan snapped, “After your bar mitzvah, after everything,”

Kyle shoved him.

Stan stumbled.

Then shoved back.

Charli stepped forward fast, hands raised, “Don’t,”

Neither of them moved.

Kyle’s chest rose and fell. Stan’s jaw was clenched.

“Say it,” Kyle said, “You don’t think I deserved to know,”

Stan didn’t blink.

“I didn’t think you wanted to know,” He said.

Kyle’s hands were shaking.

Not from the cold.

Not even from the shove.

He could barely feel his arms, let alone his fingers. Everything was roaring, his ears, his head, the quiet hum of the restaurant behind them, even Stan’s breath fogging in the space between their faces. It all felt too loud. Too late. Too fucking personal.

Charli was behind him, and that made it worse.

Kyle didn’t turn around. Couldn’t.

“I stopped acting like I wanted to know,” He said.

Stan held his ground, “You started dating Heidi,”

“I didn’t think Charli was coming back,” Kyle yelled, voice cracking down the middle.

Charli flinched. Kyle didn’t even see it, but he felt it. Like a pulled wire through his chest. It slammed through his ribs and set something off behind his eyes. She was still right there. He could feel her. Too close. Too far.

“I read the story,” Kyle said, voice lower now, “Every word. Every page. I memorized it.”

Stan’s arms dropped slightly. His face changed, barely but Kyle saw it. Heard the breath leave him.

“I didn’t reach out because I thought it was over,” Kyle said, not even looking at Charli, “She left. I was just some dumb kid with a strip of photobooth pictures and a fucking notebook full of feelings I didn’t know how to live with.”

He stepped back, finally turning toward her.

She looked up.

That was worse.

It was like standing inside his own goddamn heartbeat.

The bow in her hair was slipping slightly. Her mouth was open, a little bit parted. The air between them felt alive. Like static, electricity, completely fucking unbearable. Like if either of them said one more word, it would end in blood or kissing or both.

“I didn’t know you were hurt,” Kyle said.

She glanced away from him, “I didn’t want you to,”

“Why not?” He said.

“Because it would’ve made it real,” She said.

Kyle stepped closer.

“You don’t get to show up in a fucking dress like that,” he said, low and furious, “Laugh with Stan, ignore me on my fucking birthday, and then tell me I didn’t care,”

“I never said that,” she snapped back.

“You implied it,” Kyle said.

She narrowed her eyes, “You implied I was disposable.”

The silence dropped between them like a match in gasoline.

Stan stepped back slowly, chest rising and falling like he was preparing for whatever came next. He wasn’t going to interrupt. Not now.

Not when everything was unraveling in real time.

Kyle stepped forward, leaning over her, close enough that his breath hit her jaw.

“I felt you leave,” He said, barely audible.

Charli blinked. Her lashes were wet.

“I woke up the next morning and you were gone,” He whispered, “You didn’t even say goodbye,”

Her hand trembled where it rested at her side.

Kyle didn’t touch her. He didn’t dare.

“I was trying to survive,” She said, just above a breath.

“So was I,” He said.

She looked up at him then. Really looked.

And for a moment, everything held still. The cars, the wind, the lights from Nueva Familia casting over the puddles across the asphalt. It all locked in place like the universe wanted them to stop running.

Kyle leaned forward. Just a little.

Her lips parted.

He didn’t kiss her.

He didn’t move.

His voice came out rough.

“Do you still feel it?” He asked.

The words hung between them like smoke and everything in her posture said she wished she didn’t. That if she could smother it down, drown it in tequila and distance and Stan’s casual smile, she would’ve done it already.

But she couldn’t.

Not when he was standing this close. Not when her body felt like it was humming in tune with his every breath. Not when she’d spent every hour since fourth grade pretending this pull wasn’t gravity.

“Tichen, ” She said, too soft.

“Tell me,” He said.

Her mouth parted. Her hand twitched at her side.

“I feel it,” she whispered.

It was instant. That jolt behind his ribs, like his heart was a live wire and she’d just touched it. Her voice hit the center of him like a goddamn song. Her scent (lavender and something warmer, something sweet) filled his head so fast he had to fight to stay still.

Charli stepped back a half-inch. Just enough to make him feel it. Like she needed air. Like she was terrified of what came next.

He didn’t move.

She shook her head slowly, eyes shining, “It never went away,”

Kyle’s eyes tracked every movement like he was studying her, “Then why are you acting like it doesn’t exist?”

“Because it scares me,” She said.

He blinked.

“You scare me,” she added, “But I came back because I thought I could handle it. That I could see you and be normal and live my life and not fall apart over something that happened when we were kids,”

“We weren’t just kids,” He said.

“We were,” she insisted, “I told you that I felt you in my heart. That everything I had, everything I was would be yours to keep,”

His voice broke, “You were nine,”

“I meant it,” She said.

She closed her eyes. Her whole body moved like she was fighting it. Like the memory had teeth and it could still bite her.

Kyle’s hands flexed, “I didn’t know what to do with it,”

She laughed, breathless, “Neither did I,”

He swallowed, thickly. Every part of him wanted to close the space. But he didn’t move.

Because he wasn’t sure what would happen if he touched her.

She finally opened her eyes, “What happens if we do this?”

He didn’t blink, “We lose everything,”

“And if we don’t?” She said.

His throat closed.

Her eyes searched his face like she was memorizing the shape of the boy she lost and the man he was becoming.

The pull between them was magnetic. Frantic. The kind of thing that felt like a slow slide into a kiss or a car crash.

Charli’s voice came out rough, “I still dream about the attic,”

Kyle’s breath hitched.

She still dreamed about it.

The attic. His attic. Their attic. The one with the crooked string lights and the books he picked, the sleeping bags, and the window that leaked cold air in December but never stopped her from curling next to him. She used to fall asleep with her fingers curled in his shirt. He used to wait until she was out cold before daring to press his nose to her hair.

He could still smell the lavender.

He could still feel her weight tucked next to him like it meant something permanent.

“You said it felt safe,” Kyle said.

Charli nodded, slow, “It was.”

Her eyes flicked up, dark and shining, catching the streetlight like her gaze had gravity. She looked at him the way she did when she used to dare him to kiss her and pretend it was a joke. Like she wanted him to break first.

“I was never safe after that,” she said.

Kyle’s whole chest pulled tight, “Charli,”

“I’m serious,” she whispered.

Her hand brushed his. Barely. But it felt like getting punched in the ribs from the inside. Heat cracked down his spine. His fingers twitched like they wanted to grab her wrist, slide up her arm, sink into the soft spot at the nape of her neck just to anchor himself.

She was still looking at him.

Like she saw everything; The guilt, the hunger, the wound he’d never stitched closed.

They were too close. Dangerous-close. Her dress skimmed his jacket. The static between them made his skin feel wrong inside his clothes.

“I hated sleeping after you left,” He said.

She swallowed.

“I still do,” He added.

Charli tilted her chin up, her full lips pursed, “You’re still dating Heidi,”

His stomach clenched.

“I’m not in love with Heidi,” He said.

Her throat bobbed.

The silence between them buzzed. Her breath hitched. Her body leaned, barely, and he followed like it was instinct. Like his soul tipped toward hers without permission.

“You can’t say that,” She said, voice barely audible.

“Why not?” Kyle said.

Her lip trembled, “Because I’m still mad at you,”

“Good,” he breathed.

Charli blinked, “What?”

“I don’t want you to forgive me yet,” Kyle said, “I want you to stay. I want you to yell at me,”

She looked stunned.

“I’m not letting you disappear again,” He said.

Charli’s eyes flicked down to his mouth. It happened fast. Instinctive, unguarded. Her lips parted just slightly. Her chest moved with every shallow breath. The tension was so thick it hurt to stand still.

She didn’t step away.

Her voice cracked, “Kiss me and I’ll hate you,”

Kyle’s hand twitched at his side.

“I already hate myself,” He said.

Her breath hitched, and she blinked like it burned to be seen like this. She was raw, wrecked, unraveled in a parking lot of a town that she never meant to come back to.

Charli looked back up at him.

And that was it.

He kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t delicate. It was six years of rage and longing and unspoken things crashing together in the space between their mouths. She gasped into it.

It was all shock and fury and fuck you, I missed you and Kyle’s hand slid to her jaw like he’d been waiting his entire life to touch her again.

She kissed him back like she was trying to hurt him.

Her hands gripping his jacket like she wanted to claw through it, his arm was around her waist like he didn’t care if the whole fucking town saw.

The kiss was messy.Too much tongue. Too much everything. But it worked.

It was familiar and feral and nothing like kissing Heidi, because Charli bit when she was angry and tilted her head like she knew what he needed before he did.

Somewhere behind them, a soft grunt.

Inside, the booth had evolved.

Kenny was leaning dangerously close to Martine, voice low and cocky, something about tattoos and knives. Martine sipped her drink like she was waiting for him to fail in a new and creative way. Her smile said Maybe. Her eyes said Keep talking.

Cartman had one hand cupped to the window like someone's nosy neighbor.

He narrowed his eyes. Adjusted his angle. Blinked.

“What the actual fuck?” he muttered.

Kyle was wrapped around Charli outside. Her hands in his curls. Tongue probably halfway down his throat.

Cartman snapped a photo like he was at the zoo and the animals finally started fighting.

He opened his messages.

He scrolled.

Found Heidi.

Hit send.

Chapter Text

Stan sat hunched at their table in Nueva Familia like a man who’d just crawled out of a trench, soaked and shellshocked, but with tequila instead of gunpowder in his lungs.

Across from him, Kenny was doing that thing where he leaned in like he gave a damn about every syllable Martine said, including the ones she hadn’t mumbled yet.

Kenny’s lips were dangerously close to Martine’s ear, “So you speak like, six languages?”

“Four,” She smirked, “But feel free to pad out my resume,”

Cartman was lost in his phone, thumbs moving with the fevered intensity of someone scheming.

Stan didn’t want to be there. Not really. Not emotionally sandwiched between whatever Cartman was cooking up on his phone and whatever Kenny was doing.

He’d reached out to Charli a couple weeks ago because it felt like the right thing to do. The necessary thing. Kyle had been sleepwalking through and Heidi’s hostage routine, and someone had to fucking do something.

But now?

Now, Charli was back. And Kyle had lost his fucking mind.

Martine’s eyes flicked to him. Cool and unreadable.

“Stanley,” she said, too gently, “You look like you just came back from a war,”

He blinked, dragged himself upright like his spine had to be reminded it had a purpose, “I’m fine,”

He wasn’t fine.

Kyle had shoved him.

Kyle.

His best friend.

Over a girl he’d ghosted, pushed away, claimed to hate, and apparently still wanted so badly he was ready to torch everything in his life for just one taste.

And all because Stan had sent a few texts when Charli was in the hospital. When Kyle hadn’t. Couldn’t.

“I just forgot how fucking intense they are,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Kyle and Charli. Like chemical warfare wrapped in unresolved sexual tension and mutual childhood trauma. Being around them felt like being edged by a fucking nuclear warhead.

Martine leaned back, her arm sliding over the back of Kenny’s chair like she owned him, and maybe she did, judging by the way Kenny's breath visibly hitched. Stan clocked the way Kenny looked at her like she was made of lightning and silk. Dangerous, and somehow worth getting electrocuted over.

“Honestly,” she said casually, “I’m not a fan of the guy,”

Stan frowned. He wasn’t Kyle’s biggest fan himself right now either, but the defensive reflex kicked in on instinct.

“But she thinks she was made for him,” Martine sighed and that was the part that stuck.

Not just the words, but the weight behind them. Like she’d been carrying it around too long and it had started to eat away at her.

Stan leaned forward a little, elbows on the table, spine tense.

Cartman was still busy pretending not to eavesdrop while absolutely eavesdropping.

“I tried to get her to leave that guy for three years,” Martine said.

There was no mistaking the exhaustion in her tone now. It sat under her words like static.

“Three. Fucking. Years,” She added with a bitter chuckle.

Stan’s stomach twisted. He hadn’t known it was that bad. None of them had. To them, Charli had just vanished.

To Martine, Charli had been drowning, slowly, and she’d been the one pulling her up for air over and over.

Martine looked at him again; sharp, knowing.

“But you…” She slid a fresh shot of tequila toward him, nails tapping the glass with an unspoken dare, “You dangled Kyle in front of her, and suddenly she was ready to get the fuck out,”

Stan didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

“So thanks,” Martine said.

He reached for the shot.

“But also?” Her smile curled like smoke, “Fuck you and fuck him,”

Stan choked mid-sip, barely managing to swallow without spraying it across the table.

“What the fuck, dude?” he choked out, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, blinking like he’d just been slapped with holy water.

Martine just raised a brow.

Kenny was still grinning, either oblivious or fully turned on.

Cartman didn’t look up, but the smirk ghosting across his face told them all he’d caught every syllable.

And outside, just past the window, Kyle was probably still kissing Charli like he was trying to erase the last six years with his mouth.

Stan wasn’t sure which was worse; the fact that he’d helped make that happen... or the fact that it was exactly what he knew would happen all along.

“She was in the hospital two weeks ago,” Martine said plainly, “And now she’s here,”

Kenny’s hand paused mid-reach for his drink.

Stan looked up, finally; really looked at her.

Cartman’s face barely shifted, but his fingers stopped moving on his phone, momentarily frozen between mischief and malice.

Martine wasn’t being dramatic. The pain was quiet, but it echoed. Her eyes stayed fixed on the parking lot outside the booth window, where a certain redheaded disaster had currently pressed against her cousin upon beloved purple Charger like the hood was a sacrificial altar.

“She hasn’t dealt with any of her shit,” she continued, finally glancing away from the window, “and now she’s fucking away her trauma on the hood of my car,”

There was no flourish, no emphasis. Just facts.

Stan, Kenny, and Cartman immediately twisted in their seats to confirm.

And yeah. There it was. Charli, five feet tall and audacity in pink, was backed up against Martine’s Charger like she’d grown roots there. Kyle’s tall frame caged her in. Six feet of fuckup and furious longing.

But they weren’t fucking. Not technically. It wasn’t even a kiss this time. Just two idiots, way too close, breathing each other’s air like oxygen.

Still, it felt obscene. Charged. Like watching someone almost come from eye contact alone.

Cartman was gleeful. He angled his phone with the focus of a wildlife documentarian filming a rare and doomed mating ritual. The camera shutter clicked once, then again; Why post one when you could post a slideshow of heartbreak?

Martine’s gaze snapped to him. 

The intensity of her glare could’ve shattered glass, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?”

Cartman’s head whipped around so fast his neck audibly popped. For once, he didn’t have a quip loaded. Just a guilty twitch of the thumbs, still hovering above the send button.

Stan winced, leaning back instinctively, like the force of Martine’s wrath might knock the table over.

Kenny looked like he wanted to snatch the phone out of Cartman’s fingers and throw it into the nearest vat of queso. And honestly? That would’ve been the kindest outcome.

Because Kyle was about to blow his life up.

And Charli? She hadn’t even unpacked her trauma yet.

She’d just gift wrapped it in a short skirt and shown up in Stan’s fucking inbox.

Now she was out there, unraveling like a sparkler and Kyle was catching fire like it was his job.

And Martine was done watching.

Outside, Kyle had Charli pinned. One hand on either side of her shoulders, his arms bracketing the Charger’s polished frame, her back flat to the metal. The hood of Martine’s car was warm beneath her, and smelled faintly of oil, luxury and rage. His breath ghosted over her lips, too hot and too close, but he wasn’t still kissing her. Not again. Not yet.

His mouth hovered, just barely brushing hers, not enough to take but more than enough to torment.

She looked up at him like she was drowning and he was both the current and the air. There was a longing in her expression that made Kyle’s chest ache. Like maybe, for the first time in years, they were standing still in the same place at the same time. No denial. No disappearing acts.

Her lip was still a little swollen from the way he bit her after the kiss. Her breath stuttered, fingertips hovering near his chest like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to touch him again or shove him away.

His mouth tasted like her lip gloss and whatever expensive tequila Martine had ordered. He hated how much he wanted to kiss her again.

“I don’t wanna be a mistake,” Charli said quietly.

She wasn’t looking at him. Her gaze drifted over the gravel parking lot, the cracked bumper of Stan’s truck, the neon flicker of Nueva Familia over the rest of the parking lot She looked like she wanted to be anywhere but here. Except her hands were trembling. Just a little.

Kyle sighed, “You’re not,”

“You kissed me like I was,”

Charli’s head turned, but completely away. Her profile was sharp in the sunlight; cheekbones high, lashes thick, and her mouth had a slight smirk like she wanted to say something cruel just to get it over with.

“You’re not a mistake, Charli,” He said, his lips hover over hers.

She let out a slow breath, like it hurt to believe him, “You’re still with her,”

“I’m not,” Kyle snapped, then faltered, “I mean, I was. This morning. But I’m not. Not really. I haven’t been for a long time,”

Her eyes finally met his, “Does she know that?”

Kyle opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Charli’s smile was thin, “Yeah. That’s what I thought,”

“You’re not a mistake,” His head dipped lower, lips brushing her ear now, voice rasping with something close to reverence and desperation all at once, “You’re fucking everything,”

The words hit her like a confession and a condemnation. And maybe that’s what it was. Kyle didn’t just want her. He needed her.

Like something wild in him had been starving since fourth grade and had finally caught scent of home again.

And then.

The restaurant doors burst open.

Martine stormed out into the sun like judgment day in heels, the Charger’s keys in hand and murder in her eyes.

Charli jumped. Kyle instinctively stepped back as Charli slid off the hood, but not too far.

He figured Martine wouldn’t murder him in public but wasn’t about to test how accurate that theory really was.

Charli blinked, “Martine..?”

Martine didn’t slow down.

She grabbed Charli’s hand with a grip that said I love you but you’re a dumbass, and hissed, “Time’s up,”

She didn’t wait.

Martine hauled Charli around the car, flung the passenger door open, and practically shoved her inside. It all happened so fast that for a second, Kyle just stood there blinking like he’d been smacked in the face.

“What the hell?!” he growled, eyebrows furrowed, voice cracking with disbelief and rising anger.

Charli, already halfway in the car, turned, “Martine...?”

Martine’s tone softened, not enough to stop the bleeding, just enough to keep it from scarring.

She squeezed Charli’s hand like a pact, then let go.

“Kwè mwen,” she said. Trust me.

Charli blinked once, nodded slowly. The door slammed shut with finality.

And then Martine rounded on Kyle.

She crossed the front of the car like a storm in silk and fury, stopping just short of him with a look that said she’d push him into a snowbank if he breathed wrong.

“You need to control that little piglet you call a friend,” She hissed again.

Kyle’s eyes narrowed, “Cartman? What the fuck does he–?”

But Martine didn’t give him time to defend his closest frenemy.

“Figure out your shit,” she snapped, and he felt it down to his bones, “She’s not a toy for you to play with or a blow up doll for you to recreate your little attic wet dreams,”

“Dude! Fuck, I–” Kyle stammered, already wincing like she’d hit something vital.

She had. Because fuck, she was right.

He hadn’t thought. He’d just felt.

That’s what Charli did to him. She tore the logic out of his spine and replaced it with fire.

Martine stepped closer, voice low and lethal, “Figure. Out. Your. Shit,”

Then she turned, yanked the driver’s side door open, tossed her hair like a warning flare, and threw down the fucking gauntlet, “Until then? Leave her the fuck alone or I’ll curse every Broflovski on this side of the Mississippi,”

She didn’t wait for him to respond. Just got in, slammed the door, and revved the Charger so hard it sounded like it was ready to chew through the asphalt.

Kyle stood there, fists clenched and heart hammering behind his sternum, watching the Charger roar down the street and wondering if he should just be grateful she didn’t add, “The adopted one too,” like the Wicked Witch.

The tires screeched out a final fuck you as the purple blur vanished into the distance, taking Charli’s warmth and her scent with it.

Then came the sound of the restaurant door slamming open, as his friends poured out into the daylight.

Stan looked concerned, that cynical-asshole-who-sees-everything worry wrinkle already digging in between his brows.

Kenny strolled like he had time to kill and no skin in the game.

Cartman looked smug as hell, cradling a to-go box like it contained holy sacraments. Or extra salsa. Possibly both.

Kyle didn’t look at them. He couldn’t. He was pacing now, burning a path into the gravel. Every loop of his stride was his body screaming fuck. Rage stuck in his throat. Guilt in his chest. And beneath it all, her.

The ghost of Charli’s body pressed up against his. The heat of her breath. The quiet break in her voice when she said she didn’t want to be a mistake.

And then Martine, who’d swooped in like a vengeful Goddess with acrylic nails and righteous fury, yanked Charli away before Kyle could defile her completely.

Cartman, of course, opened his mouth first, “Well, that was romantic. Nothing screams ‘stable adult’ like dry humping your childhood trauma in a parking lot,”

Kyle didn’t stop pacing, “Fuck off,”

Cartman, completely high on the drama, just kept going, “Aw, he’s mad because his dick made a decision his mouth couldn’t back up,”

“Kyle,” Stan’s voice cut in firmly.

Kyle stopped.

“Don’t. Don’t fucking start. I know,” His voice cracked like a raw nerve, and that just made it worse.

He knew. Of course he knew. He was the one who had pressed her back against the Charger like the world was ending. He was the one who kissed her like salvation and lust were the same thing. He was the one who couldn’t not want her.

And she still left. Again.

“Dude,” Kenny smirked, “Your whole body said, ‘I’m about to nut and ruin my life,’”

Kyle froze, eyes wide. He turned like he’d been hit.

“She kissed me back!” he snapped.

Like it changed the ache in his chest or the sting of watching her door slam shut.

Cartman shrugged, “She still left,”

The silence after that was brutal. Kyle’s ego was a deflated balloon wheezing in real time, and Cartman just stood there grinning like a perverted, racist piece of shit who’d called this plot twist weeks ago.

Then he went in for the kill.

“Maybe she really left ‘cause you’re boring now. You used to be king of the righteous meltdown. Fiery. Annoying. Fun to fight. Now you’re just...” He waved his hand dismissively, “A puff of beige smoke,”

Kyle lunged before he even processed it. His whole body jerked forward like instinct had taken the wheel, but Stan’s hand shot out and caught his shoulder, grounding him.

Barely.

“He’s being a dick,” Stan said, steady and unshaken, “but... you did kind of go nuclear,”

Kyle’s shoulders were tight enough to crack. His fists ached. Cartman arched his brows in that Go on, hit me way he always did when he was feeling particularly suicidal.

“I’m not trying to beat you up here, dude,” Stan added, voice low, steady, “But you gotta hear it,”

Kyle didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His throat was thick. His chest felt like it had collapsed in on itself. The words wouldn’t come.

“You’ve been... different for a long time,” Stan said, “Since you started dating Heidi, it’s like... you’re trying to be the perfect guy. Low maintenance. Convenient,”

Kenny chimed in, “You had this loud, scrappy as hell soul and you flattened it like a fucking pancake. For a girl who frowns when you get loud and makes you turn down the volume during sex scenes,”

“Besides, we both know she’s a dead fish when she fucks,” Cartman added.

Stan frowned immediately, “Dude, come on,”

“What?” Cartman shrugged, “I’m just saying. Maybe Charli showed up and reminded Kyle what a real hard-on feels like. And that scares the shit out of him. Because he’s been hiding for so long, he forgot what being alive even means,”

Kyle didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His hands were shaking and he didn’t even try to hide it.

This was the worst part so far.

Because Cartman was right.

Kyle leaned against the side of Stan’s truck like it might hold him up better than his own spine. It didn’t help. He wasn’t sure if he was going to punch, scream, or throw up. Maybe all three, if Cartman kept breathing near him.

“You’re boring with her,” Kenny said plainly, “Neutered,”

Kyle grit his teeth. Every second with Heidi had been him biting his tongue down to the root just to keep the peace. Just to be peace. To be calm. To be normal.

Cartman jumped back in like he sensed the blood in the water, “You used to be the guy who would scream at teachers, break into the rec center to play basketball at 2AM, and call me a ‘bootlicking future war criminal.’ Now you just... die inside,”

Kyle didn’t respond. Every word hit like gravel to the face. They weren’t wrong.

That version of himself who felt everything too big, loved too loud, fought with too much conviction and kissed like he was trying to memorize the taste? He’d buried him. On purpose.

Kyle’s breath shuddered out of him, shoulders curling inward, “I wanted to be good,” he murmured, “I thought if I could just... be calm, be stable, it would make the rest of it bearable,”

Cartman laughed, bitter and loud, “Too bad you’re not calm. Or stable. Or lovable. You’re a mouthy fucking Jew with unresolved rage and a savior complex,”

Kyle let out a short, humorless breath. That wasn't a compliment, but God, it felt like one.

Because he’d never been calm. He was noise and heat and tangled wires, and he’d tried so fucking hard to twist himself into something palatable, something less, for a girl who didn’t even like it if he talked when he fucked her.

Kenny stepped forward, eyes gleaming, “You know what Charli saw today? You. Loud, intense, zero-filter Kyle. The one who fights and fucks and feels shit too hard. And she kissed him back,”

She did kiss him back. Like she wanted to. Like she needed to. Like she hadn’t stopped dreaming about the attic either.

“You didn’t kiss Charli because you missed her,” Stan sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets, “You kissed her because you remembered who you are,”

That was the part that hurt the most. Because Kyle had forgotten. He’d been sleepwalking through glitter pancakes, muted orgasms and Heidi’s judgmental sighs every time he had an opinion.

He’d flattened himself into something quiet and digestible, and now Charli had walked in like a fucking siren in pink, dragging all his sharp edges to the surface and kissing him like it was exactly what she needed.

Kyle’s heart thudded against his ribs, confused and eager and stupid. He hadn’t known it until they said it, but it was true. In that moment, pressed up against Martine’s Charger, adrenaline in his veins and her voice shaking against his mouth, he’d felt alive. Real. Raw.

And he liked it.

“You’ve been with Heidi for what; four years?” Kenny continued, “And I’ve never seen you look at her like you looked at Charli in that ten seconds of foreplay,”

Kyle blinked. Once. Twice. He could still feel the imprint of Charli’s body against his. The way her lips had trembled, not from fear, but from restraint. The way he had trembled, because her mouth was made of memory and want, and her voice had called him out of whatever beige hell he’d locked himself in.

“I’m not saying run after her,” Stan said, “I’m saying stop running from yourself,”

Kenny chuckled, “This is the most Kyle you’ve been in like three years. Unhinged. Loud. Way too emotional. Even if you are about to crash and burn like a horny meteor,”

Kyle exhaled, and something cracked. Not loudly, but decisively.

The slump in his posture straightened.

His spine remembered it was built for standing, not folding.

His hands loosened. His jaw unclenched.

And for the first time in years, he felt like he was standing in his own body again.

“If you want her?” Kenny said, quieter now, “You better get your ass over to Heidi’s and end it like a man before someone else kisses Charli like that,”

Kyle didn’t even have time to react before Cartman added, “Like Stan,”

“What the fuck, dude?” Stan choked out, but Kyle wasn’t listening anymore.

“I have to end it,” Kyle said, certain.

“Yeah,” Stan agreed.

“No shit,” Kenny added.

Cartman smirked, “Take a selfie while you do it. I want to see her face when you say, ‘I’ve been pretending to be a nice guy and it gave me ED,’”

Kyle didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He just walked past them, purpose in his step, fire in his gut, breath steady.

He was a man on a mission to detonate his life on his terms this time.

“There he goes,” Kenny smirked, “Off to reclaim his spine and possibly get castrated,”

“At least it’ll be honest,” Stan said, watching him disappear.

“At least it’ll be entertaining,” Cartman smirked.

Heidi sat on the edge of her bed, knees pressed together, screen burning her retinas. Her phone buzzed again in her palm, another notification of betrayal. Eric was relentless.

The photos came rapidfire: Kyle’s mouth on Charli’s, his hands on Charli’s ass, Charli’s stupid fucking face tilted up toward him like she didn’t know she was marring something sacred.

The last photo was of Kyle’s lips brushing hers, that feverish look in his eyes. Heavy-lidded like he’d been waiting his whole goddamn life to ruin everything.

It made her stomach twist.

She locked her phone.

Unlocked it again.

Her breath caught. Nueva Familia. Of course it was Nueva fucking Familia.

“We were supposed to go there next weekend,” She mumbled to herself.

She hadn’t even liked Mexican food. Not really. She’d eaten it for Kyle. Pretended to enjoy spicy things for him. Laughed through the stomach aches and the bathroom aftermath, just to feel like they had something.

Now the restaurant was dead to her. Forever.

The apartment was silent except for the occasional low hum from her mini fridge and the soft musical notes of Cartman’s messages landing like punches.

She didn’t want to let him win.

Not Cartman. Not some girl she barely remembered. And definitely not Kyle.

Heidi sucked in a breath and looked down at the camera lens on her phone like it might show her something she hadn’t already seen. She didn’t cry. Not yet. Instead, she pulled up social media and looked up the bitch with her tongue down Kyle’s throat.

@xo.charli.la

Heidi stared at the soft pink profile bubble. Of course.

Her fingers hovered. Then tapped.

Public. She kept it public.

Of course she did.

Heidi scrolled. Fast at first. Then slower. The profile was sickening. Hyper-feminine and curated like a fucking pastel knife to the chest. Bows. Books. Long shiny hair and stupid skirts and soft girl coquette energy. And underneath it all, this smug little glint, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Heidi paused on a picture.

A mirror selfie. Full body. Baby pink dress, too-tight top, tits too obvious. A caption that read Not everything soft is sweet. Thousands of likes. Stan had left a fire emoji.

Kyle didn’t comment.

Of course he didn’t. He’d basically been spending the last six years pretending she didn’t exist.

He just showed up at Mexican restaurants and pressed her up against muscle cars like an idiot in a teen drama.

Heidi grit her teeth. She didn’t want to remember the bar mitzvah. She really didn’t. But the memory crept in.

The dress had been rose-colored. A bow in her hair. Heidi hadn’t thought much of the girl then.

She was just some foreign tag-a-long with a haunted stare and nice cheekbones.

But Heidi remembered Kyle.

He’d been nervous the whole service, sweating through his shirt like he was gonna pass out. But then, during his speech, when he looked out into the crowd he’d locked eyes with her.

Not Heidi. Her.

Like he was reading it just for her.

Heidi had hated that dress. Hated that bow.

Now here she was: two days before her period and four texts deep into self destruction.

She hated that girl.

She hated what she represented. That she could just exist. That she was soft, damaged, and curated, so that people like Kyle would drop everything to save her.

Heidi had to work to be worth loving. Charli just had to show up and look like she needed it.

She hit the back button on the profile. Then clicked it again. Scrolled deeper.

Her thumb hovered. Charli in a library. Charli in a pink sweater dress. Charli holding a copy of And There We Wept with the caption that said Bad bitches have bad days too.

Her finger trembled. She wanted to hate her. She needed to. But part of her (part she didn’t want to admit to) felt the crackling, electric threat of why Kyle might want her.

She closed the image, then opened Eric’s texts again. Opened the most pic. Zoomed in.

Charli’s lips were glossy. Her back was arched. Barely, but enough to be intentional. Her hair hung like a sheet of dark silk down her back, and Kyle’s fingers were right there, spread wide over her hip like he was claiming her.

Heidi blinked hard.

She tried. God, she fucking tried to love Kyle. She’d done everything right.

She wore his jersey. Came to every game. Laughed at his rants, even when they turned preachy and exhausting. She let him blow off her problems to monologue about moralism. She let him sleep over without touching her some nights.

She even let him talk about Charli once, that one time after they’d had sex. If you could call it that.

It had been quiet. Awkward. He wasn’t even there.

Heidi had stared up at his face, watched his eyes drift like he wasn’t sure where he was supposed to land. Like she wasn’t enough to hold his attention or hold him in place.

He kissed her on the forehead after. She asked what he was thinking. He said it was nothing, but she could feel it. The silence had weight.

She thought if she just loved him harder, it’d all work out.

Instead, he’d gone and pressed some sad little brat up against a car in a parking lot.

Heidi’s fingers twitched.

Charli was small. That was the first thing Heidi noticed. Petite and dramatic. Like a broken shell of a girl trying to get herself adopted. Five feet tall, max. A full head shorter than Kyle.

And the boobs? Fuck.

No wonder Kyle was losing his mind. She looked like a damn Bratz doll. Brown skin, big tits, tiny waist, dramatic hair and trauma oozing off her like an accessory.

Heidi, by comparison, was tall. Slender. Her friends called her a waif, which was just a nice way of saying she looked like she might break in a different way. Like she needed iron pills and a sandwich.

She stayed thin because she had to. Because when she let go, even a little, she remembered what it felt like when Eric made her fat and mean and ugly on purpose. When she hated herself so much she became someone cruel.

She never forgot what it felt like to be the fat girl who got laughs for being mean because it was the only way to keep Eric from calling her disgusting.

She never wanted to be that girl again. She wanted to be lovable. Contained. Palatable. The kind of girl someone like Kyle could take home and not be embarrassed of.

And at first, Kyle liked that. Liked her.

He was tall. Six feet of messy curls, bruised elbows and hands calloused from basketball. They looked good together. She fit under his arm like a photo op. But now she was starting to realize what he really liked.

Vulnerability.

Not quiet vulnerability. Not like Heidi’s.

He liked the kind that screamed.

Charli had lived with his family. Stayed with them. What the hell kind of girl does that? What kind of Mother lets a girl like that sleep in their house? Heidi’s mom would’ve sent her to confession for thinking about it.

And she was Jewish. Like Kyle.

Heidi felt the pit open in her stomach again, that same feeling she got when he corrected her on Hanukkah trivia or talked about his bar mitzvah like it was a defining life event instead of just a party with bagels and old people.

Heidi really remembered that party now.

When the lights were low and the horah was over, Kyle had taken Charli’s hand.

They’d danced just once. Just long enough for Heidi to hate it.

He’d looked at her like she was the antidote to something killing him from the inside. Like he was thirteen and already drowning.

Heidi swallowed.

Heidi squeezed her eyes shut.

Her chest was tight. Rage and humiliation coiled in her ribs like a pulled muscle.

Fine.

Fuck it.

She opened Instagram again.

Her thumbs moved before she could stop them. She uploaded the pictures Eric had sent, along with the captioned one of Charli holding The Bell Jar.

She typed one sentence: When your boyfriend cheats on you with a mentally unstable pickme from Louisiana.

She hit post.

Heidi tossed her phone onto the bed, then sank down after it.

Chapter Text

It might’ve been the altitude, the weed, or the years of psychic rot from a town that usually had more snow than common sense, but Park County Community College pulsed with a strange kind of energy that summer.

Tweek Bros. had just opened a franchise in the library, and even though the espresso machine sounded like an 80s scream queen, the line stretched out the door every morning. Not because the coffee was good, but because it was the only place on campus you could panic in peace.

The rec center had a functioning gym, a pingpong table with only one dent, and a surprisingly competitive intramural basketball league.

And despite the constant threat of being snowed in or accidentally registering for a class that no longer existed, students kept coming.

Locals who couldn’t afford to leave. Weirdos who couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Kids who weren’t done figuring shit out.

It had been a week since “the kiss heard ‘round the town,”

One week since he’d tasted strawberry lip gloss and Charli’s fury in the same breath.

Since Cartman’s sweaty little fingers blasted a photo to the internet before Kyle even opened his eyes.

Since Heidi Turner stopped blinking and started posting.

Leaves scraped across the concrete of Park County Community College’s quad.

A girl in a crop top sneered behind her iced coffee. A trio of guys stared too long. And Kyle Broflovski, despite all efforts to disappear into his hoodie, was very much being noticed.

The worst part?

He hadn’t even done anything. Not really.

He kissed someone. In the parking lot.

Sure, that someone was Charli.

Sure, it was the kind of kiss that ended wars or started them.

But the Instagram post, Heidi’s little nuke, complete with sparkly captions and psychoanalysis, had turned that moment into lore.

When your boyfriend cheats on you with a mentally unstable pickme from Louisiana.

And now? Now Kyle was infamous.

He tried not to meet anyone’s eyes. His sunglasses helped. So did his hoodie. Greenish-gray, basic, drawn down like he was starring in a movie about avoiding accountability.

Stan flanked him to the left, hands in pockets, a little bored-looking in that way that said I’m hot, but please don’t talk to me about it.

Kenny was on the right, radiating his usual enigmatic aura, already scanning the quad, as if Martine might descend from the sky in her purple Charger and demand he get in. She wouldn’t, but he’d hope anyway.

Cartman trailed behind them.

Kyle kept walking.

Some guy in a faded frat t-shirt grinned and slapped him on the back, “Bro. You upgraded,”

Kyle flinched like he’d been caught jerking off in temple, “Thanks,” 

Cartman grinned behind him, “Ladies and gentlemen, hide your daughters. Kyle Broflovski has entered the quad. Fresh off his tour as The Man Who Fucked Around and Found Out,”

Kenny’s voice cut in, wickedly amused, “Think she’ll be at Martine’s rooftop thing next weekend?”

Kyle glared sideways, jaw clenched, “Shut up,”

“Just sayin’,” Kenny shrugged, “You could text her,”

“I’m not texting her,” Kyle snapped, too fast, too sharp.

“You’re wearing sunglasses in the shade,” Stan muttered, “You look like you’re hiding from TMZ,”

Kyle flipped him off without looking.

He hadn’t seen Charli since. Not in class. Not at Tweek Bros. Not even in the background of someone else’s Snapchat story. Martine had taken her like some vengeance demon in heels and disappeared into the rich-girl mist. And Kyle had been left to rot in the fallout.

Kyle wanted to scream. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten since 9 a.m. the day before. His brain was on a loop of Charli’s lips, Charli’s thighs, Charli’s silence; Every time he thought about reaching out, the image of Martine’s hand yanking Charli away burned across his retinas.

Cartman broke the tension with a theatrical gasp, “Oh my God, is that what this is?”

He gestured dramatically to Kyle’s getup, “You’re doing the whole ‘mourning the forbidden kiss’ thing? Hoodie and sunglasses? Jesus Christ, are you gonna drop a mixtape about your feelings?”

Kyle stopped walking.

Turned to Cartman.

The silence around them sharpened.

Stan exhaled slowly, bracing himself.

Cartman smirked like he’d just lit a fuse.

Kyle’s voice was low, teeth clenched, “Say one more thing,”

Cartman smirked as he took a strategic step away, “Who’s fault is it your tongue found its way into someone else’s esophagus while you were still dating Psychology Barbie?”

Kyle felt his stomach churn. He wasn’t ashamed of the kiss. He was ashamed of what came after. Of not fighting harder. Of letting Martine win. Of the silence. Of Charli not reaching out. Of the fact that he hadn’t either.

He thought about turning around. Going home. Jumping into Stark’s Pond and letting nature do the rest.

Cartman slowed down in front of him, spinning around dramatically to walk backward, “Y’know, Kyle, statistically speaking, there’s no coming back from this. You’re the villain now,”

Kyle shoved past him, shouldering Cartman so hard he stumbled.

“Fuck!” Cartman cackled, grinning wide, “Guess I touched a nerve,”

“Dude,” Stan muttered, “He’s gonna kill you one day. And I’m not gonna stop it,” 

But then he saw her.

Under the tree, half-shadowed by branches and light, was Charli. Reading. One leg crossed over the other, skirt ruffled at the thigh, a pen tapping lightly against her lip. She didn’t see him. Or maybe she did and didn’t care.

His body flooded with heat and it felt like every cell screamed her name.

Kenny followed his gaze. Stan just shook his head, quiet. Watching Kyle spiral had become something of a team sport.

Across the quad, Charli sat beneath the oldest oak tree on campus. The one that had watched generations of students fall in love, fall out of love, cheat on exams, smoke questionable herbs, and once, famously, stood by as Cartman get his ass kicked by Bebe in red wedges.

She was reading. Not because she cared about the book (something postmodern and exhausting) but because she knew the best way to summon Kyle Broflovski was to look unavailable.

Kyle had seen her the second they hit the edge of the lawn. His legs had kept moving, his blood had not. The sight of her with her legs curled beneath her, pink bow gleaming in the sun like a bullseye painted just for him, was enough to slap every other thought out of his brain.

She looked edible. Dangerous. Divine. Like sex and spite and that fucking strawberry lip gloss wrapped in a lavender-colored cardigan.

He hadn’t planned to walk over. Hadn’t planned anything. But something about the tilt of her head, the knowing way she didn’t look up, made him snap.

He veered off the path like he was being dragged by his own stupid hormones and worse decisions. Stan followed reluctantly. Kenny just grinned, hands in his pockets. Cartman, thank God, hung back by the walkway, muttering something about “emotional hostage syndrome” and the shame of being “hypnotized by a black girl with opinions,”

Kyle saw her before his body admitted it. Charli. Pastel purple cardigan. That goddamn teal dress hugging every curve like it had a personal vendetta against his sanity.

Her posture screamed casual, but Kyle knew better. He knew the tilt of her chin was a loaded weapon, that every curl was flat-ironed into obedience.

Her brown legs were folded neatly, book balanced, lips slightly parted as she turned the page; Casual, cruel, fucking angelic.

She wasn’t just sitting there. She was annihilating him from yards away with the precise placement of her ankles.

She still didn’t look up. Just turned a page like he wasn’t there. Like she wasn’t deliberately luring him in with posture alone.

“Charli,” Kyle barked.

Nothing.

“Charli,”

Her gaze slid up then, slow and surgical. Not surprise. Not interest. Just a measured flick of her lashes like oh, this again. Her mouth tilted into a smirk.

“Kyle,”

She turned, eyes softening (not for him, of course) for Stan, “Hi, Stan,”

Stan, who genuinely had no idea how to react, just nodded, “Hey,”

Kyle’s stomach twisted. He hated that her voice went warm for Stan.

He hated that she was better at this, at pretending nothing had happened, like they hadn’t kissed like their lungs were on fire. Like she needed him to stay.

Kenny squatted down with that crooked puppy grin that somehow worked for him, “Damn, you look good,”

Charli glanced his way, “Martine’s on her way to Anthro. If you run, you’ll catch her,”

Kenny made a noise Charli would describe to Martine later as ‘horny relief’, and was gone before she barely finished the sentence, sprinting like she’d handed him a treasure map to the g-spot.

Kyle didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at her like if he glared hard enough, she’d say his name again. Like she’d break. Like she’d soften the way she did under him, nails in his back, mouth trembling.

She didn’t.

She looked back down at her book.

She finally looked at him, just long enough to make it hurt. Her eyes dragged over his face with the slow, surgical precision of someone deciding if an ex should be blocked, unfollowed, or publicly roasted. Then, she returned to her book.

Kyle’s voice came out rough, “You’ve been ignoring me,”

“Yeah, well, I learned from the best,” She said, turning a page.

He exhaled, tried to shake the tension from his shoulders, “Charli, come on. I didn’t mean to–”

“You didn’t mean to what?” Her gaze snapped up to glare at him, “Kiss me like I mattered? Then vanish like I didn’t?”

His spine stiffened, “I didn’t vanish. Martine took you before I could say anything,”

“And you couldn’t text? Call? Send a smoke signal? I saw your hand on my ass in 4K, Kyle. You looked very communicative,” She said, snapping her book closed.

His face burned.

Kyle barely registered it over the blood pounding in his ears, “I didn’t know what to say,”

“Bullshit,”

He snapped, “You think I’m just out here casually detonating my life for fun? I’ve been getting death threats from anonymous accounts. Heidi’s gone full Taylor Swift–”

“You kissed me,” she said, low and sharp, “You kissed me, and then you acted like it never happened,”

“I didn’t–”

“You always do this,”

His throat tightened, “Do what?”

She stood in one fluid, deliberate motion, dress catching the sunlight like a goddamn weapon.

She leaned in just enough that only he could hear her, “You break me a little, and then act like you didn’t even notice,”

That hit harder than any punch Cartman had ever thrown.

Kyle blinked, heart hammering against his sternum. He reached for words, but none came. Only her scent, lavender and vanilla, and the echo of her breath in his skin.

She turned, ready to walk.

But just before she did, she looked over her shoulder and said, “Tichen,”

His breath hitched.

His entire body went slack, like she’d reached inside and pressed the part of him that still believed he was hers. His knees could’ve buckled if Stan hadn’t stepped forward, subtly steadying him with a hand to the shoulder.

And then she was walking. Hair swaying. Skirt of her dress fluttering. Heading toward her Lit class like she didn’t just decimate him and get him half-hard with one goddamn word.

Kyle watched her go, jaw clenched, grinding his molars. She didn’t look back.

He realized, too late, that he was supposed to be in Psych.

He was already ten minutes late.

And completely, utterly fucked.

Kenny McCormick didn’t run much. Not unless it was from cops, toward free food, or because a girl like Martine Guede might be waiting when he gets there.

He peeled off from the quad in a blur, leaving Kyle, Charli and Stan back under that cursed oak tree.

Kyle was combusting. Stan looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. And Kenny? Kenny had a mission.

One infinitely more terrifying than emotional fallout or Kyle's spirals.

Martine.

He moved fast across campus, dodging freshmen, and girls taking selfies with boba tea.

It was the kind of day that made everything feel a little more dangerous. And Kenny felt exposed. Like his ratty old parka jacket wasn’t enough to cover how raw she made him feel.

Martine didn’t chase. She hovered at the edge of his world like something beautiful and venomous, and every time she looked at him (really looked at him) it felt like being studied, dissected, devoured.

She knew what he wanted. She wanted it too. But she made him work for it, like her affection was a locked vault and his hands were always just a little too bloody to unlock it.

He was used to being the one who chased. Or at least the one girls fell into bed with and ghosted later.

Tammy Warner had been his first. They had ridiculous chemistry. Fiery, loud, constant groping in between cafeteria fries.

But that was it.

Then there was Bebe, senior year.

She’d pulled him into a storage closet at prom, whispered "don’t tell anyone," and kissed him like he was the last guy on earth.

He hadn’t told anyone. Not even Kyle. Sometimes he wondered if Bebe even remembered it.

He’d had a crush on Nichole once too, but that was before Stan figured out how to talk about his feelings without vomiting.

They’d been together ever since junior year. Solid. Gross. Kind of perfect. Kenny had accepted that one with quiet dignity and a truly embarrassing amount of porn.

But Martine? Martine didn’t feel like any of them. She didn’t feel like anyone.

He spotted her before he could fully brace for it. Leaning against the stone wall outside her anthropology class, legs crossed, an herbal cigarette between two perfectly manicured fingers.

She looked expensive. Like a woman who’d fucked on a grand piano and made the dude cry afterward. She wasn’t wearing anything scandalous, just a black turtleneck with a burgundy leather pencil skirt, but she radiated danger anyway. A kind of lazy dominance that made his knees sweat.

When she spotted him, her mouth curved into a smirk.

Kenny stopped short, caught mid-stride.

Fuck.

Martine tilted her head, exhaled a thin stream of smoke, “Looking for me, McCormick?”

His brain short circuited. Her voice was all smoke and silk and just the right amount of challenge.

He swallowed, “Yeah. Maybe. Were you hiding?”

She laughed softly, “I don’t hide. I reposition,”

He was going to die. Right here. On the goddamn pavement. Hard and speechless.

Her eyes dragged down his frame like a lazy threat, then settled on his mouth. He swore she was toying with the idea of biting him like a vampire in one of those books Charli liked to read.

And if she had? Kenny would’ve dropped dead and thanked her for the honor of being her bloodbag.

“You look flushed,” she said, stepping off the wall and closing the distance between them by half a foot, “Is that just your body reacting to me again?”

Kenny exhaled a nervous laugh, “You always talk like that?”

Martine smiled slowly, “Just when I’m bored,”

Kenny wasn’t nervous. Not really. Not in the way normal guys got nervous. He’d fucked in a roof in broad daylight before. He’d broken into the community pool wearing nothing but his boxers. He’d lived through multiple stabbings, auto-erotic asphyxiation, alcohol poisoning, and an actual haunting.

What was one girl compared to that?

Except this girl wasn’t just a girl. Martine Guede moved through the world like the laws didn’t apply to her. Not just legally  (he was pretty sure she and Charli actually had diplomatic immunity) but existentially.

Like the universe rearranged itself around her. Like every room she entered turned into dark stage and the only spotlight was on her.

So yeah. Maybe he was nervous.

But he still asked.

“So what’re you doing tonight?” he said, casually, like his pulse wasn’t hammering in his throat, “Or, y’know, this weekend. Next week. Summer solstice. Whatever. We could... hang?”

Martine arched a brow, inhaled from her herbal cigarette like she’d heard this all before and was already bored of him. But there was a twinge of amusement in her mouth, and that was enough to keep his dignity intact.

Barely.

She let the smoke curl from her lips slowly, deliberately.

“Girls night,” she said finally, “Tonight. Charli, Nichole, and Wendy,”

Kenny blinked.

“Wendy?” He said, thinking how unexpected that was.

Martine shrugged, “She and Charli were close in fourth grade. One of the only people she still trusts here. Besides your little ginger shooting guard, obviously,”

Kenny smirked, “You mean Kyle ‘I-have-a-God-complex-and-a-messiah-complex-and-probably-an-Oedipus-complex’ Broflovski?”

Martine didn’t laugh, but the corner of her mouth tugged up.

“I trust Charli’s judgment...” she said, and then added with a pointed sip of smoke, “Except when it comes to him,”

Fair.

He leaned against the wall beside her, toe tapping, trying not to seem like he was rearranging his whole personality for a maybe, “Alright, alright. So you got a thing with the girls. That’s cool. Totally cool. I love that for you. Female friendships are sacred,”

Martine gave him a look. The kind of look that saw right through every ounce of his bullshit.

He cleared his throat, “But... I could cook for you guys?”

That actually got her to pause. Eyebrows lifted. Her gaze ran down the length of him like she was trying to decide if he’d roofie them or propose.

“I’m serious,” he added quickly, “I can make pasta. Like real pasta. From scratch. Sauce and everything. Garlic bread. Dessert. I’ve got this recipe for chocolate torte that’ll make you cry,”

Martine tilted her head, “You want to cook for four highly judgmental, hyper-verbal women who will not pretend to like it if it sucks?”

Kenny shrugged, “If it wins me points with you, I’d cook for the whole goddamn coven,”

A beat. Her eyes gleamed.

Finally, she nodded, “Alright,”

He exhaled, grin spreading before he could stop it, “That’s a win,”

“No promises,” Martine smirked.

And then she turned and walked away, hips swaying, smoke trailing like her shadow. Kenny stared after her for maybe too long.

Maybe definitely too long.

God, he was so fucked. In the good way.

Hopefully.

Depending on how well he baked that torte.

Kyle Broflovski sat in his child psychology lecture trying to pretend he wasn’t two skipped meals, four unread texts, and one breakdown away from a full blown identity crisis.

The room was sterile and too bright, the kind of institutional beige that made even existential realizations feel academically sanctioned.

The professor, Dr. Luntz who wore the same brown loafers every day, was mid-spiel about attachment theory, something Kyle already knew way too much about.

Bowlby. Ainsworth. Secure versus insecure attachment. He’d reviewed it for weeks. Aced the last quiz. Had six color coded tabs in the margins of his overpriced textbook to prove he was fine.

Except he wasn’t. Not even close.

He scribbled notes mechanically, pretending the words didn’t hit like a personal attack.

Avoidant behavior in children often stems from inconsistent care-giving. Ambivalent attachment styles may result in clinging behavior, emotional volatility, and fear of abandonment.

He tightened his grip on the pen.

He could feel Heidi’s presence without needing to look.

She sat in the row behind him, diagonally to the left, close enough to be noticed, far enough to feign disinterest. It was her new tactic since the breakup. Passive aggressive proximity.

She hadn’t spoken to him since her meltdown post went viral; Hadn’t confronted him, screamed, cried.

No, she just existed nearby like a hovering consequence. Hair perfectly limp. Eyes blank but razor sharp.

Kyle didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. The back of his neck itched with the weight of her silence.

Dr. Luntz clicked to the next slide.

Kyle stared at the screen, heart thudding like it was being squeezed.

The professor’s voice droned on.

Children with anxious-preoccupied attachment styles often react intensely to separation. They seek reassurance but may not trust it when offered. Their emotions are often heightened, desperate.

He saw her in his mind. Charli, storming away in that teal dress. Calling him Tichen like it still meant something. Like she didn’t want to mean it, but did anyway.

The professor kept going. Something about disorganized attachment, about children who oscillate between clinging and pushing away.

Kyle blinked down at his notes and realized he’d written Charli’s name three times.

He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm.

It wasn’t just that he missed her. It was that she saw him. Always had. Even back then, when they were stupid fourth graders pretending to be a fake couple so she wouldn’t get harassed and he wouldn’t have to admit he liked the way she chewed her pencils.

She knew when he was spiraling before he did. Knew how to get under his skin with a single smirk. Knew that he’d fall for it, every goddamn time, and never wanted her to stop.

And he’d still fucked it all up.

Because he always did.

Heidi coughed behind him. Delicate, but pointed. Like she could hear the mental spiral he was busy drowning in and wanted to make sure she had a front row seat.

Kyle didn’t flinch. He just stared at the next slide.

Secure attachment results in individuals who are comfortable with intimacy and autonomy.

Yeah. Cool. Great. What the hell was that even like?

He’d kissed Charli like he was drowning, then avoided her like a coward. Then spiraled when she ignored him. And all this knowledge, every damn theory, every diagnosis, only made it worse. He wasn’t curing himself by learning about it. He was just cataloging the wreckage.

The professor asked a question about case studies. Someone up front answered. Kyle didn’t hear it. He was too busy imagining what it would’ve been like to grow up differently.

To not having a mom who loved too much, too loud, and a dad who hand waved him away. To not need to control everything to feel safe. To not fall for girls who set off every internal alarm like a house fire he wanted to burn in.

Heidi uncapped her pen. The click of it made him grit his teeth.

Charli would’ve laughed at that. Would’ve leaned over and whispered something snide in his ear just to make him twitch. Would’ve said he was being dramatic. Then told him to get over himself. Then kissed his jaw and tucked his hair behind his ear like none of it mattered and all of it did.

He stared down at his page and underlined her name again.

It didn’t help.

Kyle Broflovski was unraveling.

Quietly. Academically.

With a spiral so structured it could pass for ambition. On the surface, he looked like a model student: hoodie pulled tight, fingers flying across his laptop as if he was taking dictation from God Himself.

In reality, every word of this lecture was feeding the obsessive engine of his misery. The deeper the professor went into the nuances of attachment theory, the more Kyle felt like he was being personally audited by the entire psychology department.

He tried to drown it out. Tried to weaponize his intellect against his own heartbeat. Tried to make it about anything but Charli.

It didn’t work.

The notes he took weren’t even notes anymore.

Just fragments.

Charli’s name.

A half-written line about anxious ambivalence.

An unconscious doodle of a pink bow he quickly scribbled over.

He underlined "disorganized attachment" three times before realizing his jaw was clenched so tight his molars hurt.

He kept thinking about what Martine said. About the hospital. About how Charli had been back in Louisiana three weeks ago. Hurt bad enough that Stan had to convince her to come back.

And Kyle hadn’t even known. No texts. No updates. Just static.

He’d thought she ghosted him for six years, and it turned out she’d been fucking recovering.

His fists curled under the desk.

He didn’t know the guy’s name. Didn’t want to. Didn’t need to.

Just the image, some faceless bastard who laid a hand on her, was enough to make Kyle’s stomach curdle and his fingers twitch with the kind of rage that used to land him in detention or therapy or both. He would’ve gone down to Louisiana himself if he’d known. Would’ve tracked the guy down and made sure he never touched another girl again. Would’ve done it without blinking.

He hated that she didn’t tell him.

He hated that she didn’t feel safe telling him.

He hated knowing that she used to.

Every bit of theory the professor threw at them, like object permanence, trust development, or the stability of caregiving, kept reflecting back like a fucked up mirror.

Like maybe this was his punishment for being too scared to reach out. For kissing her like he needed her and then acting like he didn’t. For letting her walk away because he thought he had time.

He always thought he had time.

But with Charli? Time didn’t exist. It bent. It snapped. She’d only been back for a week and a half, and he already felt like he’d been living in the aftermath of her return for years.

When class finally ended, Kyle didn’t bother saying goodbye to the professor. He just shoved his notes into his backpack and bolted like he was going to combust if he sat still one more second. The air outside hit his lungs like static; Sharp, bright, too clean. It pissed him off.

He stomped across the quad toward the library. Not because he needed to study more. Not because he had time to kill. But because Charli liked libraries. She’d always loved them. Said the silence made her feel safe, that books didn’t expect anything from her. That knowledge was better than people because it stayed where you left it.

The Tweek Bros franchise was wedged into the bottom floor of the library like a caffeine choked afterthought. The smell of burnt espresso and cheap syrup wafted out the door as soon as Kyle walked in.

Stan was already at a corner table, slouched over a cold brew. Kenny sat across from him with his feet up on a second chair, scrolling his phone and smirking like a guy who had no idea the world was burning.

Kyle dropped into the third seat.

“Damn,” Kenny said without looking up, “Rough day in nerd camp?”

Kyle didn’t respond. Just peeled the lid off his drink and stared into it like it might explain something.

Stan gave him a once-over but said nothing.

Then Kenny tilted his head toward the bookshelves, “Y’know, Charli would make a hot librarian,”

Kyle choked on his drink so hard it went up his nose. He slammed the cup down, coughing, face already flushed with heat.

Stan blinked, “Jesus,”

Kenny grinned, “What? Tell me I’m wrong,”

Kyle glared, “You’re disgusting,”

“You’re the one picturing her in glasses and heels, bro,”

Kyle nearly flipped the table.

Because yeah, okay, he had imagined it.

Had a whole goddamn intrusive thought montage queued up like a cursed slideshow. Charli with her hair up. Charli with a pencil between her teeth. Charli leaning over a desk asking if he needed help finding something. The problem wasn’t the image.

The problem was how fast his brain supplied it.

He groaned, “Fuck off,”

Kyle slumped back in his chair, scowling at the ceiling. He knew he couldn’t think his way out of this. Knew it the moment he saw that teal dress. The moment she called him Tichen. The moment he realized she wasn’t going to make this easy.

And honestly? He didn’t want her to.

Because nothing had ever been easy with Charli Lafayette.

Kyle barely heard Kenny say the name Riley, like it meant something more than background noise.

Some tangent about her getting back from Vegas, making out like a bandit, probably by charming her way through blackjack tables with those strategic eyes and silent smirks.

Kenny always talked about Riley like she was some mythical side quest who just happened to kick everyone’s ass at games without ever speaking a word. Mute, mysterious, unbeatable.

The kind of girl who collected wins like Halloween candy and didn’t blink when Kyle or Cartman screamed at each other in fourth grade. Kyle had liked her. Maybe even respected her.

But right now?

He didn’t give a shit.

“Cool,” he muttered, not even looking down from the ceiling, “Tell her I said hi,”

“Wow,” Kenny muttered, drawing out the vowels, “Rude. She was your little assassin buddy before Charli even moved here,”

“I was ten, dude,” Kyle snapped, “And I’m busy,”

Busy doing what, exactly? Mentally rearranging every mistake he’d made since Charli stepped out of that Charger like a hallucination in bubblegum pink?

Pretending he could decode her silence like it wasn’t killing him slowly? Acting like he could outrun the way his chest ached when she looked at anyone but him?

Stan shifted beside him, fingers lazily scrolling his phone until he paused, blinked, then held it up like it physically weighed more, “Uh... guys?”

Kyle’s phone buzzed before he could ask. Then Kenny’s. A group text from Cartman with a link to Charli's Insta.

Kyle’s stomach sank with that familiar, stomach curdling dread he only got when Cartman texted with glee.

He opened Instagram like he was defusing a bomb, already bracing for humiliation. Or weaponized nostalgia. Or some deranged propaganda about Haitians stealing pets.

But it wasn’t that.

It was her.

@xo.charli.la. The account name was deceptively soft. Like cotton candy laced with poison.

The post was a carousel. A thirst trap masquerading as a coming of age novel. First slide: Charli in front of a full-length mirror, taking a blurry photo in her bedroom with Martine’s absurdly expensive wallpaper in the background. She was wearing a black slip dress so tight it looked painted on. A white cardigan hung off one shoulder like it had given up trying to contain her. The matching bow in her hair was obnoxiously perfect.

Kyle’s throat went dry. Immediately.

He swiped left.

Second slide: a Polaroid photo someone else took; Charli mid-laugh, eyes closed, drink in hand, thigh out, lip gloss smudged like someone had already kissed it off. She looked dangerous. She looked like she’d forgotten every reason to ever look back at him.

Next: a soft-focus shot of her perfume bottles on a tray. Captioned with some poetic bullshit about softness being survival. He barely registered it, even though it was designed to make you think she was delicate and tragic and not the same girl who he had to talk out of pulling a fire alarm to get out of gym.

Final slide: a close-up of her face, tongue between her teeth, captioned with: he said i was too much. now i’m everything.

Kyle couldn’t feel his legs. He just blinked and stared at the screen.

“Oh my God,” Kenny said, grinning with equal parts awe and abject terror, “She’s in her hot girl villain arc,”

Kyle didn’t say anything.

The caption felt personal. It was personal.

She knew exactly what she was doing. Posting that, now.

The lipstick, the thigh, the glare that said you lost me and the laugh that said you still want me.

Because he did. He wanted her like he wanted answers, like he wanted control, like he wanted to scream until the world tilted back into place.

And the worst part?

She hadn’t tagged him.

She hadn’t tagged anyone.

Just posted it into the void like she didn’t care if he saw it, but made it obvious she knew he would.

Kyle stared at his screen, jaw tight, chest burning. Every breath felt like it caught on something sharp.

Kenny stood abruptly, shoving his chair back with the kind of smug confidence only a man about to serve dinner to four intimidating women could manage.

“Alright, gentlemen,” he said, tossing the last of his coffee in the trash, “it’s time for me to go make something that’ll earn me praise, panties, or both,”

Kyle blinked up at him, still half-fried from the Instagram bomb detonation, “Go where?”

Kenny gave him a look, “To cook for the girls?”

Kyle narrowed his eyes, “Which girls?”

Kenny grinned, like he’d been waiting for that question, “Martine, Nichole, Wendy, and Charli. Duh,”

“Nichole’s back?”

“Got in last night,” Stan said casually, still scrolling on his phone, “We hooked up, dude. She said she was doing girls’ night tonight. It’s whatever,”

Kenny’s eyebrows shot up, “Wait, hooked up? You guys have been together since junior year. How the hell is that ‘whatever’?”

Stan shrugged, lazy and unreadable, “We’re just... keeping it casual right now,”

Kenny let out a sharp bark of laughter as he dug his car keys out of his hoodie, “You cannot keep it casual for that fucking long,”

Stan rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it, “Kenny, don’t you have garlic to burn?”

“Herb-infused focaccia, actually,” Kenny corrected before strolling off, “Pray for me, boys. If I don’t survive the estrogen gauntlet, don’t delete my browser history,”

Kyle stared after him, still reeling.

Not from Kenny’s ridiculousness, he was used to that, but from the sudden stab of reality that came with hearing Charli’s name and girls night in the same sentence.

That meant she was getting dressed right now. Putting on perfume. Posing for more photos. Surrounded by her friends. Laughing at shit he wasn’t invited to. And not once had she texted him. Not to explain the post. Not to taunt him. Nothing.

It was driving him insane.

But then there was Stan. Sitting there like none of this fazed him. Like his girlfriend just materialized in his bed after being gone and now she was off having a pillow fight with Kyle’s ex-almost-everything and he genuinely didn’t give a shit.

Kyle stared, “So what’s going on with you and Nichole?”

Stan didn’t look up, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you were weird when she left, you’re being weirder now that she’s back, and you keep acting like casual means stable,”

There was a long pause. Stan didn’t answer immediately. Just scrolled through something, then locked his phone and set it face down.

“Dude, I don’t know,” he said finally, “ Just... we’re both busy, y’know?”

Kyle didn’t believe that for a second. Stan always acted like if he ignored something long enough, the question would answer itself.

Kyle leaned forward, “Is this about Charli?”

Stan looked at him then, really looked, and something flickered across his face. Annoyance. Guilt. Something harder to name.

“Why would it be?”

Which wasn’t a denial. Not really.

Kyle sat back, throat tight. Suddenly, everything was too loud.

The buzz of the cafe lights, the scrape of chairs, the swirl of leftover coffee in his cup. His fingers curled around the lid.

Because here was the thing. Stan had always had a type: girls with sharp minds and warm laughs.

Girls who forgave easily, who pushed back just enough to keep him engaged.

Girls like Wendy. Girls like Nichole. Girls like...

No.

Nope.

Fuck that.

Stan wasn’t answering. Not really. Not in the way Kyle needed. He just stared down at the condensation ring left by his coffee like it had something profound to say, and Kyle could feel his patience eroding by the second.

He wasn’t built for ambiguity. He was built for arguments, facts, loud declarations, and emotionally messy declarations of moral superiority. Not this, whatever this hazy purgatory was between friendship, rivalry, and the creeping sense that someone else had heard his girl laugh.

“She says likes people who look like they’re not paying attention,” Kyle said, more to the table than to Stan, “But she only trusts the ones who notice everything,”

Stan looked up slowly, “What?”

“Charli,” Kyle snapped, voice lower than he meant it to be, “She flirts with everyone but barely lets anyone in. You know that, right? You get that?”

Stan’s frowned like Kyle had just accused him of fingering her on the quad, “Dude, what the fuck?”

“Just answer me,” Kyle leaned in, heart hammering in his chest, “Do you want her?”

The silence hit hard. No background noise could cover it. Not the espresso grinder, not the shitty indie playlist humming from the corner speaker, not even the sound of someone arguing with the barista about full-fat milk.

Stan didn’t blink. Didn’t wince or flinch. Just looked at Kyle with that same unreadable expression he always wore when things were actually serious. The one that made him impossible to fight with because he rarely exploded, just absorbed everything like a wall you couldn’t knock down.

“She was staying with your family when we were ten,” Stan said finally, calm and surgical, “You think I didn’t notice how you looked at her? We all saw the way you looked at each other before you did,”

Kyle’s mouth went dry.

Stan leaned back, “It was always gonna be you,”

Something twisted in Kyle’s stomach. Not guilt. Not quite. Something darker. Something primal. Because hearing Stan say that didn’t feel like relief.

It felt like a pulled punch, quieter and still bruising.

He hated that Stan had noticed. Hated that he’d understood Charli while she was gone. Because Stan didn’t fall loud like Kyle did, he fell with restraint. With curated heartbreak.

Kyle didn’t have that switch. He wanted or he imploded. There was no middle.

“She’s not just some girl,” Kyle said plainly.

“No one said she was,”

Stan meant it. Kyle knew he did. But it still felt like a lie. Because for Stan, every girl seemed like some girl.

Even Nichole, his technically-current girlfriend. was a quiet fixture in his life, like a song that played on repeat so often he stopped hearing it. Comfortable. Familiar. Unshakably kind. And right now, off with Martine and Charli and Wendy, probably drinking wine and talking shit about their deepest fears in coordinated pajamas.

Kyle rubbed his temple like he could massage the spiraling out of his skull, “You ever think maybe we’re all just fucking it up in real time?”

Stan grinned faintly, “All the time,”

Kyle hated that too. The ease of it. The way Stan could acknowledge failure like a friend he shared a smoke with on the roof. Meanwhile, Kyle carried every mistake like a branded scar on his ribs.

He picked up his phone again, thumb hovering over Charli’s post. He hadn’t liked it.

Couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Because that would be defeat.

That would be admitting she’d gotten to him, that the captions meant what he knew they meant. That she knew he was watching. Waiting.

Kyle stared at the screen, heart pounding.

She was out right now. Dressed like war. Surrounded by people who loved her. Looking like a fucking dream no one deserved.

And Kyle was here, decoding subtext, spiral-jerking himself into madness, wondering if he’d ever be let close enough to touch the real her again.

Chapter Text

Kenny McCormick always believed in God. And now he was 99% sure She looked like Martine Guede in six inch heels.

He’d just made it to the edge of Stark’s Pond. The wind off the lake cut through his open jacket, crisp and sharp, but he didn’t care.

The apartment building loomed in front of him: Brutalist, gray, and deeply unsexy from the outside. But the minute he stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the fourth floor, the vibe shifted like an exhale.

Martine’s floor wasn’t just an apartment. It was an estate. Four units. One floor. Her name on the deed.

The moment the elevator dinged, Kenny was hit with the scent of jasmine, honey, and expensive ambition. It smelled like someone’s Tumblr moodboard came to life, threw out the inspirational quotes and replaced them with Black girl luxury and generational wealth.

Unit 401 was Martine’s place. Obviously. The lighting inside was soft and gold, like candlelight without the fire hazard. There were crystals on the windowsill, books that didn’t look like they’d ever been touched but probably all had significance, and purple incense smoke curling through the air. A fat black cat, stared at Kenny by the door with narrowed eyes and zero respect. There a was red collar on his neck with KINGSTON engraved on a gold tag.

Unit 402 belonged to Charli. Door closed. But Kenny could practically feel the emotional storm behind it, all gloss and grit and chaotic perfection. He knew without knocking that her space would smell like her; lavender, champagne, pink peony, vanilla and something darker beneath it. Something Haitian. Something sacred.

Unit 403 was empty.

And Unit 404, the proposed “communal” unit, had its door flung open like a promise and a trap all at once.

That was where the noise came from. Laughter, clinking glasses, something bass heavy playing from Martine’s speaker system.

The apartment looked like a magazine spread, black leather sectional, glass-top bar cart, dim overhead lighting with little mood lamps casting warm glows on the curtains.

Gold rimmed wine glasses, charcuterie that looked too pretty to eat, and bowls of snacks that were definitely not just for decoration.

This was not just a hangout spot. This was a set. And Kenny had walked into it like he was part of the crew, even though he knew damn well he was the catering.

And then he saw them.

Charli, Martine, Nichole, and Wendy, all clustered around the mirrored coffee table like a coven.

Dresses short, heels tall, lips glossy, and eyes dangerous. It was like walking into a fever dream made entirely of hot girls who would never text you back if you fucked up once.

His dick twitched in confusion and awe.

Charli’s dress was the one from her post. Black, form-fitting, indecent in the most sophisticated way. Her hair was pinned half-up with curls spilling like she didn’t care who saw her look this good. She was mid-laugh, legs crossed, wine in hand, eyes rimmed in something smoky.

Martine sat beside her, regal and terrifying in a backless red number that screamed kiss my ring or choke. She looked like she’d walked out of an editorial shoot. One where the theme was "Kenny’s next wet dream,”

Kingston had finally taken up residence on a pink velvet pouf beside her, purring with the same smugness as his owner. 

Nichole and Wendy had claimed the loveseat. Nichole wore a yellow sun dress. flirty, soft, but smart. Strategic hotness. Like she knew exactly how far the hemline went and why. Wendy wore a plum romper, sharp eyeliner and sharper sarcasm on deck.

“Uh, dinner’s here,” Kenny cleared his throat, “And by dinner, I mean me,”

Martine smirked, slow and devastating, “You’re late,”

“You’re early,” Kenny said, stepping inside like the room wasn’t actively raising his blood pressure, “And criminally overdressed for a night in,”

“That’s the point,” Charli said, raising her glass.

Kenny grinned, “Good. I was afraid I was the only one getting objectified tonight,”

Wendy muttered something to Nichole that made her snort into her drink. Kingston blinked at Kenny with disdain.

Kenny headed for the kitchen like a man prepared for war with fresh garlic, handmade dough, and an absolutely inappropriate amount of butter. He could hear them behind him, giggling, whispering, plotting. And he didn’t know if they were planning world domination or just the next Instagram post, but either way?

He’d feed the hell out of them.

And maybe Martine would look at him like she meant it.

Maybe Charli would smile.

Maybe he wouldn’t get burned.

But let’s be real... Probably not.

After a while, Kenny stirred the sauce, wood spoon tapping rhythmically against the side of the pot as he leaned in just enough to keep one ear trained on the conversation unfolding in the next room. He told himself he wasn’t eavesdropping. He was just multitasking. Like a sexy little domestic spy. A man of many talents. Culinary. Strategic. Horny.

The entree was penne arrabbiata. Extra garlic, heavy on the red pepper, the way Martine told him Charli liked it. Spicy, rich, bold. Like her. It was practically foreplay in a saucepan.

And dessert? A dark chocolate torte that was technically cheating, since he’d already baked it the night before for Culinary Club’s “aphrodisiac-themed” bake off. But no one needed to know that.

Especially not the girls currently sipping rosé in the next room.

He heard it first from Nichole, voice low and reassuring but with that edge of steel she saved for pep talks and takedowns, “You’ve been hiding like you owe the world an apology. Newsflash: you don’t,”

Kenny smirked, stirring slower. That had to be for Charli.

Charli, who hadn’t posted a damn thing since arriving back in South Park except maybe a blurry coffee and a meme. Until today. Until that carousel.

He imagined her, sprawled out on Martine’s couch, one leg tucked under the other, clutching a wine glass. She probably looked relaxed. She was never relaxed. That’s what made her so fucking terrifying.

“You should relax,” Wendy said bluntly, and Kenny could practically hear the shrug, “Heidi went nuclear because he kissed someone with depth. Honestly, that’s literary. Write about it,”

That made Martine laugh. A short, sharp thing like breaking glass. Kenny felt it in his spine.

“These girls want Heidi to be the victim so bad,” Nichole started.

Martine cut in, clipped and cold, “Fuck that,”

There was a beat of silence. Kenny didn’t stir this time. Just breathed in the spice, the tension, the unmistakable weight of truth hanging over four girls who’d had to smile through too many damn things.

He glanced toward the hallway, just barely catching the edge of Martine’s reflection in the glass door of the microwave. She was curled up like Cleopatra, wine in hand, face unreadable. The vibe in the room had shifted. Not bitter. Not even angry. Just clarified.

Martine didn’t raise her voice. Her presence filled the room like a tide.

“She weaponized fragility, proximity and thought she’d win by default. But now? Now they’re looking at us. So I’m hosting a rooftop pool party this weekend. Just a little reminder that we’re not the villains. Some of us are just hot, unbothered, and actually fun to be around,”

Kenny nearly dropped the spoon.

He knew that tone. That tone meant war. Social. Emotional. Aesthetic. Whatever.

Martine didn’t throw parties. She hosted events. Moments. Narrative and cultural resets. She was going to change the weather of the entire campus with just her credit card and ambition.

Kenny let out a slow breath, stirring the sauce with newfound focus.

This wasn’t girls night.

This was a war council.

And they were winning.

Kenny was so bricked up with admiration he could’ve married her on the spot.

Charli’s voice rose, softer but still sharp at the edges, “You think it’s too soon?”

Nichole answered instantly, “Too soon for what? Existing?”

Wendy added, “But if you don’t do it for you, do it for the spectacle. You’re the antagonist. Own it,”

Martine purred, “Exactly. Hot swimsuits. Invite-only. Signature drinks. Everyone will be talking about it,”

“We’re gonna freeze to death,” Charli grumbled through a half-hearted chuckle.

Martine just shrugged, “The pool's heated,”

Charli was halfway through her second glass of wine, legs tucked beneath her on the velvet sectional, when Nichole dropped a bomb.

“So,” she said, sipping her drink like they weren't planning the dawn of a new empire, “the student radio station has an opening. I’m producing a weekly hour, but I need two hosts. Advice, music, hot takes. You and Martine would kill it. Plus we could plug the party,”

Charli blinked, “Wait. You mean like... actually go on air?”

Nichole nodded, “Live. Full creative control,”

“Oh my God,” Charli straightened up, excitement blooming fast, “We’d be unstoppable,”

Martine let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a scoff, “Radio? What are we, in 2002?”

Charli elbowed her, “Martine, come on. We could be anonymous if we want. Or not. But it’s an hour of us. No filters, no algorithms, no comment sections. Just our voices. Our rules,”

Martine gave her a long look over the rim of her glass, then finally set it down, “You really want this?”

Charli nodded, pulse quickening, “I’ve been silent for six years. I want to say something now,”

A beat.

Martine tilted her head, then sighed, “Fine. But if anyone calls in crying about an ex named Jacob, I’m ending the call with a curse,”

Wendy raised her hand, perfectly unbothered, “I volunteer as your first caller. I have a submission already: My ex leveled up and doesn’t know how good he’s got it,”

The room burst into laughter, Martine cackled, Charli snorted into her wine. Nichole rolled her eyes like she’d heard it all before, but didn’t mind hearing it again.

Wendy shrugged, sipping casually, “Not naming names. Just saying some of us write love letters in our heads and some of us vomit on shoes,”

Nichole gave her a look, then stared at the ceiling like it could offer her emotional clarity.

“He’s never going to commit, is he?” she said suddenly, quiet but clear, “Stan. He’s... I don’t know. He’s been half-in since junior year and I’m so fucking tired of living at home and pretending like it’s enough,”

The mood shifted, softened. Charli reached out, hand brushing Nichole’s knee in solidarity. Martine, unusually gentle, leaned forward.

“You need space?” she said, “Take 403. It’s empty,”

Nichole blinked, “Wait. What?”

“Next to mine, across from this one, I've been letting Kingston use it as a play place,” Martine said, as if offering prime real estate was no big deal, “Keys are in my desk,”

Nichole blinked again, then nodded like she’d just been handed a lifeline, “Holy shit. Yes. Yes, please,”

Charli leaned back with a smug little smirk, “Just keep it down next time you and Stan play does-this-feel-like-a-relationship,”

“Only if Martine and Kenny keep it down when she finally lets him hit,” Nichole said with a smirk.

Martine didn’t even blink, “My room’s soundproof. I’ll be as loud as I want,”

From the kitchen, there was a sharp clang as Kenny dropped a utensil, followed by the sound of him trying and failing to play it off like he wasn’t listening the entire time.

The girls collapsed into laughter.

Kenny added a pinch more of the red pepper flakes. Then another.

He didn’t know if Kyle could survive this new Charli.

He glanced back at the pan, added a bit more crushed red pepper, and stirred slow. When he plated it, he’d add a dusting of Parmesan, the way Charli liked it. A little sweet with all that heat.

He wasn’t going to say shit. Not yet. But he’d heard everything.

And when Charli looked at him later with those unreadable, dark eyes?

He’d know exactly what she was reclaiming.

And exactly who wasn’t ready.

Later that week, Kyle was trying not to lose it. He’d been refreshing the campus radio livestream page for five minutes like a deranged ex-boyfriend tracking his own humiliation in real time, and the buffering wheel was starting to feel personal. He had no business being this worked up over a student radio show (Hot Girl Hotline, of all things) but here he was.

When the feed finally clicked in, it opened with a moody synth beat and a smooth voice saying, “Welcome to the Hot Girl Hotline, where your ex still stalks your page and your glowup isn’t up for debate,”

Charli.

Low. Velvety. Confident with a curl of sugar.

His chest went tight. That was her voice. Softer than it had been with him lately, but still sharp. Still cool and layered and so goddamn present it made the silence between them feel even worse.

Martine followed, low and amused, “We are not therapists. We’re barely emotionally stable, but we are accepting callers. So let’s get into it,”

And then came the music. Not bubbly sorority pop or bro-core breakup trash. R&B slow jams, and sad girl anthems. Charli had taste like a knife, “F2F” by SZA. Megan’s “Anxiety,” “All That,” by Carly Rae Jepsen. Every lyric felt like a shiv in his ribs.

Tonight’s theme was "Taboo Thursdays." Which meant gossip. Horny confessions. Emotional chaos.

Between tracks, they took calls; People called in asking for advice on everything from rebound etiquette to whether you should block your situationship’s mom.

Charli didn’t hold back. She never did.

“If he’s not posting you but he’s watching your stories, you’re a meal prep, girl. You’re being saved for later. Stop feeding him,”

Martine chimed in, smooth as smoke, “Block his ass and apply lipstick. In that order,”

It was ruthless. Almost fun. Charming. And Kyle couldn’t stop listening.

One caller’s voice shifted the tone, deeper and slightly disguised, but familiar in a way that made Kyle’s stomach twist.

The guy said he’d been seeing a girl “casually” for a while now. Years, actually, but lately it wasn’t casual anymore. Not for him.

“I’m in love with her,” the caller said, “I think I’ve always been in love with her. And she deserves more than I’ve given her. But I’m asking her, to come see Crimson Dawn play the rooftop party next weekend. I’ll be playing for her,”

Silence.

Kyle sat up straight, breath caught in his throat. It was Stan.

Charli was quiet for a moment. Then: “Okay. That was either a romcom moment or a tactical nuke,”

Martine snickered, “I love mess,” and Nichole’s laugh followed. Not nearly as detached as she probably wanted it to be.

Kyle stared at the screen like it might burst into flames. That wasn’t just a line. That was Stan talking about Nichole. And saying it like he meant it. Like he was finally done half-loving her in private and playing it cool while she stood by in the silence.

It was bold. Stupid, maybe. But bold.

And Nichole was quiet now.

Really quiet.

Kyle’s heart was pounding, overwhelmed and deeply unsettled by just how much things were shifting around him. Charli’s voice kept coming through the speakers, clever and cutting, perfectly paced, but all he could think about was how loud everyone else was getting about what they wanted.

And how unusually quiet he’d been.

This was the problem with friends like Stan. They were steady. But every once in a while, they pulled out the nuclear option and it was obvious that they felt things. Real things.

And Kyle, the guy who felt everything all the time, was left sitting in the dark, listening to a radio show about heartbreak hosted by the girl he couldn’t stop dreaming about, produced by the girl he didn’t realize his best friend was really that in love with.

And all he could do was keep listening alone in his room with the volume on his laptop turned up to the point of concern. The soft glow of the screen lit his face and he sat there like a guy hoping to summon closure but only getting his ex’s voice in HD.

By the time Hot Girl Hotline was in full swing again, Kyle had no idea why he kept tuning in.

Self-flagellation? Academic interest? Masochistic commitment to the bit? Maybe all three.

But mostly, it was Charli. Her voice through the tinny speakers had this dangerous warmth. She was funny. Quick. Lethal in that flirty, matter-of-fact way that made you feel like maybe she might remember you even after the world ended.

The next caller came through, voice disguised through what had to be a stolen effects pedal.

“I’m in nursing school,” the girl said, breathy and anxious, “and I kinda maybe have a crush on my clinical professor. He’s like, forty? But he knows everything and he smells like mint. What do I do?”

Charli didn’t miss a beat, “You get an A, sweetheart. You do nothing else. Unless you want to be a headline,”

Martine chimed in lazily, “Girl, he’s wearing tweed. Redirect that crush into your vibrator and mind your degree,”

Next came another woman who confessed that she was a TA and had a crush on “a goth girl with who’s always at Benny’s and looks like she’s plotting the downfall of society,”

Martine perked up instantly, “Oh, you’re talking about Henrietta,”

“Oh my God,” Charli whispered, grinning, “Shoot your shot,”

“I’ll write her a poem,” the caller said.

“No,” all three hosts said at once.

And then, the next voice hit. Too smooth. Fake sweet. Kyle thought it sounded way too familiar.

“Hi. So like..,” the girl said, “My friend’s dating the basketball team captain? He’s super smart, cute, Jewish, whatever. And this girl, who’s new, just swooped in and is, like, all over him. She’s super flirty and dresses like a 2000s Bratz doll and basically moved on him like a tick. So I guess the question is... how do you get rid of a homewrecker?”

Martine let out a slow, amused breath, “Anonymous, huh?”

Charli didn’t speak right away.

Kyle’s stomach dropped, waiting for the slap. The sting. The sentence that would bury him.

Charli exhaled. Calm. Measured. Cutting.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” she said coolly, “You don’t get to call someone a homewrecker when the house was already on fire. You don’t get to act like someone stole your man when your whole relationship was built with duct tape and denial,”

Kyle blinked. His chest tightened.

Charli continued, sharper now, but steady, “Some people find each other and it’s messy. Not because they want it to be, or they want to hurt anyone, but because they’re magnets. They crash. They cling. They repel. They drag each other back in. That’s not wrecking anything. That’s chemistry. That’s history,”

Martine muttered, “That’s Kyle,” and Kyle choked on his own spit.

But Charli kept going, voice softening around the edges, “They’ve been pulling towards each other for nine years. You can’t erase that, or sabotage it with a sob story and a pointed caption,”

There was a beat of silence on the line.

Then a loud click as the anonymous caller hung up.

Kyle sat frozen, eyes burning, pulse in his throat. She didn’t have to defend him. She didn’t even have to acknowledge him. But she did. She stood up for both of them. And somehow, that felt more intimate than every kiss they’d ever shared.

Across town, Kelly Rutherford-Menskin hung up.

Heidi ignored it. Neither she or Red asked what they said on the radio.

The campus lounge was too bright for that time of night, too beige, too indifferent to the spiral tearing through her chest. She smoothed her hair, then checked her phone again even though there were no new texts. Just the same screenshot, cropped to hell, showing Kyle’s entire face smashed against that other girl’s lips.

She hated how soft he looked in it. Not drunk, not manipulated. Just gone. Like he'd been waiting his whole life to come up for air and finally did, and it wasn’t with her.

She’d practiced the whole speech in her head: healing, growth, empowerment.

How she was choosing peace. How she was starting a campus initiative for girls like her. Girls who were misled, discarded, or publicly humiliated by boys who promised stability and then kissed someone else in front of Nueva Familia like they’d been waiting years to get away with it.

But her voice kept wobbling. Her hands kept trembling on the cup of peppermint tea she wasn’t drinking. She’d fasted all morning. Her stomach was tight and hollow, her jaw aching from clenching. Her dirty blonde hair fell perfectly, her lips tinted the softest pink, her lashes curled to hell, like they’d hide how bloodshot her eyes had been an hour ago.

Kelly leaned back in the plastic dorm chair, one brow arched, texting someone under the table, “So. A brunch?”

“No, it’s not just brunch,” Heidi’s tone went sharper than she intended, and she exhaled. Reset. Smiled, “It’s a platform. Like, an advocacy group for emotionally displaced girls. I’m calling it SHEcovery. We meet Sundays. There’s tea. And intention setting. We’re rising above,”

Red popped her gum. Kelly scrolled through her phone under the table, only looking up when Heidi said, “I’m thinking about a redemption arc,”

Silence. Then:

“You already regret dragging Kyle on Insta?” Red deadpanned, flipping her vibrant hair over her shoulder.

“No,” Heidi snapped, too fast. Then softer, sweeter, “I’m saying I’m done being collateral. Everyone wants to make me the ex-girlfriend with the iron grip, the one he had to escape to find himself. I am not a fucking plot device,”

“Ohhh,” Kelly hummed, still tapping, “We’re spiraling with metaphors today,”

Red’s eyes flicked to Kelly, then back to Heidi, “You sure you don’t want to be excluded from this narrative?”

“I was the narrative,” Heidi hissed, lashes fluttering as her voice tensed more with every word, “He wanted me. He kissed me on the basketball court that night sophomore year. He practically cried into my lap a week after his bar mitzvah. He told me I made him feel human. And now some bitch with a bow and a trauma bond shows up and suddenly he’s Mister fucking Darcy?”

“Maybe he’s just a loser,” Kelly muttered.

Red tilted her head, “You do know Kyle kissed her in front of, like, everyone, right? You already posted about it. Like... what’s the redemption arc here? Trying to get him back or just make her look insane?”

Heidi blinked once. Twice. She turned toward the window like she hadn’t heard that. Like she was lost in some tragic French film where she was misunderstood and stylish and left behind by a man who couldn’t handle her truth.

“I just think...” Her voice trembled again, “If someone like her can just walk in and steal what I built, then maybe this town needs a reminder,”

Kelly looked up, lips parted in mock delight, “What kind of reminder? Because Cartman said that chick’s in PoliSci too. Same class. Why not show up one day looking like a real woman? Remind her who helped start this campus’s aesthetic. She’s from Louisiana, not Paris,”

Heidi didn’t move, but the glint in her eye hardened. Something dark uncurled in her chest: Nostalgia wrapped in bitterness, like the old days when she’d moved through this place with a pretty smile and a near-perfect reputation.

Back before Cartman ruined her self-esteem. Before Kyle tried to rebuild it. Before Charli smiled and he forgot.

Heidi exhaled slowly, lips pulling up at the corners. Not quite a smile. More like the first crack in the icy surface of Stark's Pond in spring.

Her fingers moved to her phone. Her thumb hovered over the app where Charli’s last post was still open: a blurry selfie in golden hour lighting, caught mid-laugh, hair like ink against her skin. The caption was something stupid.

She hit save.

Heidi’s jaw clenched, “I’m not lowering myself to her level,”

Kelly made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a warning, “You already did. You posted the breakup before he even got a chance to lie,”

Heidi straightened her spine, “Which is why I’m starting the advocacy group,”

Red raised an eyebrow, “You planning to invite the ‘mentally unstable pickme’?”

“Shut up,” Heidi snapped again, but her voice cracked.

Kelly just kept typing. Then slowly, with that same dangerous, dreamy lilt: “Cartman says he can get you the syllabus. Her midterm presentation is next week. Want to help write a rebuttal?”

Heidi looked down at her reflection in the black screen of her phone. Hair slicked, lipgloss still fresh, eyelashes still perfectly curled.

“…What kind of rebuttal?”

Kelly’s grin turned sharp, “The kind that wears white, smiles sweetly, and burns it all down,”

The phone pinged. Heidi didn’t have to look. She already knew whose name would be in her DMs. And for the first time since the kiss, since the picture, since the post, her heartbeat didn’t feel like drowning.

It felt like strategy.

Heidi turned back to the girls, eyes glassy but voice calm, “Let’s plan a brunch,”

Kelly already was. Red was already regretting this.

And Cartman, miles away, was already texting back.

Heidi didn’t reply. She just locked her phone and smiled, teeth perfect, blood sugar low, claws unsheathed.

This wasn’t about Kyle anymore.

It was about control.

And she was going to take it back.

Kyle didn’t even mean to check social media.

It was barely nine. He hadn’t brushed his teeth yet, hadn’t done more than rub the sleep crust from his eyes and slap at the alarm on his phone.

He was still wrapped in the cocoon of a faded blanket, curls flattened on one side, thumb mindlessly scrolling like muscle memory.

The tweet popped up before he could register it.

He blinked.

Looked at it again.

The post read like a threat disguised as enlightenment:

His stomach flipped. There he was. That stupid fucking username he'd never bothered to change, tagged in blue. 

Kyle let his head thunk back onto the pillow and covered his face with both hands, “Oh my fucking God,”

It hadn't even been two weeks since he kissed Charli like she was the only thing tethering him to the Earth, now his ex had gone full white linen cult leader.

And people were clapping for it. Applauding her like she hadn’t spent months stringing him along, cycling between him and Cartman like a sadistic tennis match, acting like the moment he finally made a choice was some kind of gendered war crime.

He scrolled.

Heidi’s comments were already loaded with affirmations. Some from girls he knew. Some from ones he used to flirt with at parties. One had posted a crying emoji with “so proud of u babe 🥺💗” and another just wrote, “He didn’t deserve you,”

His name wasn’t even in the tweet, and still it felt like a drive-by.

It had more likes than his birthday post. His fucking birthday, which he now realized Charli hadn’t even liked. Not that he’d checked. Not obsessively.

He checked the feed again. Like an idiot, like a masochist.

Still climbing.

And Cartman was right. He was the villain now. 

Because no one cared about nuance. No one cared that Heidi had made him small, made him quiet, made him feel like he had to earn forgiveness just for feeling anything.

No one saw that Charli hadn’t wrecked anything that wasn’t already rotting from the inside.

All they saw was a post and a hashtag and a girl who hadn’t eaten carbs since eighth grade in her post-Kyle glowup arc.

Across campus, Charli sat tucked into a corner booth of the library’s second floor.

Her legs were crossed, her pink tennis skirt fanned around her like petals, with a copy of Interview With The Vampre open on her lap and a macaron balanced on her knee like she might eat it later. She hadn’t touched it.

Her lip gloss was perfect. Her hair was flat-ironed with a sleek side part, with a pink bow pinned above her ear. She looked like a coquette war strategist halfway through dismantling an empire with nothing but a glare. 

Until she saw that.

Heidi’s post. Kelly’s. The scathing comments. The likes from mutuals. The hashtags.

The public pity. The sympathy for her.

Charli’s hand hovered over her screen like she wanted to shatter it, but all she did was blink once. Slowly. Her breath caught in her throat.

She didn’t flinch when she saw her name alluded to. She didn’t blink when the comments got sharper.

Charli closed the app slowly. Her hands trembled just a little, but her face didn’t crack. She tucked her phone in her bag. Rose from the table. Her lavender-scented perfume lingered in the air, but she didn’t.

Her chair didn’t even scrape the floor.

The librarian glanced at her, but Charli just gathered her annotated copy of Anne Rice's gothic romance, and walked.

She walked calmly. Past the reference desk, past the glances that slid across her skin like razors.

No one said her name, but she could feel it in the air. Like pollen. Like poison. A rumor blooming right behind her.

She shoved open the bathroom door. Locked herself in the farthest stall.

And sat.

Hands in her lap. Spine straight. Eyes burning.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t say a word.

But the silence around her started to ring, and she could feel it building in her throat.

Heat and spit and fight and something mean, something sharp, something she’d been so fucking good at swallowing down.

Until now.

The bathroom door cracked open with the hesitant creak of someone entering too quietly.

Charli didn’t lift her head, didn’t move. She sat still in the far stall, fingers laced tightly in her lap, jaw set, heart pulsing hard enough to feel it behind her eyes. She could tell it wasn’t just some random girl walking in. The footsteps were too careful, too slow, kitten heels trying not to echo.

The scent that followed wasn’t her own. Not lavender and vanilla. This was something crisp, clinical. Powdery floral and status anxiety.

Heidi.

Of course.

Charli exhaled once through her nose. She didn’t say anything. She waited.

And Heidi didn’t speak either, not right away. The footsteps stopped just past the sinks.

The silence stretched so long it almost became its own presence, hanging between them like the mirror neither wanted to look into.

When Charli finally pushed open the stall door, she didn’t falter.

Her expression was neutral, unreadable. Every line of her mouth set with quiet defiance. Her hair was still flat-ironed and glossy, makeup undisturbed, skirt perfectly in place.

But her eyes were darker than usual. Harder.

She stepped out.

Her lip gloss was still intact, her bow still pinned (perfect, styled, curated) but her chest felt like it was rattling with a scream she refused to release.

She wasn’t here to cry. She wasn’t here to break. She’d locked herself in the far stall, waited out the heat in her throat, and when she could breathe again, she emerged like nothing had happened.

Like the comments didn’t sting. Like she didn’t see Kelly’s little dig. Like she hadn’t just read four different posts calling her out of her name.

Charli’s eyes met Heidi’s in the mirror.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Just a flicker of surprise, as they were both realized the same thing at once: No one else was here.

Just two girls raised on different expectations.

Heidi had been taught to be palatable, to shrink, to smile. Charli had been taught nothing but survival, how to make pain look like power, how to weaponize softness with a bat of her lashes.

Heidi was the kind of girl boys were taught to want. Charli was the one they actually wanted and hated themselves for it later.

They were the antithesis of each other’s deepest fears. And Kyle, the fucking idiot, had made them neighbors in heartbreak.

Charli turned on the sink. Let the water run. It hissed, white noise against the static crawling under her skin.

She washed her hands slowly, methodically, like she needed something to do or she’d break something.

The tension wasn’t just awkward, it was ugly. Alive. Breathing through both of them.

Heidi leaned against the counter, “I’m not here to fight,”

“Then you might wanna leave,” Charli replied plainly.

Heidi winced. Just a little.

It showed in the microtwitch of her fingers tightening on her elbow, “You think I’m the enemy,”

Charli dried her hands with two paper towels, slow, deliberate, “I think you’re loud when you feel powerless. And you love a victim narrative when it fits your aesthetic,”

“Excuse me?” Heidi’s voice sharpened, but didn’t rise. She was too practiced for that, “I was cheated on. Publicly,”

Charli met her gaze directly for the first time.

“By a boy who probably hadn’t kissed you sober in weeks,” Her voice was calm. Flat. But the edge was surgical, “You knew it. You just didn’t want anyone else to,”

That landed like a slap. Heidi’s nostrils flared. She straightened her shoulders like she could rise above the insult by standing taller.

Which she could. She was a full eight inches taller, if not more in those fucking kitten heels.

Charli had to tilt her chin up to hold eye contact. It made her want to swing.

But she didn’t.

Another beat passed. The kind that lasts too long.

Heidi stepped toward the sink, the sound of her heels too purposeful on the tile, too performative.

She looked flawless, of course. Bone-white blouse, cream skirt, lashes curled to the heavens. Heidi looked like she belonged in a skincare commercial. And her eyes, those big, wounded doe eyes that had bought her a thousand second chances, were watching Charli’s reflection like she was trying to decode a riddle.

Charli’s expression didn’t change, but the air got tighter.

“You’ve been busy,” Heidi said, casual. Too casual.

“With your classes And your photoshoots. And your...” she paused delicately, “Hot Girl... Reparations?”

Charli raised an eyebrow, “I guess when a boy ignores you in South Park, you gain a broadcast slot. It’s kind of a win-win,”

Heidi gave a soft, bitter laugh, “You think this is about Kyle?”

Charli tilted her head, “Isn’t it?”

For a moment, Heidi’s face cracked. Not much, just a twitch at the corner of her mouth, the kind that came when someone hit a bruise you’d been pretending didn’t hurt.

She turned to face Charli more directly now, arms still folded across her torso like armor.

The silence stretched again, heavy, almost clinical, until Heidi spoke.

“You don’t know what I gave up to be with him,” she said quietly, “I let go of everything. I tried to be better. I tried to be soft. I thought if I was small enough, quiet enough, good enough, he’d finally stop looking over my shoulder,”

Charli’s throat went dry. Her smile slipped.

Heidi laughed again, but it wasn’t pretty this time. It sounded like a choke.

“I saw the way he looked at you at his bar mitzvah. You wore that ridiculous dress and he couldn’t take his eyes off you. And I was right there. I always was,”

Charli didn’t answer. Her fingers curled against the counter.

Heidi stared at her, something raw climbing into her voice, “You don’t even try. You just show up. People fall all over you. And you act like you’re above it, like you’re not doing anything. Like you’re not dangerous,”

Charli blinked slowly, her face cool, but her heartbeat kicked in her throat.

“Dangerous,” She repeated, “Is that what this is? You lost, so I must be dangerous?”

Heidi didn’t respond. Just stepped forward, brittle and desperate, “I just want closure,”

Charli turned her head then. The air between them shrank.

Heidi’s voice dropped to a whisper, “I just want to know what you are to him,”

Charli clenched her jaw, but her eyes didn’t waver.

“Apparently something he’s not ready for,”

That landed. Too hard.

Heidi didn’t wince again. Not visibly. But her chest rose, slow and tight.

For a moment she looked like she might crumple right there, tall and trembling in her spotless clothes.

“...That makes two of us,” she said. Her voice barely made it out.

Charli didn’t look away. Didn’t speak.

The mirror caught them both in fractured symmetry; White and pink, sleek and soft, poised and poisonous, wounded and weaponized.

They were opposites. Perfectly matched. Girls born to hate each other. Girls who loved the same boy and couldn’t make sense of why he needed both of them and couldn’t keep either.

And outside, the world kept scrolling.

Benny’s smelled like burnt coffee and hashbrowns, like every regretful 3AM decision anyone in South Park had ever made had been charbroiled and then laminated into the fucking walls.

Kyle slouched in the booth across from Kenny, still trying to disappear from the internet’s collective memory. The vinyl seat stuck to the backs of his thighs every time he shifted, which only made him more homicidal.

Kenny was grinning. He’d already eaten half a breakfast platter and was stirring his chocolate milk with a straw like it was an espresso martini.

The fork in his other hand kept getting dangerously close to launching scrambled eggs at Stan, who was slouched in the corner of the booth with his beanie pulled too low and his eyes fixed on his phone.

“So...” Kenny started, drawing the word out like a threat, “Charli defended your ass on Girls Night,”

Kyle looked up too fast, “What?”

Kenny nodded with the manic energy of someone who’d been waiting to say this.

“Yeah, dude. She said you weren’t some ‘campus predator’ or whatever people are calling you online. She said...” Kenny pointed his fork at him dramatically, “Something about how you always made her feel like the safest person in the world. Even when you were ten. Even when she hated your guts. Which...”

“She does,” Kyle muttered.

Kyle’s stomach folded in on itself. His hoodie suddenly felt too warm, too tight, too much. He reached for the mug of black coffee in front of him and promptly burned the hell out of his tongue.

His ears were hot, “She really said that?”

“Mm-hmm,” Kenny said, chewing obnoxiously, “Said you were complicated but, quote, ‘the only boy who never looked at me like I was too much of anything,’”

Kyle choked. On air. On shame. On the way his entire chest flipped like it’d been body slammed by a memory he wasn’t ready to feel again.

That time in the attic, her curled under his coat, whispering Tichen like it meant something sacred. Like he meant something sacred.

Fuck.

He swallowed hard. The taste of coffee and guilt was sharp on his tongue.

Kyle stared at the peeling menu. Every word blurred. His pulse was loud. Loud enough that he almost didn’t register the next sound until it was too late.

“And Martine that night?” Kenny picked up his spoon. Straightened his posture. Cleared his throat.

And moaned.

It wasn’t just a moan. It was theatrical. A porn parody of reverence, “Mm-mmm. Oh my God, Kenny, this torte is, fuck, I’d let you dom me,”

Kyle slapped the table, “Dude!”

Kenny didn’t stop. He clutched his chest like he was faking orgasm, “My ancestors are weeping! I’m ovulating! Did you put coke in this?!”

Kyle’s entire brain imploded, “I didn’t need to know that,”

Stan didn’t look up, just mumbled at his phone, “She did not fucking say that,”

Kenny smirked, still waving his fork at Kyle, “Then maybe don’t date girls with cousins who sound like Beyoncé and Satan had a baby,”

Kyle groaned and shifted in the booth. He could still hear it, Charli’s voice in the back of his mind, sweet and quiet and cruel.

Safe. Dangerous. Tichen. God. He was so fucked.

His whole body responded. Not just unresolved sexual tension, or some biological reflex. It was more like she’d named something in him he hadn’t realized needed naming.

She'd seen him, named him, and now it wouldn't come unstuck.

He glanced at Stan, who still hadn’t moved, “Dude. You okay?”

Stan blinked slowly, like he’d forgotten they existed, “Hm? Oh. Yeah. Just... Crimson Dawn’s setlist. It’s kinda personal this time,”

Kenny arched an eyebrow, “Oh yeah? You ever gonna send it to us?”

Stan shrugged. His fingers tapped the table. His voice came out low, “I wrote something for Nichole,”

Kyle blinked, “You wrote a song for your girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” Stan said.

Then, after a beat, “Which would feel normal if I didn’t also feel like throwing up about it,”

Kyle opened his mouth.

And then the door to the diner swung open, too fast. Too loud.

The little bell above it jingled like a warning.

Kyle didn’t turn around right away.

Kyle’s spine locked up like someone had jammed a wrench in his nervous system. The bell above Benny’s door kept jingling as it slammed shut behind whoever just walked in, but Kyle didn’t turn around.

Couldn’t.

His heart was trying to punch its way out of his ribcage. He could feel the presence behind him, not even directional. just ambient, like a weather change. Like a hot front colliding with every cold, shame-riddled nerve ending he had. His body knew before his brain did.

And then the scent hit.

Lavender and defiance. Bright and soft and sharp at once. Like getting kissed and slapped in the same breath.

Charli.

But it wasn’t her.

It wasn’t her.

It was a different girl with a similar perfume. His body deflated with a shuddered breath that came out way too loud.

Kenny snorted.

“Jesus,” Kyle muttered, dragging a hand through his curls, which were rapidly spiraling into chaos thanks to the heat flushing his face, “I thought...”

“Oh, I know who you thought,” Kenny said, buttering another pancake, “You look like you just got hit with a pheromone grenade,”

Kyle sank into the booth like he could crawl under the table and never resurface, “I hate you,”

Kenny smirked, “She didn’t come here, dude. Relax,”

Kyle was relaxed. Technically. In the same way bombs are relaxed before they detonate.

Stan, who’d been way too quiet, finally set his phone face-down and sighed.

“So what’s your plan?” he asked, “Just... vibe in emotional limbo forever? Or are you gonna talk to her?”

Kyle scowled at his coffee, “I’m thinking,”

“You’ve been thinking for days,” Stan said, “You thinking your way into a coma?”

Kyle bristled, “You wrote a song instead of texting your girlfriend back, so maybe don’t–”

“Boys,” Kenny cut in, mouth full, “Can we not start a sad-off in a Denny’s?”

Benny’s. Whatever. Same shit, different shitty syrup packets.

Kyle leaned back, arms crossed, stewing in silence. His brain was a maelstrom of unfinished thoughts and half-baked memories.

Her lips, her mouth, her fucking voice saying Tichen like it was sacred and filthy at the same time. Her pressed up against him with that pink bow in her hair. Her perfume under his nails. Her silence the next morning.

The booth felt smaller. His jeans felt tighter.

Shit.

He wanted her like a drowning man wanted oxygen and fire at the same time. He didn’t even know what he’d say if he saw her.

Probably something stupid.

Probably everything.

Probably “Please,”

Kenny took a long sip of his chocolate milk, “For what it’s worth, I think she misses you. Like. A lot,”

Kyle’s head jerked up.

Kenny didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.

Just shrugged, “She didn’t say it. But it was all over her face when Martine made her laugh. Like she forgot to be mad for two seconds and then remembered why you weren’t there,”

It hit Kyle like a punch to the gut. Not painful. Familiar.

That ache in his chest when he caught himself laughing and realized she used to finish his laughs. That absence, louder than any scream.

He swallowed hard, fingers twitching against the chipped edge of the table.

Stan glanced at him sideways, “You gonna text her?”

Kyle didn’t answer. His throat was thick, full of words he couldn’t unstick from the walls of his mouth.

Instead, he reached for his phone.

Unlocked it.

Pulled up her contact.

And just stared. Her name. A pink heart emoji. A black bow. That was all it took to ruin him.

He typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Deleted again.

He stared at the stupid little pink bow emoji beside her name, like it was mocking him. His thumb hovered over the text box.

The draft message said hey.

Just that. Lowercase. Like he hadn’t already kissed her like she was air and fire and the last goddamn miracle left on Earth.

Just hey.

What the fuck was he doing?

Kenny watched him with way too much amusement. 

“So what are you gonna do?” Stan looked over like he was about to say something heartfelt... and then immediately ruined it, “Text her a thesis? MLA format? ‘Dear Charli, per my last emotional outburst...’”

Kyle didn’t even blink, “Fuck off,”

“He so would. ‘Please find attached Appendix C, where I realize I’m still in love with you,’” Kenny jumped in like he’d been waiting for this, “And Appendix C is just a screenshot of her tits,”

Kyle glared, “You two wanna jerk each other off or..?”

“Not unless you wanna watch,” Kenny said smoothly, licking syrup off his knuckles.

Kyle kicked him under the table.

Not hard. Just enough to say I fucking hate you, but also I’m not okay and this is the only language I speak right now.

Kenny grunted but didn’t stop smirking, “I’m just saying, dude. You’re not gonna write your way into her panties. You kissed her like a feral animal in a parking lot. Fucking follow through,”

Stan leaned forward now, finally engaged, “Martine’s party’s tonight. Rooftop pool. Crimson Dawn’s set is at midnight. You know she’s gonna be there,”

Kyle froze, “You think?”

“She asked Nichole what time we were coming,” Stan said, pretending not to notice the way Kyle’s whole body tensed like a guy hearing a gun cock behind his back.

Kenny grinned again, “Oh she’s going. And she’s gonna look hot. Like ruin-your-weekend hot. Like make-you-stupid hot. Like–”

Kyle snapped, “I get it,”

But he didn’t. Not really. Not when he could already feel the phantom pull of her in his bloodstream. Not when his skin remembered the shape of her waist and the weight of her breath against his neck and the way she said his name like it was a sin and a promise.

Not when every nerve in his body was already tightening in anticipation like he was preparing to go to war.

Or to fuck. Or to beg. Probably all three.

Stan nodded, like he wasn’t about to throw up from his own emotional repression, “Yeah, I’m making my move too,”

Kenny looked at him, startled, “on Nichole?”

Stan rolled his eyes, “No, on Tolkien. Yes, on Nichole. Jesus. She’s moving into the unit next to Martine. If I don’t lock it down now, I’m gonna die alone next to a half-written apology song,”

Kenny grinned, pleased, “Hot. Messy. I support this,”

Kyle’s stomach twisted. His hoodie suddenly felt suffocating.

He tugged at the hem, “What if she doesn’t wanna talk to me?”

Kenny pointed his fork at him again, “Just stand there looking morally outraged. She’ll fold,”

Kyle stared at them, “I hate you both,”

“Mutual,” Stan said.

“Sexual,” Kenny added.

Kyle picked up his mug again. His coffee was cooler. It tasted awful, which felt appropriate.

He didn’t say it out loud. But in his head, he decided: Fine.

He was going.

He was going to that rooftop party.

And if Charli Lafayette showed up looking like a wet dream and didn’t want to talk?

Then he’d find a way to make her want to.

Or go down swinging.

Chapter Text

The rooftop shimmered like temptation itself. Four floors above South Park’s generic old apartment building, Martine’s private sky sanctuary had been transformed into a fever-dream of opulence, heat, and hormonal mismanagement.

Purple LED rope lights wrapped around the railing like vines.

The infinity pool steamed against the mountain air, casting dancing reflections across the deck and exposed skin.

Somewhere, Clyde’s pre-party playlist was losing its mind.

Martine had arranged sleek loungers, scattered cushions in cream and blush, and actual signature drinks pre-made like they were better than anything else. The vibe was undeniable. It felt like something dangerous was going to happen.

At the base of the stairs leading to the rooftop, Martine had staged a velvet-topped podium, a ring of candles, and and old woman with some limited-edition holographic tarot decks.

Nobody got through without pulling a card. That was the rule. No exceptions, no redos, no lies.

Charli had gone first, like she always did when she didn’t trust something but still wanted to prove herself.

She pulled The Tower. Of course she did. Martine’s face had barely twitched, but something about the way she exhaled had made Kenny mutter “fuck” under his breath.

Stan pulled The Hanged Man, then stared like it had condemned him.

Nichole rolled her eyes so hard they might’ve summoned another major arcana. She drew The Devil.

“Okay,” She muttered, lips twitching, “Sexy,”

Riley signed her way through Judgement and raised her eyebrows at Martine, who nodded solemnly before smirking like she knew exactly what kind of judgment Riley would be passing tonight.

Tolkien pulled the Knight of Pentacles.

Wendy, who had been pretending to scroll through her phone with practiced detachment, simply rolled her eyes. No one said a word.

When she finally pulled The High Priestess, Martine tilted her head and offered a smooth, “Mmm. Of course,”

Wendy didn't answer. Just stared at Tolkien in confusion.

Clyde laughed too loud when he pulled the Knight of Cups, like he was pretending he knew what it meant.

Jimmy got The Fool and immediately had jokes. He was still talking about it by the time he was upstairs with his first drink.

Bebe pulled The Empress and did a slow, triumphant hair flip like she’d been waiting for the confirmation since birth.

Craig pulled The Hermit, mumbled “figures,” and didn’t elaborate.

Tweek (visibly vibrating) yanked the Nine of Swords, stared at it for three solid seconds, then nearly spiraled.

Craig didn’t react. Martine did.

She raised one manicured finger and said, “Breathe,”

When it was her turn. She pulled The Magician and didn’t react at all. Just stared at it, then her eyes flicked to Kenny.

When it came time for him to pull, she went still. No commentary. No fake drama. Just silence. She looked at Kenny like she’d already known what the card would be, and maybe it scared her more than she wanted to admit.

Then he flipped it and palmed it over to Martine before anyone else could see. No one pushed it. Kenny just rubbed the back of his neck and muttered something.

Martine sighed through her nose and stepped back.

“Okay,” she said, “Let the games begin,”

Charli stepped onto the roof like she hadn’t just been quietly falling apart in the mirror twenty minutes ago, yanking her curls into a high ponytail and smoothing down the bows of her halter.

The pink bikini was almost modest (by Martine standards) but it still clung to her tits like a suggestion and dipped scandalously low.

She hadn't planned on wearing it. She hadn’t even unpacked it until Martine shot her a look across the vanity.

Now here she was, balancing sex appeal and seething annoyance under the glitter of string lights and the throb of something by Megan Thee Stallion rattling the pool deck.

People were already too naked.

Kenny was in nothing but a towel and boxers, leaning back with his legs splayed wide and one elbow propped up behind Martine like he’d just claimed a throne.

His abs looked unfairly defined for someone who regularly lived off City Wok leftovers, and the bastard knew it.

Martine, draped in a red micro monokini and a sheer black robe that might as well have been air, was sipping from a glittery flute and pretending she wasn’t absolutely loving it. She had one leg crossed over the other and Kenny’s hand on her thigh, laughing at something he’d whispered.

Even Wendy looked suspiciously hot as she curled up beside Nichole and Tolkien, long legs folded under her in an amethyst one-piece that managed to look severe and flirty at the same time.

Tolkien, meanwhile, had abandoned his shirt completely and looked like he should’ve been posing on a yacht with a bottle of cologne named Inheritance.

Nichole leaned next to him in a yellow bikini that made her skin glow and had Charli feeling out of place existing in this much coordinated hotness.

If this was the rooftop prelude, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to know what the afterparty looked like.

And still, Kyle was nowhere.

Clyde was DJing in a gold jacket and no shirt like it was Coachella.

Charli drifted past the bar, eyeing the printed sign duct-taped to the wall: CARTMAN IS BANNED FROM BARTENDING!!!

She grabbed a Sex on the Beach (one of the night’s signature cocktails) and leaned against the counter long enough to pretend she was fine.

She wasn’t. Her chest felt too tight. The laughter too loud.

She hated that she kept glancing at the stairs like Kyle might appear through sheer force of irritation. Every time the elevator dinged, her stomach twisted.

It never opened to him. Just more half-naked chaos.

Then she spotted Stan.

He was sitting in a quiet corner near the railing, half-lit in the warm glow of string lights and the occasional flicker of lighters and vapes.

He looked weirdly thoughtful, one knee drawn up with his arm draped over it, shoulders a little hunched in a way that felt more private than bored. His black hair was windswept and he was wearing his old high school football shorts that were shorter than they had any right to be.

He was objectively doing too much for someone obviously trying not to be noticed.

She didn’t think. She just moved.

Drink in hand, hips swaying more from habit than intent, Charli crossed the deck with deliberate slowness. Every step was calculated to look casual.

She took the long way, past the heat of the pool and Kenny’s lazy sprawl, past the low table where Bebe and Jimmy were playing some game involving beer and dares.

Charli ignored every lingering glance and the way Martine clocked her movement with a lazy, knowing smile.

When she reached Stan’s side, he didn’t look up. Just kept staring out at the mountains like they owed him an answer.

The sky was full dark now, streaked purple and navy, and the air smelled like weed, chlorine, and way too much fucking body spray.

“You always brood like this at orgies?” She asked, not bothering to sit yet.

Stan blinked. Then looked up. Then did a double-take.

His eyes dropped to her legs before he caught himself and cleared his throat, “This isn’t an orgy. Yet,”

Charli arched a brow, “That's optimism. I respect it,”

He smiled. Just barely. It was small and crooked and kind of sad.

She finally sat beside him, cross-legged, the condensation from her glass dripping down onto her thigh. She didn’t look at him. Not directly. Just tilted her head up toward the mountains like she was trying to see whatever he was seeing.

“I thought he’d be here,” She said quietly before taking a sip.

Stan didn’t ask who. Didn’t need to.

“He’s probably on his way,” He mumbled, “He’s not avoiding you. If that’s what you think,”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t trust herself to. Her drink tasted like melted expectations and too much peach schnapps.

The mountains were black silhouettes against a navy sky, jagged and unmoving, like they were waiting for the kind of clarity nobody ever got.

Charli didn’t look at Stan. She just kept her gaze fixed on the horizon like it owed her an apology, her drink sweating against her thigh, the cold a sharp contrast to the heat licking across her shoulders from the pool lights and too many people pretending they weren’t watching each other.

Music thumped from somewhere behind them, but up in this little corner with too much silence and not enough distance, everything felt louder.

Sharper. A little too raw to ignore.

She hated how easy it was to feel everything up here.

Her voice was quiet when it finally came out, half-buried in her throat like something she hadn’t meant to say aloud, “It scares me how much I feel when I’m around him,”

Her fingers curled tighter around the glass.

“Like I’m always two seconds away from sobbing or fighting or...” Suddenly, she laughed, “Or crawling into his lap and forgetting I hate him,”

Stan didn’t move. Didn’t tease.

When he spoke, his voice was just as low, “Maybe that’s how you know it’s real,”

That made her glance over, barely. Just long enough to catch the sincerity in his profile, the way he hadn’t flinched or cracked a joke or said something stupid to deflect.

He just sat there, barefoot and bruised by whatever emotional hell he was dealing with, and let her have the space to be honest.

Charli blinked back toward the mountains. Her drink tasted like artificial peach and shame now.

They didn’t say his name, either of them. Just danced around it like it was radioactive.

Like if she said Kyle out loud, she’d unravel in front of everyone and Stan would have to carry her downstairs in her ridiculous pink swimsuit.

She tugged it slightly now, the thin satin bow at the back of her neck suddenly too tight.

“He doesn’t let me in,” she murmured, “Or maybe I don’t let him. Maybe we’re just...”

Her mouth twisted, “Toxic. We keep clawing at each other and pretending it’s passion, but what if we already did too much damage? What if we already broke the thing we’re trying to protect?”

Stan made a soft sound in his throat.

The kind people made when they wanted to argue but couldn’t prove you wrong.

His fingers drummed lightly against his knee, the only sound between them for a moment aside from the distant splash of someone doing too much in the jacuzzi and Clyde yelling over the music.

“I think,” Stan said slowly, “Sometimes it has to get ugly before it gets prettier,”

He exhaled, “I mean, I’m not great at this shit either. I pretend I’m fine with everything until it blows up in my face,”

That earned him a sideways glance, softer this time. Charli didn’t smile, but her mouth stopped shaking.

He cleared his throat, “She’s thinking about transferring out. Boulder. Told me yesterday,”

That hit harder than she expected.

Not because it was about Nichole, but because of the way he said it. Low. Quiet. Like saying it any louder might make it more true.

He didn’t have to say her name either. Didn’t have to explain the ache stitched into every word.

“I thought she was moving into 403?” Charli said, surprised by how sharp it sounded.

“I don't know, dude,” Stan muttered, eyes still fixed out past the railing, “I don’t want her to go,”

There was a long pause where neither of them said anything because it would’ve been too easy to lie.

Charli leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, her glass cradled in her palms now.

“We do that,” She said, “Push each other away and then panic when the other person actually leaves,”

Stan let out a rough laugh, “Yeah. Or wait too long and then act like it was noble or something,”

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking toward her now, “You’re not broken, Charli,”

She swallowed thickly, “Neither are you,”

It wasn't reassurance, but a shared confession from were two people who knew what it was to love someone so hard it made you stupid.

She didn’t cry, but she felt it burn behind her eyes. That ache, that helpless, horny, furious ache of Why can’t this just be easy, and Why do I still want him when I should’ve walked away?

The music swelled again, louder this time. Someone was screaming about shots and someone else was definitely splashing around in the hot tub again.

But in this little ridge of quiet, it felt like something was shifting.

Like maybe they were all just scared kids in grown-up bodies trying to figure out what the hell to do with everything they felt.

Kyle showed up late. Not fashionably. Not dramatically.

Just late.

He didn’t want to be seen, especially not after everything, but something had been prickling all day, sharp under his ribs like a phantom limb that wouldn’t let him rest.

The old woman didn’t smile when she handed him the deck, “You know what to do,”

He reached out and pulled the card off the top like it meant nothing.

The Lovers.

It hit him like a punch to the chest. His jaw locked. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. The card practically crackled between his fingertips, like the universe was mocking him.

“That’s so on the nose it’s almost boring,” Butters’ voice cut in.

Kyle didn’t answer. He just smiled, slow and sharp, and slid the card into the pocket of his swim trunks like he planned to use it later as evidence. Or a weapon. Maybe both.

He stepped onto the roof and felt like he’d just walked into a televised sex crime. The heat hit him first, the oppressive, sticky humidity of wet skin, LED mood lighting, and several people who clearly had no respect for clothing.

He dropped the Lovers card face-up on the first flat surface he passed, like it might physically burn him if he held it another second.

His sneakers squeaked against the wet ground as he took one slow lap, head down, pretending the swim trunks + socks + Nikes combo made him normal.

He felt like some guy lost in a mall food court who had accidentally wandered into an OnlyFans content house.

His eyes scanned the chaos.

Thankfully, Cartman wasn’t in sight yet or Kyle might’ve hurled himself directly off the roof.

And then he saw her.

His eyes locked with Charli’s before he could stop himself. She looked away fast, like he’d caught her doing something wrong.

Charli Lafayette, in full fucking glory, stepping away from the far railing where she’d been sitting beside Stan like some tragic indie movie poster.

Her legs were long, slick and bare, and her bikini (pink, barely there, so fucking unfair) clung to her. Her curls were up, big and perfect and natural, and Kyle’s brain stuttered for a full five seconds.

He remembered her in fourth grade, hissing at him not to look, not to laugh, not to tell. She pulled her scarf off in the attic like she was scared that her hair might say too much about her before she was ready.

And now? She looked like she’d stepped out of a centerfold just to twist the knife.

This is fine, he told himself as he stalked the perimeter like a lifeguard.

This is not a problem. This is a completely normal hormonal minefield. That’s just the girl he’s been mentally composing apology monologues for since he was ten, looking like every fantasy he’d ever had. No big deal.

She sat at the edge of the pool in front of Martine’s lounge chair. Her legs slipped in the water, drink in hand, posture pointedly relaxed in a way that told him everything was not fine.

Her head tilted as she laughed at something Kenny said behind her and Kyle’s chest constricted as if he was allergic to seeing her happy without him.

She still hadn’t looked his way. Which meant she knew exactly where he was.

Kyle approached her like a man fully expecting to be mauled by a tiger.

His steps slowed just slightly as he neared, sneakers damp from the spray off the pool deck.

She didn’t glance over, didn’t turn. Just sipped her drink and swirled her toes in the water like she was some serene, half-naked siren sent to punish him for every mistake he’d ever made.

“You always ignore people this dramatically,” He asked, “or am I just special?”

“I don’t ignore people,” She said smoothly, eyes still fixed on the surface of the pool, “I just pretend they don’t exist until they stop hovering like a creep,”

His pride flared up instinctively, face hot, but he forced a crooked smile, “Jesus, Charli. Do you have a dial for that bitchy voice or is it just set to ‘scalding’ now?”

She finally looked at him. Slow. Calculated. Eyes sweeping over his curls, his bare chest, the sneakers he was still wearing like a goddamn idiot.

She smirked, “Nice shoes. You playing a game after this?”

“I might if this conversation keeps going,” he snapped, but it was a little too breathless.

Her smile turned mean in the way that made his stomach twist.

Before he could get another word out, she dipped her fingers in the pool and flicked water at his knees like he was an overexcited cat, “Go cool off, Tichen,”

Kyle leaned down, catching the barest whiff of her perfume, and he felt his pulse spike.

“You always run,” he muttered, unsure if it was an accusation.

She tilted her head, lashes lowered, mouth parted just enough to make him think of that goddamn attic and the way her voice had cracked on his name when she was scared, when she needed him, when she’d...

“Maybe I run because you only chase when I do,” She said plainly.

Kyle stared at her like she was the goddamn final boss in some over-sexed video game where the reward for winnning was emotional devastation and a hard-on he couldn’t explain.

Her voice echoed in his head and something primal, something vindictive, roared to the surface land said Fine. Let’s fucking go.

His shoes hit the pool deck with a thud as he kicked them off one by one, then he peeled off his socks.

When he sat beside her, dropping his legs into the water, the spray splashed up onto her shins, and she still didn’t turn.

God, she was good. Arms braced behind her, drink balanced on her thigh, curls piled high. She didn’t even breathe in his direction.

“I used to think you left South Park because you had to,” He said calmly, “But maybe you just got scared,”

Her gaze flicked sideways. Still not fully facing him, but that one shift was all he needed to keep going.

“I mean, six years of nothing? No letters? No calls?” His smile turned crooked, all fury and heartbreak wrapped in something self-satisfied and broken, “You couldn’t even fake a happy birthday text? Damn, Charli. Did you stop giving a shit that fast or did you have to try and forget about me?”

She sipped her drink. Her fingers were tight around the glass as she refused to take the bait.

He leaned in slightly, just enough to smell her. Lavender, vanilla, and something darker that coiled in his throat.

“Were they better than me?” He asked, too low, too close, “The guys that kept you busy. Did they call you pretty when you cried? Or just fuck you quiet so you wouldn’t say my name?”

The silence that followed cracked like a whip. Her shoulders went still. Her legs tensed in the water. She turned to him, slow and surgical, and he knew he had crossed a line but he didn’t care.

He wanted her to react. To feel something. To break.

And she did.

Without a word, she shoved both hands against him and pushed. Hard.

When Kyle hit the water, it wasn’t graceful.

It was rage, chlorine and a yelp that turned into a curse as he came up, curls slicked to his forehead, face twisted into something halfway between anger and turned the fuck on.

His arms flailed for a second, grabbing at the wall, trying not to choke on the aftermath of his own ego.

She was laughing. Laughing. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed, sipping her drink like she hadn’t just baptized him in front of their entire friend group.

“Oh, that’s funny to you?” Kyle snapped, pushing his wet curls back and blinking chlorinated shame out of his eyes, “Cool. Okay,”

Then he lunged.

She shrieked as he grabbed her wrist and yanked. Her drink went flying.

She hit the pool with a splash that drenched half the deck, legs flailing. He caught her waist on instinct (stupid, sweet, fucking instinct) and the second her body collided with his, everything changed.

Water lapped between them. Her arms looped around his neck like a trap disguised as instinct.

His hands slid to her hips and stayed there, pressed skin to skin, every sharp inhale turning into a goddamn event.

Her bikini stuck to her body and he tried to ignore it.

Her legs tangled with his under the surface, and Kyle could not breathe without thinking about how warm she felt. How soft. How stupidly perfect and impossible she still was.

They weren’t moving anymore. Just treading water and drowning anyway.

His forehead rested lightly against hers before he could stop himself, eyes locked on hers like he could fight his way back through time if he stared hard enough. Every breath was shared. Every second stretched thin. Her lips parted like she was about to ruin him all over again.

“Say it,” Me murmured, low and tight, “Say you missed me,”

Kenny was only a few feet away, he had no idea what the fuck was happening in the pool, and honestly? He didn’t care.

Someone got shoved and yelled, probably Kyle, and yeah, maybe the water almost sloshed up high enough to kiss his bare shins.

His focus was narrowed to one very specific, very cruel problem lounging across two cushions and a moral high ground.

Martine Guede, in red. Not just any red, the kind that lived in devil cartoons and lipstick stains. Tied together with a sheer black robe that did absolutely nothing to protect the public from her thighs or the glint of gold chain resting between her breasts like a gift for the hottest bitch in Babylon.

Kenny had been shirtless since like minute one, his damp boxers still clinging from an earlier cannonball, but it was starting to feel like he’d been stripped under her gaze.

Every time she shifted, the robe slid. Every time the robe slid, he forgot how to form sentences.

He was trying so hard to keep it together. So fucking hard.

But every time he opened his mouth to say something, anything, Martine would and tilt her head like she’d already heard the whole speech in stereo, translated it into French, and filed it under adorable.

She even laughed when he dropped a stupid line earlier about her bathing suit being a health hazard. Just laughed and looked at him as if to say, And yet here you are, still breathing.

He felt like was still dripping on the floor. That was what it had come to. He was a hot, horny puddle in human form, chasing scraps of attention from a girl who could body a Roman emperor with one glance.

His cock twitched every time her thigh shifted under his hand. His abs flexed like they had something to prove, and the only thing stopping him from outright begging was the sheer, blistering force of will that came with growing up McCormick.

You didn’t beg. You just offered everything without saying a word and hoped someone smart enough to see it did something about it.

She finally looked at him. Not glanced. Looked. Like a lion watching a twitchy gazelle.

“You wanna come with me to grab some extra towels?” She asked, voice smooth as the gold circling her throat.

For one terrible second, Kenny thought she meant it literally. Towels. Dry fabric.

But the smirk playing at her mouth told him everything he needed to know. There were towels, probably. Somewhere. But they were just an excuse.

He stood too fast and his foot slipped slightly. He didn’t fall, but he almost did, and covered it with a confident stretch that fooled exactly no one.

His mouth went dry. His pulse pounded against his neck. She was already on her feet, robe sliding against her thighs, and the glint of her gold anklet made his entire brain short circuit.

Kenny followed Martine down the rooftop stairs like he was being led to either Heaven or the guillotine.

The jury was still out.

Her robe billowed, hips moving with the kind of effortless rhythm that made it hard to remember how to walk.

The hall lights flickered softly, casting warm shadows on the fourth floor’s wide hallway.

Everything smelled like her: hibiscus, jasmine and something honeyed and expensive that clung like a warning. Her anklet jangled with every footstep. His boxers still felt wet. Maybe it was just precum.

He didn’t say shit.

He’d only been in 404 for Girls Night, but now he was in 401. Martine’s apartment. He personal space.

It felt different. Wrong, maybe. Too quiet. Too private. There were no giggles echoing from the kitchen, no half-eaten macarons or Nichole on the couch making fun of the real housewives.

It was just her, barefoot, half-naked, and somehow more composed than anyone had a right to be in a robe that sheer.

She didn’t look at him when she opened the bathroom door, “Towels are in the linen closet,”

“Right,” he said, nodding like that required full cognitive engagement.

He stepped into the bathroom, which of course was immaculate, and pulled the closet open by the chrome handle.

Stack after stack of folded towels in colors so coordinated he kind of wanted to throw one on the floor just to see if she’d gasp.

He reached for the top one and fumbled it. It slipped from his hand, fell to the base of the closet, and landed crookedly on something that absolutely wasn’t linen.

His gaze caught on it instantly. A box. Pale pink. Labeled in careful, swooping penmanship: Charli – Hurricane Season.

He blinked.

It didn’t make sense, not really. He knew Martine was sentimental; She curated everything down to her soap. So of course she boxed up memories like currency, but something about that title stuck.

Hurricane Season.

It felt sacred and private and dangerous, like the kind of thing no one else was supposed to see.

He didn’t touch it. He wasn’t stupid. But he stared.

And Martine’s hand slammed the door shut.

He flinched like a kid caught pawing through his mom’s purse. Her silhouette filled the doorway behind him, eyes sharp, mouth unreadable.

“Looking for something?” she asked sweetly, like venom in honey.

His jaw tightened, “It slipped,”

She crossed her arms over her chest, the gold body chain shifting slightly as her robe parted further down her thigh, “Right. It slipped. So naturally you lingered,”

He turned fully now, shoulders square, towel still in his hand, heartbeat pounding like a jackhammer through his chest.

“You act like keeping secrets makes you interesting,” he muttered, “But I think you’re just scared to be real,”

That landed. Not with a flinch (Martine didn’t flinch) but with stillness. The kind that always came right before something cut deep.

She stepped forward. One step. Slow. Deliberate.

Close enough that he could see the flecks of green in her eyes and feel the warmth rolling off her skin like a spell.

“Do something real,” She said, barely above a whisper, “Right now,”

Kenny didn’t think. He just moved.

One second she was standing there and the next, he had her pinned against the bathroom counter, body pressed fully against hers.

His mouth found hers, starving, grateful, filthy with need.

Her hands slid up his ribs, sharp fingernails dragging like she was reading him in Braille, and Kenny shuddered so hard it made the mirror rattle.

Her scent curled around him like smoke and he sank into it without shame. It filled his head, coated his tongue, made him dizzy in the best, worst, most Martine way possible.

She didn’t kiss like a girl who wanted to be caught. She kissed like a girl who’d already set the trap and was watching you fall in slow motion. Reverent. Savage. Her mouth coaxed him open and then rewarded him for it in the way her tongue rolled over his. Slowly. Deliberately.

He grabbed her thighs, lifted her onto the edge of the counter like she weighed nothing.

Her robe slid open at the thigh, then more, and soon she was untying the belt with one slow, deliberate tug.

“You scared of me?” She asked in a tone that was silken and maddening.

Kenny swallowed hard. She was gleaming in the low bathroom light, gold jewelry catching on her collarbones, curves taunting him.

“A little,” He said as his eyes scanned over her, “That’s why I want you,”

Her smirk burned straight through his chest.

She shrugged off the robe. It fell like a curtain drop, slow and theatrical.

His hands slid to her hips, rough palms against smooth skin. He kissed her again, even slower this time, and her fingers slipped into his hair, tugging just enough to make his whole body twitch.

She kissed like she already knew how he’d fall apart and was just taking her time dismantling him.

Kenny didn’t know how she did it. How Martine could drag her nails down his spine and somehow still be in control while he was the one pinning her to the bathroom counter, half-naked and shaking.

It was chaos; Slick skin and fast breaths, teeth catching on lips, her thighs tightening around his waist like she knew exactly when he’d lose the last thread of composure he had left.

She moved like someone who knew every nerve in his body personally. Her hands mapped his scars without hesitation, no pity, no questions, just curiosity and ownership, like she was collecting data to ruin him better next time.

Her fingers lingered on the one just above his hip, thumb tracing the edge. It wasn’t even a sexy scar. it was from a broken glass bottle he’d landed on during a middle school fight, but the way she touched it made his breath catch like he was fourteen again and bleeding into the dirt behind the school.

He didn’t mean to say it. The word slipped out between kisses, breathless and reverent: “You’re dangerous,”

And fuck, he meant it. Not as a warning. He’d have taken a hundred versions of her if it meant this heat, this sharp, sweet pressure pressing into every soft part of him he thought had long since been burned out.

It came out like praise, his forehead pressed to hers, her fingers still skating over the curve of his hip bone.

Dangerous. Like she wasn’t already written into every bad decision he was about to make.

She didn’t say thank you. She didn’t have to. She looked at him, dark-lashed and slightly amused, like she’d just pulled a pin out of a grenade and dropped it in his lap.

Her breath was warm against his cheek, her lips hovering just close enough to tease now.

His grip tightened at her hips.

“Tell me what you want,” He muttered, voice wrecked, low in her ear, “Say it,”

Martine didn’t break her posture, didn’t even blink, but Kenny saw the shift.

It was in the way her lashes fluttered for the briefest second like his words touched something raw and real under all that glam armor.

He’d taken it back. Control. Just a sliver. Just enough to tilt the axis, flip the current.

She’d been orchestrating the whole night like a slow seduction spell.

But now her breath hitched when he spoke, and her lips parted like maybe she hadn’t been expected to want something too.

“What do I want?” She repeated, low, sultry, but not mocking this time.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowed, lips inches from his.

Her hand slid down his stomach, slow and deliberate, her nails ghosting over the ridges of muscle like she was counting them, “I want you to stop begging and take it,”

And fuck if that didn’t trigger something primal in his brain.

He crashed into her mouth again. His hands were everywhere, rough and greedy, dragging down her waist, gripping her thighs, spreading her legs wider as he stepped in close, chest to chest, bare skin sliding against fabric, gold and everything he’d been dying to touch.

She made a sound, low and surprised, and Kenny felt it in his spine. Felt it in his chest. In his fucking balls.

He bit her lip, not hard, just enough to hear her hiss, and when she pulled his hair again, he moaned like he’d never been touched in his life.

He ground into her without thinking, the drag sending sparks of pleasure everywhere they touched.

She met every grind, every kiss, everything with the kind of reckless surrender that made Kenny’s head spin.

His name came out of her mouth like it mattered, whispered on a shaky inhale right before her fingers dug into his back like she wanted to both rip him apart and keep him.

He rocked into her again with enough pressure to make her gasp, then paused, teasing, eyes dark and locked on hers.

“Is this what you meant?” He breathed, voice low, uneven, “Or are you gonna ask nicely?”

Martine didn’t speak right away, she just looked at him.

Chest heaving. Eyes half-lidded.

That damn smirk gone, replaced with something slower, heavier, wrecked.

And it hit Kenny like a blow to the sternum. He’d cracked it. Her.

Whatever perfect, untouchable algorithm Martine Guede ran on? He’d made it glitch, and she liked it.

She grabbed the back of his neck, pulled him closer, lips ghosting his jaw.

He groaned. Loud, desperate, horny and helpless, and pressed her harder against the counter, hips rolling just enough to make her legs squeeze around his waist.

His skin felt too tight, every nerve raw under her hands.

His mind was gone. His pride was gone. His name barely mattered now. All he could feel was the heat of her skin, the weight of her legs around him, the subtle shift of her hips as she angled just right.

Kenny reached down slowly, hands gentle now, reverent almost. One thumb traced the fabric over her slit, fingers moving just enough to feel her tremble.

She was tense. Not in the dramatic way she used when she was performing, but in that quiet, coiled way that meant she was two seconds from cracking wide open.

“You’re shaking,” He said low, not teasing.

She lied instantly, “I’m not,”

Kenny huffed out a breath, leaning forward to press a kiss just above her breast, where the red fabric dipped scandalously low, “You always do this,”

“Do what?”

“Pretend this doesn’t scare the shit out of you,” He murmured, lips ghosting her skin between each word, “Like it’s just a game and I’m just another guy,”

She didn’t answer. But her fingers slipped into his hair again, softer this time. 

He kissed her slower, trailing heat along her skin, letting her feel every second of his restraint like it was a gift. Because it was. He could wreck her. He could make her forget everything. But not until she let him.

Kenny looked into her eyes again, “You want me to stop?”

Martine blinked at him. Her curls framed her face like an open veil, cheeks flushed, chest rising with every breath. And for a moment she didn’t look like she wanted to kill him, or command him, or break him in half.

She looked like she needed him, “Don’t stop,”

That was all it took. Kenny moved quickly, mouth pressed hot and open against her nipple as her legs parted wider without hesitation.

He kissed her through the red fabric, his tongue just as slow and deliberate as hers was before. It dragged a moan out of her that made his cock throb painfully.

“Fuck, Martine,” He breathed into her.

And she laughed breathily, wrecked, and triumphant.

He pressed his mouth back to her, and this time he let everything inside him pour out through every motion. Every kiss, every breath, every filthy word he groaned into her skin. She arched, fingers diving into his hair again like she needed the contact, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as she tilted her hips in silent surrender.

The monokini was a goddamn crime scene now. Twisted, damp, clinging to her like a second skin. He pulled it to the side, didn’t even try to strip it off.

It felt earned, the way she let him have her like this. She was usually all polish and power and acrylic nails that could kill a man, but now? Now she was heat and trembling breath.

“Kenny,” Her voice cracked on his name, and he nearly blacked out.

Every inch of him was aching, half from how fucking hard he was, the other half from the emotional freefall she kept dragging him into with every gasp of his name.

Because this wasn’t just sex. It was them. Raw. Tangled. Emotional and too big for the goddamn room.

“Say that again,” He rasped, dragging his mouth up her body to kiss her throat.

She yanked him up by his hair, panting against his mouth, eyes glassy and fierce, “You really need the ego boost right now?”

“I need you,” He said, mouth brushing hers, every word hoarse with too much feeling, “I need you to know what this does to me,”

And she did. She saw it. Saw all the desperation, all the need he never said to her out loud. Her hands flattened against his chest like she was trying to memorize his heartbeat.

He lined himself up and pushed in, slow and steady, until her head slammed back against the mirror with a thud and her breath punched out of her lungs like she’d just been possessed.

The sound she made wasn’t a moan, or a gasp, or a word. It was half desperate, and it went straight to his dick, his spine, his chest. All of it.

Kenny almost came right there.

He hissed through his teeth, voice cracking as her legs locked tighter.

And God, she felt too good. Every time his hips rolled into hers, she gave this soft, stuttering gasp like she hated needing it, like it pissed her off to be touched this deep and want it.

That was the thing with Martine, she never gave up control without setting something on fire first. And right now she was a fucking inferno, burning under his hands, back arching against the mirror in rhythm with his breath.

He held back a groan, burying it in the crook of her neck, “Jesus, you’re so fucking...”

“Say it,” She snapped, voice shaking as her nails dug into his shoulders like she wanted to rip him open, “Say it out loud,”

He panted, “You’re perfect. You feel– Fuck, Martine, you feel like you were made for this,”

“You mean it,” She gasped, like she couldn’t stop herself. Like the realization had genuinely shocked her.

That made him pause, not in his body, but in his head. Because she sometimes she said shit that sounded arrogant, like a demand, but underneath it was this raw, trembling plea: Don’t lie to me. Don’t use me. Don’t make this another performance.

And even now, half-naked in a locked bathroom with the echo of party music throbbing overhead, she was still trying not to get hurt.

Kenny slid a hand up to her cheek, tilting her head back just enough to kiss her hard, deep. Like he heard her. 

“I’ve never wanted anyone like I want you,” He murmured into her mouth, “No one,”

Martine went still. Then she kissed him like she’d been starving for that sentence her whole life.

Their rhythm shifted, like every thrust had something to prove. Every touch, every breath, every inch of him inside her felt like fate was dragging nails down their spines. He felt her all around him, against him, under his skin. Like the tether wasn’t just emotional now, it was physical.

The mirror behind her fogged with every gasping breath. His hoodie was shoved up around his ribs. Her monokini was clinging to her like sin incarnate, straps twisted.

Martine let out a sound that wasn’t human.

Then grabbed his jaw and said, “Harder,”

Kenny saw stars.

Not metaphorically. Not in the poetic, Oh wow I’m so emotionally overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment kind of way. No, literal stars. His vision blurred for a second like Martine had just uppercut his soul straight into the stratosphere. Because she said harder. Like she knew exactly what that word did to him and didn’t care if it made him spontenously creampie her in a bathroom.

His breath left him in a half-laugh, half-groan as he adjusted his grip, one hand bracing the small of her back, the other steadying her thigh, “If you say one more thing like that, I’m gonna end up losing my mind,”

“Good,” She whispered, voice wrecked and delighted, “I like it when you forget how to talk,”

He roared at that, fed off her voice, her body, the way she clung to him not just like she wanted him, but like she didn’t know how to stop. Like he was the only goddamn anchor in the universe.

So he gave her what she asked for.

He went deeper, more brutal, almost punishing if not for the way she met it, breath catching every time he bottomed out like she was trying not to cry. Kenny pressed their foreheads together and let himself drown in the sound of her. Her moans, her panting, the subtle shift of her voice when the pleasure hit that pitch that bordered on vulnerable.

Martine’s nails clawed at him, leaving little crescent marks on his skin. She was shaking. Raw. Wrecked. Gone.

She gasped when he pushed her just right, muttered something filthy when he gripped her throat and kissed her like he’d earned it, and when the pleasure had crested and she finally came, biting back a cry against his shoulder, he thought for one glorious, terrified second that he might never recover.

And he was right behind her. It was hot, immediate, almost violent with how much he wanted it. Not just an orgasm. Not just release. But a full-body, full-soul fuck-you to the idea that they were ever supposed to be separate.

“Tell me what it feels like,” He muttered, voice shot, unraveling with every grind of his hips.

She didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. Her breath hitched. Once, twice. Then her hands curled into his hair again like she needed him to stay in her bones.

And then, voice hoarse and cracked like she was being honest by accident, she whispered, “Like fire in my chest. Like I’m never gonna be cold again,”

And he felt it too.

He stayed inside of her while her fingers dragging lazy circles on his chest like she hadn’t just wrecked his entire understanding of pleasure and power. Kenny blinked, heart pounding, half-dead and fully addicted. His mouth was still parted as he panted. His lungs still hadn’t caught up.

“Shit,” He muttered finally, hoarse, eyes drifting back to her, “What the fuck are you?”

Cartman was already three drinks deep and dangerously close to declaring himself undefeated in a beer pong game he hadn’t even started when Riley Evans stepped up to the table.

She didn’t walk.

She glided, like the mute, bad bitch she was. Dark skin catching the LED party lights, black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Black crop top hugging her tits so tight it should’ve come with a warning label, high-waisted jeans that looked painted on, and her damn dangling gold earrings big enough to double as satellite dishes.

Eric stared way too long before remembering he was supposed to say something cocky and chauvinistic.

She didn’t say a word (she never did, even back when she was the New Kid in town) just raised one perfectly shaped brow, lined up her first shot, and sank it. Then the second. Direct eye contact the whole time. No smirk, no gloat. She raised her hands and slowly signed: Try harder.

It hit him like a bitch slap from the universe.

“Okay,” Cartman seethed as she turned on her heel and strolled away like the game hadn’t even counted, “Okay, wow. So now I’m just a training dummy? That’s where we’re at?”

Stan cackled from across the pool deck and shouted, “Dude, she wins everything. You know this!”

Which only made it worse. Eric flipped him off and tried not to trip over a towel.

“She cheated,” He snapped, already too warm under his shirt, “They’re all cheating. Especially the hot ones,”

That fiinally earned him a glance from Stan, “So... everyone but you?”

The beat dropped again and Clyde, who had clearly mainlined half a pack of seltzers, was now wobbling behind the DJ booth.

Cartman narrowed his eyes at him, “Who fucking hired you?”

Clyde flipped him off and accidentally hit a button that made the tracks switch.

It was Cartman’s only win of the evening. So far.

He turned just in time to see Tolkien shirtless, leaning back on one hand while Wendy twirled a curl of hair around her finger in the kind of calculated disinterest that practically screamed I’m wet and I’m winning.

Cartman almost gagged.

He’d had been trying to ignore them for fifteen minutes, but when Wendy giggled and brushed Tolkien’s shoulder like she wasn’t the single most uptight bitch in the entire Western Hemisphere, he snapped.

“Oh my God,” He snapped, waving a hand between them, “Get a fucking room before someone drowns in your eye-fucking,”

Wendy didn’t miss a beat, “You offering yours?”

Tolkien just blinked slowly and said, “My Maserati’s downstairs,”

Cartman nearly choked.

Wendy rolled her eyes and followed Tolkien anyway, her amethyst swimsuit cutting through the haze like vengeance.

Cartman hated everything.

He flopped into a deck chair, sulking and considering keying Tolkien’s car on principle when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it, already expecting some dumb meme from Butters or an Uber Eats reminder.

But no. It was just a subjectless email with an attachment.

His stomach flipped.

He tapped it open, thumbs sweaty, and the file stared back at him like a ghost: WINTER_FROLIC.mov

Cartman’s heart skipped.

His entire face lit up like he was a kid on Christmas morning again.

He got it. He finally fucking got it.

That cursed old hard drive, the one he’d horded since elementary school like it was a sacred relic?

That file. The one he swore existed, the one nobody believed he had, the one Kyle definitely didn’t want resurfacing...

It was real. It was here. It was playable.

He tapped the screen. The buffering wheel spun. The thumbnail flickered.

His eyes went wide. Blood rushed to his face. His posture straightened up like someone had whispered destroy everything in his ear.

“Oh,” He whispered to himself, “You beautiful little time bomb,”

The rooftop had gone glossy with midnight heat, all bodies and chlorine. Humidity clinging to skin.

Kenny and Martine were back.

Martine looking suspiciously smug in a new silk robe like her last one had spontaneously combusted, Kenny looking like someone who just died and moaned through it.

Kyle and Charli were out of the pool, standing a little too close, pretending a whole lot hadn't happenned underwater.

Her curls were damp, her thighs still glistening, and Kyle’s hands twitched every time she adjusted her top.

Stan didn’t need a psychic to know where that was going next.

Nichole was by the bar now, leaned in beside Riley, her smile polite but quiet. She hadn’t talked to him since the party began, not really.

And Stan was spiraling about it in the worst, most productive way he knew how: Music.

Crimson Dawn took the rooftop stage just as Clyde cut the beats and slurred something into the mic.

The crowd didn’t cheer so much as groan in relief.

Jimmy did a quick sound check behind the drums while Butters started fiddling with pedals like his life depended on it, and Stan wiped his palms on his shorts and picked up his guitar like it might save him from everything he wasn’t saying.

The first song hit like muscle memory: Clean, fast, loud.

Kenny’s bass pulsed with the kind of dark, chest-thumping rhythm that felt like a heartbeat turned inside out.

The rooftop crowd started moving again, even if most people were too wasted to keep tempo. Stan didn’t care. He wasn’t playing for them.

By the fourth song, he’d found his groove. The fifth, he stopped breathing.

“Alright,” He said into the mic, voice tight, “Last one’s personal,”

A few people whooped. Someone yelled for him to take it off.

He ignored it. His eyes swept the crowd, stopped when he found her. Nichole, still and backlit, arms crossed, her drink untouched.

“I wrote this for someone I’ve never had the guts to tell the truth to,” He said, low and quick, “I guess I’m telling her now,”

Then he played.

The song wasn’t clean. It wasn’t polished or practiced or pretty. But it was real. Raw and rough around the edges, guitar strings pulled too hard, vocals cracking at the bridge like he meant every fucking word.

She watched him. Didn't move. Her arms were still crossed but her eyes were glassy, wide, locked on his like he was bleeding right there in front of her and she couldn’t look away.

Kyle was still beside Charli, holding his breath like the moment might shatter if he so much as exhaled.

When Stan hit the chorus, Charli’s hand brushed Kyle’s knuckles. Slow. Unintentional. Electric. Neither of them moved. Neither of them looked.

Stan didn’t stop playing. Couldn’t. The chords were hot under his fingers, the lyrics raw in his throat.

His whole chest felt like it might collapse from everything he’d been holding in for years. He saw Nichole take a breath, slow and trembling, then wipe at the corner of her eye like she’d win something by pretending not to cry.

The stage lights caught her in a soft glow. He gripped the mic tighter, swallowed hard, and sang the next line like it meant more than his name.

Stan was spiraling in public and the crowd was loving it.

His voice cracked again, right on the chorus this time, and some girl in a wet t-shirt screamed like it was a One Direction reunion.

The rooftop had turned into a slow-burning fever dream, bass vibrating through the floor, warm night air slick with sweat and summer and every bad idea anyone had ever had.

Crimson Dawn was on, but Stan was barely there. His guitar strap was digging into his shoulder and he couldn’t stop staring at Nichole.

She was at the edge of the crowd, arms still crossed, face unreadable in that scary-calm way she got when she was either moved or completely done with someone. Her eyes were wet. He could see that much. But she wasn’t crying. Not yet.

She just stood there watching him pour everything he couldn’t say into three and a half minutes of open chord confession, while the rest of the crowd swayed and screamed around her like none of it mattered.

Kyle stood frozen halfway between the railing and the makeshift stage, not breathing. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

The music crashed around him, Stan’s voice echoing that line again, a goddamn line about not being brave enough, and Kyle couldn’t stop watching Nichole. Or more accurately, watching Stan watch Nichole. The look on his best friend's face wasn’t subtle.

It wasn’t safe. It was the kind of vulnerable mess Kyle had been trying to avoid since the night started.

Next to him, Charli didn’t say anything.

But he could feel her watching him.

She shifted slightly, her bare shoulder brushing his arm, and he turned too fast, needing a distraction, something to punch through the static crawling up his spine.

She was still in that ridiculous pink bikini, curls damp, posture regal despite the chaos unraveling around her. She didn’t look at him.

“You like his song?” Kyle asked, voice low, rawer than he meant it to be.

Charli's expression didn’t change. She didn’t glance his way. Her eyes scanned over Nichole, like watching someone else fall apart was safer than acknowledging she might be next.

“I like people who tell the truth,” She said, “That’s rare around here,”

It hit him in the gut. Not because it was cruel, but because it was true.

She walked away mid-bridge, like she hadn’t just ripped his ribs out with a single sentence. The crowd parted around her like they knew better than to get in her way. Kyle didn’t even hesitate.

He followed her right to where her night had started.

Same railing. Same mountains. Same moonlight dragging shadows across her shoulders like it was in on the joke.

The rooftop was quieter now, the last few notes of Crimson Dawn’s set still echoing faintly through the night air. Someone was laughing by the bar. Someone else was throwing up over the side. None of it mattered.

Charli stood with her arms wrapped around herself like she’d just stepped out of a dream she didn’t want to wake up from. Her curls caught in the breeze, her skin glowed like something sacred under the neon lights, and she didn’t look at him until he was close enough to touch.

“I miss who you used to be,” She said, soft and cruel all at once.

It punched the air out of his chest.

“You never gave me time to show you who I am now,” He shot back, too close to cracking.

She blinked, like she hadn’t expected him to say something so human, so stupidly earnest. Like he was still that dumbass fourth grader who would’ve followed her into traffic if she asked.

Her mouth parted just slightly, gloss catching the light, but she didn’t say anything. Didn’t let him off the hook.

Kyle hated how that made him want to impress her more. Like if he said the right thing, used the right tone, if he looked at her long enough without flinching, maybe she’d fold.

Maybe she’d let him feel like he hadn’t already lost.

“I’m studying child psych,” He said, trying for casual, but it came out tight, “Because I wanna help kids who feel like they’re fucking defective, or like nobody sees what they’re actually going through. Kids who can’t sleep alone. Who blame themselves when the people that are supposed to love them leave. Kids who act out because it’s the only way they know how to be heard. Kids who think they’re only lovable if they’re useful. Kids with–”

His voice snagged on the word before it came out, “Kids with trauma,”

Charli turned, slow, deliberate, like she was letting him marinate in his own goddamn vulnerability.

“Kids like me,” She said, so soft he almost missed it, “Kids like us,”

Kyle’s breath hitched, and something tight and hot pressed against the base of his throat.

It was the most naked thing she’d ever said to him, and she said it like it didn’t cost her anything. Like he was the one who should feel exposed.

And he did. He felt flayed open, like she’d peeled him back and left everything twitching in the air.

“Yeah,” He exhaled, “Kids like us,”

That landed. He watched her breathe through it, watched her lips part like she might say something that would ruin him. Or kiss him and ruin them both.

His hand found her wrist before he could think better of it. A light touch, thumb brushing the inside, where her pulse jumped against his skin like it recognized him.

She didn’t pull away, “You make me feel like I’m drowning,”

For a second, everything held. Her eyes were glassy. Her mouth trembled. The air between them was thick enough to taste. He leaned in, chest tight, pulse racing. One more second, and maybe...

“Charli?”

The sound of Nichole’s voice shattered everything.

Charli flinched like she’d been slapped. Kyle dropped her wrist.

Nichole stepped towards them, “Hey, can I talk to you? Please? Before I see him? I can’t– I just need–”

Charli turned immediately, gaze already on her friend, steps already moving.

Kyle watched her go.

And once again, he stood there empty-handed, choking on the silence she left behind.

A few minutes later, Stan found him pacing by the railing, fingers twitching, breathing uneven like he was on the verge of hurling himself off the roof just to feel something different.

Crimson Dawn’s set was over, the rooftop crowd thinning. Laughter and leftover adrenaline dropping into a weird, hungover calm.

Kyle’s brain hadn’t gotten the memo. He could still feel the ghost of her wrist under his fingers. The heat of her mouth, almost.

Almost.

“Hey,” Stan said, voice gentle, cautious, like Kyle was a fucking skittish horse, “Have you seen Nichole?”

Kyle didn’t look at him. Just jerked his head toward the back corner, “She’s with Charli,”

Stan’s posture eased, like that solved something, “Okay, good. I just... I didn’t wanna go over if she needed a minute. That was...”

“Yeah, dude,” Kyle snapped, louder than he meant to, “We all heard the song. The Nichole is my Roman Empire song. Congrats on your fucking catharsis,”

Stan blinked, “Shit, dude,”

It should’ve stopped there.

But Kyle’s chest was tight, and his skin itched, and everything inside him was screaming.

He turned fully to face Stan, eyes sharp, jaw clenched, “You think you’re the only one who’s been holding shit in? You brought her back here like it was no big deal. Like I wasn’t still bleeding out from it. And you didn’t even tell me,”

Stan stared at him, “Are you serious right now?”

“Dead fucking serious,”

“I didn’t make her come back,” Stan said growing louder with each word, “She wanted to be here. You think I had some secret fucking plan?”

“You didn’t have to,” Kyle said, teeth gritted, “You brought her back, and I got to stand there like a goddamn side character in my own fucking story,”

Stan’s face twisted, “You think this is about you?”

“Everything is about me when she’s involved. Because I’m the one who lost her. Not you. Not Mom. Me,”

Something cracked in Stan’s voice when he shouted, “You don’t get to be the victim and the fucking hero, Kyle!”

Kyle flinched. They both did.

The words slammed between them like glass breaking; Childhood fractures reappearing like fault lines under pressure. Neither of them moved for a second.

They just stood there, breathing hard, years of friendship and resentment suddenly raw and exposed, blistering in the LED and string light haze.

Kyle’s heart was still hammering against his ribs, Stan’s voice echoing in his head when he heard the worst sound known to man: Cartman’s laugh.

It slithered through the rooftop air like something unholy and smug, instantly clenching every muscle in Kyle’s body like a trauma response.

Cartman was grinning.

He held up his phone and waved it theatrically, already sauntering toward them.

“You guys want to see something really fucked up?” He asked, voice oily, delighted, dangerous.

Kyle blinked, still winded, still vibrating with fight, and somehow still not fast enough.

Cartman didn’t wait for permission. He just hit send.

Kyle’s phone buzzed once. Then again. Then his eyes locked on the notification in the group chat: Eric Cartman sent a video: WINTER_FROLIC.mov.

The name alone made Kyle’s stomach drop.

Every neuron in his brain fired at once.

Somewhere across the roof, Kenny made a strangled sound and went, “Wait, what the fuck is this?”

“Uploaded it to YouTube too,” Cartman added casually, slipping his phone into his back pocket like he hadn’t just gone nuclear on nine years of emotional repression, “You know, for the community. You’re welcome,”

Kyle’s fingers moved on their own. He opened the chat.

The thumbnail was already loading, the little spinning wheel taunting him, and next to it were the worst possible people to have in a shared group chat; Butters, Tolkien, Riley, Kenny and Stan, who was now reading over his shoulder like the fight had never happened.

Because of course it didn’t matter anymore.

Of course Cartman had just hijacked reality with one text.

Rage boiled under Kyle’s skin, his throat dry, hands slick, but he tapped play anyway.

The screen lit up.

Charli. Him. Them. Way too young. Way too close. Inside the old Winter Frolic photobooth; fuzzy edges, soft lighting, a glitchy retro vid that made it feel even more like a memory no one else was supposed to have.

Kyle couldn’t move.

Charli, standing a few yards away with Nichole and Martine, had turned white. Her body tensed, her mouth open like she might scream or throw up or both.

Kenny stood behind her, phone in hand, eyes locked on the same opening frames.

Nobody said anything.

Nobody breathed.

He forgot about the rooftop. Forgot about Stan, or Cartman, or the fucking party. The only thing he could see, the only thing that existed, was that grainy, flickering video on screen.

It was the past. Opening like a trap.

The grainy footage was from inside the photobooth. They’re both tiny, awkward, fourth grade versions of themselves. Adorable and wrecked.

Charli sat sideways on Kyle’s lap, her white tulle dress pooling softly around them, luminous under the booth’s dim, flickering lightbulb. Her arms curled around his neck, fingertips lightly playing with the ends of his unruly curls at his nape. Kyle’s hands hovered uncertainly at her waist, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to hold on, but terrified she’d vanish if he let go.

Their foreheads nearly touched, breaths mingling in the narrow space between them, unsteady and fragile.

“I’ll gonna miss you, Tichen,” Charli whispered, voice barely audible, already bruised by goodbye.

Kyle looked at her, utterly wrecked, his eyes wide and raw.

“I don’t want this to end,” He murmured, a tremor in his voice betraying every unspoken fear, “Not after... Everything,”

She leaned in, mouth brushing softly against his ear, whispering words meant only for him. Words the audio didn't pick up, but that made his cheeks burn scarlet. He froze, heart pounding wildly, fumbling to appear unbothered but failing spectacularly.

He swallowed hard, leaned back toward her, whispering something in return that made Charli’s breath catch.

The world seemed to pause, fragile and silent, as their gazes locked, each realizing something huge, something that made breathing suddenly difficult.

Kyle reached down, out of frame, gently pulling her even closer, like she might disappear at any moment.

Charli's mouth barely moved, but he caught every silent word: “I’m not leaving yet,”

“Don’t forget me,” Kyle whispered, and almost at the exact same moment Charli breathed, “I promised you I wouldn’t,”

A small silence followed, heavy with promises and the unbearable weight of separation.

“You’re my favorite person, you know?” Charli muttered softly, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Kyle swallowed painfully, feeling every word like a blow to the chest.

“Yeah,” He managed thickly, “I know,”

She hesitated, gathering courage, her voice quiet but steady, “You’re the first person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t a problem,”

“You’re not a problem,” He said fiercely, earnestness cracking his voice, “You’re the only thing that’s made sense all year,”

He watched her intently, desperately trying to memorize every detail: The curl at her temple, the way her eyelashes fluttered when she blinked, the soft tremble in her lower lip.

“If I asked you to say it first, would you?” Charli finally whispered, heart laid bare in every syllable.

Kyle’s throat closed, “Say what?” 

“That you love me,” She murmured softly.

His breath hitched painfully, “Charli, I...”

The words stuck, too heavy, too dangerous. He shook his head, hands curling tightly into fists at her sides, bunching up her tulle.

Charli gently reached for one trembling fist, carefully unfurling his fingers, holding his hand as though it were precious, irreplaceable.

“I don’t want to forget this,” she said softly, voice trembling, eyes locked on his, “Any of it. Even if I have to go. Even if I’m not allowed to come back,”

“You’re gonna come back,” Kyle replied urgently, desperation coloring his tone, “You have to,”

She leaned in closer, eyes searching his desperately, voice cracking, “If you ever doubt I meant it...”

Then she kissed him.

Not softly on the cheek, not hesitant or uncertain, a real kiss.

Tender, terrified, impossibly brave. Short enough to be mistaken, yet it felt undeniably right, inevitable.

Kyle remained still for a heartbeat, stunned, drowning in sensation before gasping quietly as though coming up for air.

“Charli...” He breathed out shakily, like her name was the answer to every question he'd ever asked.

 “I know,” Her voice wavered, breath hitching painfully, “I know you do,”

He leaned forward again, heart pounding in every fingertip as his hand gently brushed against her cheek. Charli’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling softly against flushed skin.

“Don’t forget this, okay?” He murmured, voice breaking under the weight of his plea, “Don’t let him make you forget this,”

Charli opened her eyes briefly, locked onto his.

“I won’t,” She vowed with quiet determination, “I swear I won’t,”

Kyle stared at her, breathless, chest aching with an emotion too enormous and too overwhelming to name.

She leaned forward slowly, pressing a delicate kiss to his cheek, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

Kyle instinctively turned toward her lips, their breaths mingling warmly, mouths mere inches apart.

Almost close enough to–

Cut to black.

Chapter Text

Cartman raised his plastic cup like he was accepting an award for Most Likely to Destabilize the Mental Health of South Park’s Favorite Jew.

“To Kyle,” He announced with a smirk, “Still simping for the first girl to give him a boner,”

Laughter scattered through the rooftop crowd, uneasy, confused, and a little too entertained.

Somewhere in the background, Crimson Dawn's abandoned amps buzzed in the awkward silence.

Kyle barely registered the sound. His brain was ablaze with white-hot fury.

He didn’t lunge so much as detonate. His body moved before his brain caught up, crashing through half a circle of drunk onlookers.

Cartman’s eyes went wide, his smug grin dissolved just as Kyle grabbed him by the collar and shoved him backward. The laugh was strangled in Cartman’s throat when his back hit the guardrail.

Kyle didn’t stop. He bent Cartman’s back over the ledge.

There was a beat, just one, just long enough for everyone to realize Kyle wasn’t bluffing this time.

Cartman’s heels scraped against the rooftop tile.

Kyle gripped tighter. His knuckles turned bone white around the fabric of Cartman’s shirt.

“Say one more thing,” Kyle said in a ragged snarl that seemed carried by summer wind, “And the next thing trending will be your obituary,”

Cartman didn’t answer. Not because he was scared, but because he was trying not to piss himself. He knew Kyle’s breaking point, but this was way past that.

Kyle had gone full judgment day. His green eyes were wild and while it seemed like they had locked on Cartman, all he really saw was the memory of Charli’s face when she told him he used to be someone worth wanting.

Nearby, Stan cursed as he elbowed past a couple of girls to grab Kyle’s arm. Kenny grabbed the other. Kyle still wasn’t letting go.

Charli moved after them. Soft steps. A quiet breath against the back of Kyle’s shoulder, and suddenly his rage had a pulse and a perfume. Lavender and the sweet, taunting lilt of her voice.

“Do you think your dad’s a good enough lawyer to get you off a murder charge?” She asked plainly.

His jaw clenched. He didn’t answer, didn’t even turn. Just stared at the shaking idiot in his grip, now clammy and red with the realization that Kyle wasn’t bluffing. He was boiling. He was close. And Kyle’s body, wet, overheated, vibrating with humiliation, pride and something else crawling beneath his skin, refused to obey logic.

But Charli wasn’t logic.

Kyle let go.

Cartman sagged instantly, wheezing like he'd just escaped death itself, which he hadn't. Not really.

Because the way Kyle stepped back didn’t say mercy, it said delay.

His fists were still clenched. His breath still short. But Charli had cut through it. Not with a plea or a lecture.

Just a crooked smirk and a reminder that his dad wore a blazer to work and probably wouldn’t love defending a felony assault charge tied to a childhood trauma leak.

Cartman started to laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” Kenny muttered, grabbing the bastard by the scruff like a wet trash bag.

“Let’s go, Cartman,” Stan growled, eyes hard, already on the same page.

Cartman didn’t resist, just kept laughing as if he’d won something. Like Kyle hadn’t genuinely almost killed him.

“Get your hands off me,” Cartman wheezed between fits, “I’m a victim of–”

“You’re a victim of not shutting the fuck up,” Kenny said, yanking him toward the stairs.

Kyle’s fists were still twitching, but the warmth next to him was louder than all of it.

She hadn’t stepped back. Her arm brushed his when she folded her own across her chest, loose and guarded, like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to elbow him in the ribs or press her face into his shoulder.

And Kyle, who was still trying to shake the feeling of Cartman’s collar in his fist, looked back. Her eyes were impossible to read. Dark, warm, maybe pitying. Maybe impressed. Maybe pissed.

The air between them buzzed like a live wire, and Kyle didn’t know if he wanted to kiss her or scream at the mountains.

Nichole stepped into the their path as Stan and Kenny dragged Cartman past.

“You better not let him back in,” She said.

Kenny nodded once.

Stan paused, eyes darting to Kyle, and then Nichole. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something to her about the mess they were drowning in, but Nichole grabbed his wrist.

“Come with me,” She said.

Stan let her lead him.

Cartman’s voice echoed down the stairwell, something about slander, then bitches, then civil rights as Kenny dragged him through the rooftop access door.

Kyle didn’t move. Neither did Charli.

“You were really gonna kill him,” She said.

He still didn’t look at her.

“You weren’t kidding. You were gonna break every bone in his body and then throw the rest off the edge,”

Kyle’s throat was tight. His voice came out hoarse.

“He deserved it,” He said.

“He always deserves it,” She said, “That doesn’t mean you get to be the one who finishes it,”

He turned to her finally, slow, blinking, like waking up from a blackout. Her dress was clinging to her like a dare. Her mouth, glossy and unsmiling, tilted just enough to make him feel ten again and dangerously stupid.

“You’re not mad?” He asked.

She tilted her head.

“I’m always mad,” She said, “You just make it worse,”

Kyle didn’t smile.

The corner of her mouth twitched like she already knew he’d be thinking about that line for weeks. He swallowed hard, throat dry and tight.

He was about to say something stupid. Maybe thank her. Maybe offer to commit a different crime in her honor. But the mood shifted. It shifted with the sound of a giggle, light, breathy, coming from the other end of the roof.

Nichole stood in front of Stan in her yellow bikini, one hand resting on her hip, her curls pulled into twin puffs that somehow made her look she was modeling.

Kyle watched her lean against the railing beside Stan, close enough that their arms touched. Then she looped her’s through his like it was still the most natural thing in the world.

“You really sang that for me,” She said, squeezing his hand.

Her eyes were glassy and gentle, like she’d been crying earlier but had decided against letting it ruin the night.

Stan didn’t answer at first. His mouth opened then closed, like his brain wasn’t keeping up. Nichole saw it, the panic stutter, the quiet implosion.

He scratched behind his ear like it might dig out a coherent thought.

Nichole leaned closer, “You can move into 403 if you want,”

Stan blinked again.

She smiled, tired but certain.

“If you want me,” She said, “Show me you’re not scared of–”

Stan kissed her before she finished the sentence.

It wasn’t even romantic at first, it was instinct. Desperate. Like his mouth got there before his fear did. His hand found the back of her neck like he’d been waiting a decade to remember what she felt like.

Nichole gasped, then smiled against him, and Kyle looked away because the weight of it pressed too close to where he was still standing.

Charli didn’t say anything. But Kyle could feel her looking.

He cleared his throat.

“Guess they’re back together,” He muttered.

She didn’t laugh.

“You jealous?” She asked instead.

He looked at her, eyebrows drawn, lips parted with a response that never came. Because she was looking right at him. Not past him. Not through him. At him. Her gaze tracked every twitch in his jaw, every breath he failed to take.

Kyle’s heart pounded.

“You want me to be?” He asked.

She leaned closer, just a little. The wind picked up her scent, wafting it around him. She was all soft and floral; So familiar, a little dangerous and completely intoxicating.

“I want you to stop pretending,” She said.

His breath hitched. He couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. He thought about how good she tasted and it made his chest ache.

He looked away. Then looked back.

He always looked back.

By Monday morning, the rooftop was dead silent, except for the soft flap of a wet towel half-hanging off a tipped lounge chair and the wind rustling leftover towels. There was a scorched mess of sloshed cocktails, deflated balloons, and one flip-flop dangling off the edge of the pool.

The party was over. Long over. But the roof still smelled like sex, smoke, and cheap vodka. Martine would hire someone to clean it later.

Kenny woke up in her bed, warm and wrecked. The sheets were still crumpled where she’d pinned him down. His neck ached, and not in a bad way. His thighs too.

Martine wasn’t beside him. She was in the master bathroom, humming and brushing her teeth like she hadn’t just spent the weekend breaking him apart and gluing him back together with her pussy.

“You were incredible,” She said through the door, toothbrush still in her mouth.

Kenny swallowed and sat up. His mouth was dry. His brain fuzzed somewhere between did I dream that and did I survive that. Her blanket dropped to his waist. He was still naked. Of course he was. He’d blacked out during at least one orgasm and possibly said something sincere, two things he did not normally allow unless blood was involved.

The bathroom door was open. Martine stepped out wearing one of those silky robe that looked more expensive than anything he owned. Her face was bare and her skin was glowing.

She didn’t look wrecked. She looked fresh. Reapplied. Reassembled.

“Pass me that serum?” She gestured to a tiny bottle on the nightstand, the one with a glass dropper and a name Kenny couldn’t pronounce even if his brain wasn’t scrambled from whatever spell she cast Friday night.

He reached for it slowly, like it might explode.

“Here,” He said.

She smiled in a genuinely satisfied way, like she’d just finished a ten-course meal and he’d been the amuse-bouche, appetizer, and entrée.

She took the serum, leaned over and kissed his temple absently.

“You should hydrate,” She said.

That was it. That was it. No babe, no stay, no wow, that meant something, no trace of the filthy declarations she’d made hours ago with her heel pressed into his chest while she told him she liked how he begged.

Kenny’s body still buzzed like her name had been carved into his soul and she was already talking about skincare.

He didn’t know if he should be proud or heartbroken.

He hated this part. The part after. The part where he wasn’t sure if she wanted him to stay or expected him to disappear.

He couldn’t read her. She always smiled like she knew a secret he didn’t. And maybe that was the point; maybe she did. Maybe the secret was he didn’t matter half as much to her as she was starting to matter to him.

“You good?” She asked.

He nodded too fast.

“Yeah,” He said, “Just... thinking,”

She glanced at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were soft. Curious. But not desperate. Never desperate. Not like him.

“You think a lot,” She said.

Kenny laughed under his breath.

“Yeah,” He said, “Bad habit,”

She dabbed serum into her skin like it was a ritual, like the world made sense when she followed the right order of operations.

Kenny watched her and wondered if he was in the rotation. If he was shelf-stable. Maybe he was just another luxury indulgence, a limited-time offer, a treat for when she was in the mood to be worshipped and wanted someone reckless enough to give her everything without being asked.

He tried to joke, “So... Where’d you learn to do that thing you did with your legs?”

She raised an eyebrow, “New Orleans,”

He laughed again, but it felt like a defense mechanism. His skin was crawling, warm and wanting. He didn’t want to ask the question he was thinking, because it probably would’ve made him look pathetic.

He asked anyway, “You gonna forget about me now?”

She stopped.

He’d asked it like it was casual, but there was nothing casual about the crack in his voice or the way he looked at her, all stripped wire and hunger, like maybe he was hoping she’d tell him no just to confirm his worst fear. Like she was already halfway to forgetting him and he was just the last idiot to realize.

She exhaled through her nose, eyes trained on the mirror, and debated whether to kiss him or slap him with the hairbrush. Of course he thought that. Of course he did. That was the problem with Kenny. He fucked like a monster but thought like a boy.

She shouldn’t like it. Shouldn’t find it hot. Shouldn’t want to pull his broken little martyr complex into her arm and say please again.

“Only two men have ever made me beg,” She said, “And only one of them made me come for forty-eight hours straight,”

His head snapped up like she’d just thrown him a rope. God, his eyes were so violet, desperate and cocky, all at once. Like maybe he hadn’t decided if he wanted to cringe at himself or grab her by the hips again. Martine turned back to her vanity before she did something sentimental.

She heard him move. The soft rustle of the sheets, creak of the mattress, the low scrape of him grabbing his pants off the floor. His parka hit his back like a reflex. Her lips curled.

“You really gonna go in like that?” She asked.

He shrugged.

“Wore less this weekend,” He said.

She smiled despite herself, keeping it tucked against her cheek as she turned back toward the mirror. He was still barefoot, boxers under jeans, hair sex-messed and too proud to fix it. He looked edible.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He grabbed it. She watched him read something, jaw clench, mouth pull tight like it always did when his reality came back.

“Stan and Kyle want me at Tweek Bros,” He said, “Campus library before class,”

She nodded once, slow.

She didn’t stop him when he turned toward the door. Didn’t kiss him goodbye or ask if he wanted to come back later. Didn’t ask if she’d see him again because they both knew she would... Unless he decided she wouldn’t.

That was the risk. That was always the risk.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Martine stood still for three whole seconds. Then crossed the room with bare feet and opened her walk-in closet.

She reached for the top shelf, past the Prada boxes and the spell jars, and pulled down a velvet-lined memory box with a satin ribbon already tied around it.

She unwrapped the ribbon slowly. Inside were little empty glass bottles, a dried flower, and a folded piece of paper that she hadn’t touched in two years.

She placed a matchbook inside from last night’s rooftop party.

Then closed the box.

She picked up the gold marker on her vanity and wrote in careful, slanted script across the top:

Kenny – In Case He Means It.

The campus was a fucking circus.

Kyle walked across the quad with the collar of his jacket up and headphones in, even though nothing was playing. He didn’t need music. He needed plausible deniability. If he could pretend not to hear people whispering, he could pretend it wasn’t about him.

But it was about him. It was all about him.

“Oh my god, that’s him,” Someone muttered from behind a kiosk.

“I heard they were, like, fated,” A girl beside them added, “Like, soulmates, but Jewish,”

Kyle nearly tripped over a sprinkler head.

He didn’t look up, just kept walking. Stared at the ground. Tried not to see the way heads turned as he passed. The way phones tilted. The way a few girls (not even discreetly) started filming him from across the bench near the humanities building.

WINTER_FROLIC.mov had dropped two days ago. Less than 40 seconds of grainy, whisper-heavy footage of two fourth graders caught in a moment that was way too intimate for their size. It had felt ancient and private, until it hit 2,000 views on a Reddit thread.

More than double the entire population of South Park.

Someone had posted a grainy screenshot of fourth grade Kyle holding onto Charli’s waist like she was sacred.

He should’ve deleted the app. Instead, he doomscrolled until 3AM, then threw his phone at the wall. Then picked it up. Then typed “how to disappear on a full scholarship,” into Google.

Now, the campus buzzed around him like a hive of hormonal wasps. Half the people he passed pretended not to look, only to shoot glances the second he was out of range. The other half didn’t bother pretending. Girls leaned into their friends’ shoulders and whispered, guys fist-bumped him with the giddy energy of a middle school locker room. One guy across the quad shouted, “Bro had fourth grade game!” and Kyle nearly screamed.

He swallowed it down and kept walking.

It wasn’t just whispers. It was stares. Reactions.

He was used to people not getting him, or not liking him.

He was not used to being a campus ship.

@kyle_x_charli had launched that morning and already had three hundred followers. The bio read: we believe in canon, fate, and brats with boundaries. The pinned tweet was a meme of Kyle’s face mid-fight with Cartman, captioned “he’s never looked at Heidi like that,”

Some of it was romantic. Weirdly, uncomfortably romantic. Girls talked about cosmic timing and the softest slow burn and He was never not hers.

Someone edited a photo of ten-year-old Kyle (him staring, her in that tulle dress,) with a current one (him pressing her up against the Charger) with the words 9 years later and He still can't breathe around her.

Kyle stared at it too long and felt his entire blood supply leave his brain.

One post read: Lafayette? Like from Hamilton? Is that a real last name?

Others, especially the worse side of Reddit and Greek Row, latched onto the way Charli touched him, (arms around his neck, breathless and earnest) and called it manipulative. Calculated.

Kyle had stared at that one too long. Not because he believed it, but because it made him want to set the fucking servers on fire.

He was half a block from the Tweek Bros franchise inside the PCCC library, trying to walk like a guy who wasn’t being turned into shipping meme when he heard it.

“I never thought he’d be into those kinds of girls,”

It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t have to be.

Kyle’s body reacted before his brain caught up, and then he turned.

Not just turned. Pivoted.

A full one-eighty, heel grinding the sidewalk like he was about to run suicide drills over this dumbass dude’s body, “What the fuck did you just say?”

The guy, some asshole with a buzzcut, looked up.

“Say it again. I dare you,” Kyle growled.

The guy blinked, trying to scoff, “Dude, chill, it was just a–”

“Just a fucking comment? What kind of girl is she, exactly?”

Other students were slowing now. Watching. Phones hovered. Kyle didn’t care. He leaned in, towering over the guy as his voice went dangerously low.

“You mean Black? Or Jewish? Or too fucking smart for you? Or is it the fact she didn’t smile at you and your dick’s been crying ever since?”

The guy sputtered.

A girl nearby muttered, “Jesus Christ,” and Kyle snapped his head toward her too.

“You can go too. Go on. Walk faster. Post about how the angry Jew yelled again and then go suck the campus Reddit’s dick about it,”

The spiral had reached peak velocity. His chest was heaving now, breath stuck somewhere between fury and humiliation.

The guy mumbled that he was “fucking psycho,” but Kyle didn’t even process it. His fists were clenched too tight and his vision was too narrow.

He stormed off, shoving past another guy and resisted the urge to scream.

The library doors loomed like some cruel joke. A place of quiet, knowledge, and stability.

His body was shaking. Literally trembling with rage. That brittle, breathless kind that left him hyper-aware of every nerve, every heartbeat.

And underneath it? Humiliation.

Because now everyone knew. Not just about Charli. Not just about the fourth grade video or the rooftop showdown or the pool. But about him. His face. His feelings. The way he looked at her like she was everything good in the world.

They didn’t know her. They didn’t know anything about the way she couldn’t sleep unless he was next to her. How she called him Tichen, because it meant he never gave up.

Now they just saw her dress, her lips and that split-second look in her eyes before she whispered something (words that weren’t even in English) and he’d gone beet red. Because of course he had. He was ten and already halfway hers.

He’d fought for years to pretend those nights in the attic weren’t real. That her curls on his pillow, her whisper in Creole, her stupid diary and the way she said his name when she was scared... He’d tried to bury it all.

Now there were clips. Screenshots. Fancams. One video was just a montage of their childhood footage. The caption was “the definition of real,” It had 1,000 likes.

He should’ve felt vindicated. Finally, proof. Finally, they were real. Not a mistake. Not a secret.

But it wasn’t his choice.

Kyle slammed the door a little too hard as he walked into Tweek Bros., shaking stray drops of mountain drizzle from his jacket. His curls were damp, his jaw clenched, and the hem of his jeans were wet enough to sag against his ankle with every stride.

Across the room, at their usual corner table by the bookshelves, Stan and Kenny were already seated, each with their own posture of barely-contained chaos.

Stan’s blue flannel hung off one shoulder, and he was slumped back with a coffee in one hand and a thousand-yard stare that screamed, he’d just got asked to cohabitate and was not emotionally equipped.

Kenny, by contrast, looked annoyingly well-rested for someone who had been actively desecrating Martine’s body all weekend. He was wearing a smug, freshly-fucked glow and sipping a smoothie through a straw like it was a trophy.

“Gentlemen,” Kyle muttered, deadpan, sliding into the booth and peeling off his damp jacket like he was shedding the weight of everything he hadn’t said since Friday night.

Kenny gave him a once-over, “You look like shit,”

“Thanks,” Kyle said, “That’s exactly what I was going for,”

“Pretty sure it’s working,” Kenny added, nodding toward a girl behind the counter who was absolutely not hiding the fact she’d been staring at Kyle’s ass when he bent down to yank his sock back into place.

Kyle ignored that. He waved over the barista and gritted out, “Black coffee. Large. Extra large,”

Stan glanced over at him, “So, good weekend then?”

“I want to punch something,” Kyle groaned.

Kenny grinned, “I love our Monday morning male trauma summits. It’s like group therapy, but with more dick jokes,”

“Don’t call it that,” Kyle snapped without lifting his head.

The barista placed the coffee on the table like she was scared he might bite her.

Kyle sat up and immediately took a scalding sip, expression flat, “I hate everything,”

Stan blinked slowly, “Dude,”

Kyle wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. The entire fucking weekend was seared into the back of his brain like a branding iron.

And then there was Charli. In that bikini. With her goddamn legs in the water and her mouth wrecking him with every syllable. She’d pushed him into a pool. He pulled her in. Held her like she might disappear. Then the whole world watched them implode in 480p photobooth nostalgia.

And now he was here. With black coffee, wet socks, and two best friends pretending not to be just as fucked up.

Stan picked at the label on his cup, “So, uh. We’re all doing great, right?”

“Define great,” Kyle muttered.

Kenny stretched his arms out and yawned like he hadn’t just been fucking the scariest girl on campus all weekend, “I came like, eight times since Friday. So yeah, I’m thriving,”

Stan made a noise layered with disgust.

Kyle didn’t blink, “Cool. One of my most sacred childhood memories just became a meme,”

Kenny squinted, “Did you at least get a good edit out of it?”

“There’s a Reddit thread accusing Charli of emotionally manipulating me since elementary school,” Kyle deadpanned.

“Oh yeah,” Kenny nodded solemnly, “You definitely topped this weekend,”

Stan shifted in his seat, “Nichole asked me to move in,”

Kyle’s head snapped toward him so fast it cracked, “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” Stan muttered, still all kinds of fucked up, “She said if I want her, I have to prove I’m not scared to stay,”

Kyle blinked at him, “Jesus Christ. Did you say yes?”

Stan looked down, “Yeah,”

Kenny’s smoothie made an obnoxious slurp sound as he sucked the last of it through the straw, “Damn. Guess I’m the only one here not about to fuck it up with a girl who actually wants me,”

Kyle’s glare could’ve cut glass, “She called me Tichen,”

Stan choked on his drink, “Stop,”

Kenny whistled low, “Isn’t that..?”

“Yeah,” Kyle snapped, “And then she walked away. Again. Which I deserved, because apparently I only know how to express myself through aggression and fucking aquatic theatrics,”

Stan leaned in, elbows on the table, “You gonna talk to her?”

“I don’t know,” Kyle muttered, scrubbing his hand through his curls, “She looked at me like I was the reason she doesn’t believe in love,”

Kenny opened his mouth, paused, then said flatly, “Weren’t you?”

Kyle didn’t answer. Just took another punishing gulp of coffee and stared out the window like maybe the answer was somewhere out there in the gray Colorado sky, in the fog crawling over the mountains, in the ache under his ribs that hadn’t gone away since she walked away.

Stan exhaled slowly, “We’re all so fucked,”

Kenny grinned, “Yeah. But at least we’re fucked together,”

Kyle muttered, “That’s not comforting,”

And then he saw her.

Just outside the window, heading toward the library. In a pink gingham dress with the hem swishing as she walked beside Martine. Charli didn’t glance inside, but Kyle felt it anyway, like the static in the air had spiked just from her proximity.

His peripheral vision had developed the exact specificity required to clock Charli Lafayette at thirty yards like he was a predator and she was the only goddamn thing left in the ecosystem.

Stan’s brow creased, “Dude,”

“I’m fine,” Kyle said, voice rough.

But he wasn’t.

Not even fucking close.

And then she opened the library door without looking back.

His knuckles went white around his coffee cup.

Earlier that morning, Charli stared at her reflection like she’d just seen a ghost. Her flat-iron hissed against the last piece of her hair while the steam curled up. The bathroom smelled like heat protectant and rose water.

Her hand was steady, methodical, practiced. Just like she’d taught herself after her mother died.

She unplugged the iron and set it down. Her curls were gone, pressed into sleek, soft panels that fell past her shoulders, parted on the right side.

The dress was short. Gingham and pink. Tight at the waist and low at the bust. She pulled her thigh-high socks on and let them snap at the top like a challenge. No cardigan. No jacket. If they were gonna look, then look. Let them get a full view of the bitch from the viral clip. Let them try to say her name with that little smirk in their voice.

She clipped on her Star of David necklace. She pressed her fingers to the gold pendant for a second too long and let her breath catch. Her mom gave her that necklace the week before she died. It had been too big on her at nine.

Her stomach clenched.

She’d been nine. Nine, with the smell of funeral flowers still under her nose and bags under her eyes from crying too loud at night in someone else’s guest room. Her father sent her away like she was a problem to be solved, and the Broflovskis opened their door for her.

And Kyle?

Kyle had made her feel like maybe she wasn’t just a stray with ribbons. He gave her an attic and books and a jacket that still smelled like his shampoo.

She’d fallen asleep every night with his voice in her ear and his chest rising and falling in sync with hers.

And now those moments were up for discussion.

She glanced back into the mirror. Her skin was dewy, cheeks blushed, lips lined. Her brows were arched sharp enough to cut.

Her hands moved fast. Highlighter on the cheekbones. Wing sharp. Lashes curled. She pulled out her favorite gloss and slathered it on like war paint.

It wasn’t for vanity. It wasn’t even for him. It was to keep from screaming. Because that clip wasn’t just old. It was the one private thing she’d never wanted anyone to see. It was hers.

And now it was trending under “mentally unstable pickme,”

She picked up the white ribbon. It was new, but it looked just like the one in the Winter Frolic video. She pulled her hair into a half-updo and tied it like muscle memory. It looked too sweet for how bitter she felt. But it stayed.

There was a knock at the door.

“Charli?” Martine called.

Charli stood up. She walked to the closet and pulled out the pair of heels that made her legs look dangerous and her ass look divine. She stepped into them slowly. Adjusted her stance. Lifted her chin.

“I’m ready,” She said.

Charli’s heels echoed like a battle cry as she stepped into the hallway.

Martine stood against the wall in a black blouse and wide-leg slacks, sunglasses perched on her head like she was already over it before it began. Her red lips quirked.

“You look dangerous,” She said.

Charli didn’t blink.

“Good,” She said.

They rode the elevator in silence, both too proud to admit what the moment felt like. The fourth floor smelled like alcohol, sex, and various colognes. The elevator pinged, and the spell snapped.

They descended into the parking garage and Martine’s ‘69 Charger was waiting like a throne on wheels, paint so purple it shimmered blue in the light.

Charli slid into the passenger seat, smoothing her skirt, the hem already crawling up her thighs with every movement. Martine slipped behind the wheel like she owned the pavement and peeled out without a word.

The silence didn’t last.

“I know you’re doing a bit,” Martine said, “But if you keep bottling this, it’s gonna crack you,”

Charli adjusted her ribbon in the visor mirror.

“I’m not bottling,” She said.

Martine raised an eyebrow.

“You ironed your hair twice, wore your sluttiest socks, and haven’t blinked in ten minutes,” She replied.

Charli didn’t respond. The truth of it tasted like acid. She stared out the window, watching the pines blur into parking lots.

“I just wanted to be a regular girl,” She said finally, “Like, read a book. Kiss a boy. Maybe get fucked in the back of a car. Not become... Whatever the fuck this is,”

Martine didn’t argue. She just drove faster.

By the time they pulled onto campus, the temperature had climbed just enough to make walking feel theatrical. Charli stepped out, Martine rounded the front of the Charger like a fashion week threat, and together, they moved like they owned the place.

People stared. Not subtle. Not coy. Girls tilted their heads. Guys straightened up and forgot how to breathe. Charli smiled once, slow and sweet, at a freshman who tripped over his own backpack. She didn’t break stride. The white ribbon bounced with each step.

“Is that the girl from the attic video?”

“No way he pulled that,”

“She’s glowing, oh my god,”

“I heard she threatened Heidi,”

Martine adjusted her sunglasses and leaned in.

“If one more person calls you exotic,” She whispered, “I’ll take a tire iron to their kneecaps,”

Charli didn’t laugh, but her smirk was vicious. They reached the library in less than five minutes, and as soon as the doors opened, she smelled espresso, cold air, and her favorite brand of comfort.

Tweek Bros. was bustling, noise tucked in cozy corners and caffeinated stress. Students hunched over laptops. A barista spilled whipped cream. A girl at a nearby table dropped her straw when she looked up and saw them.

Then her eyes landed on them.

Stan sat at the corner booth, lazily spinning a coffee cup in one hand, foot bouncing like he was one thought away from writing another metal power ballad. Kenny leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded and a bruise just barely visible along his collarbone. And then...

Kyle.

He looked good. Hair still damp from that morning’s drizzle, curls pushed back, legs spread like he owned the furniture. His jacket was zipped halfway, over the same chest he used to shield her with when the world got too loud. She hated that her mouth went dry.

Martine caught the shift and paused.

“You wanna dip?” She asked.

Charli didn’t answer.

He didn’t look up. Not right away. His fingers curled tighter around his half-empty coffee cup, the heat now more punishment than comfort, and he stared a hole into the chipped wood of the table like it could keep him from exploding.

Her voice didn’t come first. Her scent did.

Lavender, vetiver, and something sugared. It hit his nose like a slap and a memory at the same time, sharp and soft and humiliating in how instantly it made him twitch.

Martine strolled up to the counter with years of practiced elegance on display.

Kenny perked up immediately. Of course he did. The bastard practically sat up straighter when she approached, like a dog being offered steak.

Martine ordered an iced tea and an orange scone. Her tone was bored, her posture perfect. When she turned away from the register, she caught Kyle’s eye for one fraction of a second.

Charli didn’t speak.

She moved.

And Kyle felt it.

The shift in pressure. The gravitational pull. She was across the room in just a few strides, each one entirely designed to remind him that she could ruin him without ever touching him again.

Her dress was short. Her socks were thigh-high. Her necklace caught the light. And Kyle hated how much he wanted to yank her straight into his lap and start a fight just to feel her mouth on his again.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t hesitate. Just dropped into the seat beside him like she’d been invited.

Martine passed Kenny the scone without sitting yet. Her hand brushed his wrist like it was casual, but the way Kenny blinked like he’d just been flash-banged with lust said otherwise.

Kyle tried to ignore it.

He was very busy pretending that the girl beside him wasn’t the same girl who’d clung to him in a pool.

Charli sipped her espresso.

Kyle didn’t turn.

She didn’t look.

Stan made a low, I’m too sober for this noise from across the table. Kenny was already halfway through the scone like he didn’t notice the fact that tension was ricocheting off Kyle’s spine like static electricity from hell.

“Still alive, I see,” Charli finally said.

Kyle snorted, still not looking, “Barely. But thanks for the shove. Chlorine did wonders for my hair,”

She took another sip, “Mm. I thought about throwing a hair dryer in after you,”

“Oh, so you do think about me?” He said, tilting his head slightly, giving her a long enough glance to see the smile at the corner of her mouth.

“I think about a lot of things. Like how to sue the school for emotional distress,” She said, tilting her cup toward him like a toast, “Or how your face somehow survived puberty and public shame,”

Kyle cracked a grin despite himself, “Coming from someone who went viral for confessing first love at a school dance,”

Her expression didn’t falter, “At least I looked cute. You looked like you were about to cry and declare war on my father,”

Kyle stiffened. Just slightly.

She saw it.

Of course she did.

But she didn’t press. Just tapped her fingernail against the cup and said, “Guess I forgot how loud the truth echoes when it’s played on every student’s phone at 2AM,”

“You think I wanted that video out?” Kyle’s tone dropped too low, too fast, “I would’ve thrown Cartman off the roof if you hadn’t stopped me,”

“Oh, I remember,” She said lightly, lashes lowered, “You looked real close to homicide. Very sexy. Would’ve been even hotter without the attempted felony,”

Kyle finally turned to face her.

Just enough to see the flush in her cheeks and the way her collarbone glowed under the café lighting, “I meant what I said. About him. About you,”

“Which part?” She asked, arching a brow, “The part where you threatened to put him in a casket, or the part where you where you almost mauled me in a pool?”

Kyle narrowed his eyes, “You liked it,”

Charli tilted her head, lashes fluttering with weaponized indifference.

God, he wanted to kiss her.

His jaw clenched, “You’re still mad,”

Her expression shuttered, “I’m still processing. I’m not mad,”

Her smile returned, slow and meaner than anything she’d said out loud, “I’m just not playing nice anymore,”

Kyle could feel her thigh just barely grazing his under the table, and it was making it hard to think.

Not that he was trying to think. That had gone out the fucking window the second she sat down uninvited, undeterred, unapologetically gorgeous.

Her pink gingham skirt ghosted the booth cushion beside him like a visual threat, brushing his thigh every time she shifted, which he was now convinced she was doing on purpose. The overhead light caught on the gold Star of David resting above the neckline of her dress, and Kyle couldn’t decide if it made her look more holy or more cursed. Maybe both. Her mouth was glossy, sharp, perfectly poised to ruin him in whatever way she felt like today.

She hadn’t spoken in two minutes. That was how he knew he was in trouble.

Because a quiet Charli was never passive. It was a countdown.

“Say something,” Kyle muttered finally, cracking the silence with a bite that was all defense mechanism, “Go on. Call me an asshole. Tell me I’m loud. Or selfish. You’re good at that,”

She sipped her espresso, lashes lowered like she was bored, which somehow hurt more than getting hit, “No need. You’re already doing the job for me,”

Kenny made a low, sympathetic sound from the other side of the table. Stan gave up on pretending he wasn’t listening and openly leaned back, arms crossed like he was front row for a car crash.

Kyle turned his body toward her slightly, one arm slung across the back of the booth, not touching her but definitely invading her space, “I said I was sorry,”

“You didn’t say you were sorry,” She replied evenly, not looking at him, “You said, ‘Were they better than me?’ and then tried to drown me in chlorine and innuendo,”

Kyle’s jaw ticked, “Okay, after that I said I was sorry,”

She arched a brow, finally turning to look at him, and the heat in her gaze could’ve crisped toast, “You asked if my abusive ex fucked me quiet so I wouldn’t moan your name. That’s not a minor faux pas, Tichen. That’s psychological warfare,”

Kyle’s stomach twisted. His pulse did that thing it did when she used that nickname. It used to mean she felt safe. Now it felt like a goddamn warning shot.

He exhaled, “I didn’t know it was him. I didn’t know it was the same guy. I just thought–” He stopped, voice catching on whatever excuse he’d been about to choke on, “I wanted a reaction,”

“You got one,”

Her words were calm, but there was something under them. Not just anger. Not even betrayal. Something deeper. Wounded. Humiliated.

Kyle felt it settle in his chest like a bruise, “I didn’t mean it like that. You know I didn’t,”

“Do I?” She asked, voice low now. Less theatrical, “Because that wasn’t us being stupid and flirt-fighting. That wasn’t attic-era push-pull. That was you deciding I owed you something,”

“I never asked for that,” Kyle snapped.

“Bullshit,” Charli shot back, her tone rising just enough to turn heads at the next table, “You want to be the tragic center of every story. Like the worst thing that ever happened was me not staying. And you use that to justify every time you treat me like your open wound,”

The espresso was halfway to her mouth when Charli finally said it, cool and deliberate like she was delivering a weather report about a hurricane he started.

“You know that wasn’t okay, right?”

Kyle’s knee bounced under the table. His jaw twitched. He hadn’t looked at her since the last dig, but he could feel her gaze pressing into his cheek like the barrel of a loaded gun.

He exhaled through his nose, “Which part?”

“Don’t,” She warned, and God, her voice didn’t even rise. That was the worst part. She wasn’t pissed. She wasn’t yelling. She was just... disappointed. Like he was some guy who’d flunked a quiz on how not to be a goddamn dickhead.

Across the table, Stan was fidgeting with a napkin like it held the answers to his personal failures. Kenny was wolfing down the last of the scone like he hadn’t just heard Kyle ask his childhood crush if other guys had to fuck her quiet.

Kyle dragged a hand through his curls, “I wasn’t thinking,”

“No shit,” Charli muttered.

“Like I said,” His head whipped back toward her, voice tightening, “I didn’t know it was him,”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Just raised a single eyebrow, the same one she used when he used to ask if she actually read Jane Eyre or just liked the aesthetic, “And if it wasn’t him?”

Silence.

Kyle’s stomach dropped. His throat went dry.

“If it wasn’t him,” She said calmly, crossing one knee over the other with surgical precision, “Would it have been okay to say that?”

He wanted to say yes. Or no. Or something clever. Something biting that would level the field again, drag them back into the arena of mutually assured destruction where he at least stood a fucking chance.

But all he managed was, “You’re not being fair,”

“Oh, I’m not being fair?” She laughed, but it wasn’t funny. It was brittle and mean and just slightly too quiet, “You dragged me into a pool, Kyle,”

“You pushed me first!” He snapped.

“I shoved you because you crossed a line!”

“You shoved me because you knew it would piss me off,”

“No,” She said sharply, and her voice cracked. Just a little, “I shoved you because for one second, you stopped being someone I loved and started sounding like him,”

That landed like a kick to the head. Kyle’s spine snapped straight.

He wasn’t breathing.

Why wasn’t he breathing?

She looked away first. Not because she was done. Because if she kept looking at him, she might scream. Or cry.

Her hand tightened around the espresso glass. She didn’t lift it again.

Kyle’s mouth felt like it was full of splinters, “I didn’t mean it,”

“I know,” She said, “But you used it,”

The words weren’t cruel. They were just true. That was worse.

And he hated how much he wanted her to kiss him anyway.

His brain was shouting Do something, fix it, fuck; apologize, but all his body could do was sit there, rigid and overheating, his pulse roaring behind his ears like he’d run ten laps in the gym just to forget how her waist had felt under his hands three days ago.

“I still want you,” He said before he could stop himself.

Her eyes snapped back to his. Slow. Disbelieving.

He flushed, “Not like– I mean not just– Fuck, you know what I mean,”

“Do I?” She asked, voice low and measured, “Because I feel like I’m always guessing with you. Always wondering which version I’m gonna get. The one who nearly punched Cartman into a coma for saying my name or the one who says shit just to see if it’ll hurt enough to make me react,”

He blinked hard. Looked down at his coffee. It was cold now.

“You make me–” He started, then broke off, shaking his head, “I’m not good at this,”

“You’re not bad at it,” She said, “You’re just scared. And when you’re scared, you get mean,”

His jaw flexed, “You make me mean,”

“You make me stupid,” She said, biting the rim of her cup.

That landed, too. Right in the goddamn ribcage. He looked up, and for half a second, half a heartbeat, it felt like they were ten again. In the attic. Her curls brushing his shoulder. Her voice low and scared but safe.

And then he remembered she was sitting beside him in a fucking dress that made him want to ruin her and fix her in the same breath, and they were both pretending this wasn’t killing them.

Kyle swallowed the ache in his throat and leaned back.

“You didn’t talk to me after the video,” He said finally, “You disappeared,”

“So did you,” She said, “I didn’t know what to say,”

“You didn’t say anything,”

“I was humiliated, Kyle,”

“So was I!”

They were both too loud.

Stan coughed into his drink. Kenny made a sound like he was trying not to laugh and choke at the same time. Martine didn’t even look up from her phone.

Charli’s voice dropped again, “I was nine. My mom had just died. And now everyone on campus thinks it’s romantic that I begged you not to forget me on camera,”

Kyle opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

Her voice was ice, “I didn’t come back here to be someone’s fucking origin story,”

His chest caved in a little. Just a little.

She grabbed her phone and started to stand, but then his phone buzzed.

He pulled it from his jacket pocket, the notification lighting up the screen in a way that made his stomach drop immediately.

From: Prof. Luntz
Subject: Early Attachment Theory – Class Discussion
A remarkable video surfaced illustrating early childhood attachment. We’ll be discussing this in lecture Monday. Please watch in advance: WINTER_FROLIC.mov.

Kyle, please come prepared to share your reflections. I believe your personal insight will enrich the class discussion.

Attached was a screenshot.

The kiss. The photo booth kiss. Him and Charli, young and broken and fucking real, eyes closed, arms around each other like they were the only soft place left in a cold world.

CC’d to the entire goddamn roster.

Kyle made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a curse.

Charli leaned in.

She read it.

He could feel her breath against his cheek. Could feel the moment her eyes locked on the image. Her body stiffened just slightly, shoulders squared, chin lifting like she was preparing for impact.

“Unbelievable,” She muttered.

“I’m dropping out,” Kyle said flatly.

“You are not dropping out,” She hissed, snatching his phone to read it again, brow furrowed.

“They attached the kiss,” Kyle muttered, “Like it’s a fucking PowerPoint slide,”

Charli’s eyes narrowed, “They want a show? Fine,”

Kyle turned to her, confused, startled, “Charli,”

“If the campus wants to see me bleed out,” She said, her voice low and furious and weirdly regal, “They’re gonna get it. But it’ll be on my terms. In my own words,”

She tossed his phone back on the table, her espresso cup still trembling slightly from where her fingers had gripped it.

“I’m going with you,” She said, “To class,”

Kyle blinked, “You don’t even take psych,”

Her expression could’ve cut diamonds, “Guess I do now,”

The walk from Tweek Bros to Lecture Hall B-11 wasn’t long, but Kyle felt every step like a countdown to public execution.

Charli was a fucking war general in pink.

Her heels clicked on the sidewalk like punctuation marks in a book he was too dense to read. Sweetheart neckline, bare shoulders, she looked like vengeance, all made up and pissed, even though she wasn’t.

That was the worst part. She wasn’t mad at him. She was done being mad at him. That was worse. That meant she’d meant everything she said earlier. And she was still here.

He kept sneaking glances. Not the normal kind, either. The unhinged, Fuck, I’d kill someone for you kind. She kept her arms folded under her chest like she knew what her tits were doing to him, chin tilted just enough to remind him she was letting him walk beside her, not with her.

And yeah, maybe she wasn’t still fuming about the pool. Maybe she wasn’t going to claw his face off. But she hadn’t forgiven him either. He felt it in the space between them, exactly three inches, deliberate and cruel.

“Stop looking at me like that,” She said, not looking at him.

“Like what?” His voice cracked. She arched an eyebrow without stopping.

“Like you’re gonna eat me or cry about it,”

He rolled his eyes and looked straight ahead, jaw tight, “Cool. Glad I can’t fucking win,”

“No one asked you to,” She said calmly, “Maybe try not being an idiot for five seconds,”

And god, he wanted to argue. He wanted to snap something back, something cutting and defensive, but the truth was, he liked when she was mean. Not when it was real, not when it gutted him, but this? This was the brand of mean that made his spine light up. The kind that made him want to prove himself so badly it turned him stupid.

He scratched the back of his neck, fingertips skimming curls damp with anxiety sweat, “So, you’re really gonna come to class with me?”

“If your creepy professor’s gonna use a screenshot of me making out with you as an object lesson in developmental psychology?” Her tone was sugar and fire, “Then yeah, Tichen. I think I’ll sit in,”

She smirked when she said it. His face flushed so violently he had to look away.

It wasn’t the nickname. Okay, it was partly the nickname, her voice dipped into the Creole lilt when she said it, like she knew what it did to him. But it was also the calm surety of her steps, the way she fell in beside him like she belonged there, like she always had. Like she hadn’t disappeared for six fucking years. Like she hadn’t just ripped him apart at a party and then decided to hold his hand on the way to class.

“You don’t even take this class,”

She gave him a look so dry it could’ve started a brushfire, “Sweetheart, you’re not the only one with unresolved academic voyeurism issues,”

He stopped walking. She didn’t.

“Wait; what the fuck, Charli?!”

She called over her shoulder, “Keep up,”

He caught up. He always did.

They crossed the quad, zigzagged through freshmen cliques and couples fake laughing near the steps.

They were almost to the psych building when she said, quieter this time, “You’re not a bad person,”

It hit him harder than anything she’d thrown before.

He looked at her, searching her face for sarcasm, for a trap. There wasn’t one. Just her eyes, sharp and soft at the same time. Her shoulders had relaxed. Her fingers brushed against his for a second too long to be accidental.

He wanted to die. Or kiss her. Possibly both.

“I know,” He muttered.

“Do you?”

Kyle didn’t answer. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and exhaled through his nose, hard.

By the time they reached the door, it was like something had shifted. Not fixed, not forgiven, but possible.

Maybe they could stand in the same space without combusting.

His fingers twitched at his sides, still itching from how close they’d come to throwing down in the middle of the café, still buzzing from how goddamn electric she was when she got under his skin and smiled about it.

Charli walked half a step ahead, hips swaying like she knew he was watching and yeah, fine, he was.

Like he could fucking help it. She was in that dress that made it impossible not to notice she was stacked and smug about it. The hem flipped up just enough when she walked to make his brain forget English.

Kyle cleared his throat, hard, “You really planning on sitting through a psych lecture just to make a point?”

Charli didn’t look at him, but her smirk curled up slow.

“You don’t think I’m qualified to weigh in on early childhood attachment?” She asked, “Weird, considering I was your emotional support girlie during your bar mizvah,”

His stomach lurched.

“Fuck,” He muttered, dragging a hand through his curls, “You were also the reason I threw up behind the synagogue dumpster, so don’t act like it was all soft-focus nostalgia,”

Her eyes flicked sideways, “Wasn’t my fault you couldn’t handle seeing me in tights,”

“Those tights had fucking rhinestones,”

“That’s called style, Tichen,”

His entire soul spasmed at the sound of it. No one else called him that, no one else could. Her voice dipped sweet and warm like honey poured over dynamite and it made his jaw clench so hard his teeth hurt.

“Anyway,” She continued, “I’m not there to be petty. I’m there because if the whole campus wants to psychoanalyze me, they can do it while I’m looking cute and unbothered,”

He hated how turned on he was by that sentence.

“Yeah, you’re really nailing unbothered,” He muttered.

She cut him a dry look, “You threatened to throw Cartman off a roof. Your bar’s not high,”

That shut him up for a second. It was true, and worse, she wasn’t even mad about it anymore, just calm. Distant. She wasn’t lashing out or pushing buttons, she was fucking composed, and that scared him more than any screaming match they’d ever had.

They fell into silence as they climbed the stairs of the psych building, the air thick with heat and unspoken shit. Kyle could feel the tension like pressure in his ribs, like something just behind his lungs trying to claw its way out. But it wasn’t bad. Not really. Not now.

They weren’t fighting.

They weren’t pretending not to care.

It almost felt like... Something steady. Something fucking normal. Her shoulder brushed his arm, deliberate, and he didn’t move away.

For half a second, it felt like the way it should’ve always been. Like the versions of themselves that could’ve existed if life hadn’t been so good at ripping them apart. He didn’t trust it, not totally, but he wanted to. And wanting made him reckless.

They reached the door of his classroom. Kyle hesitated, exhaled, pushed it open.

And just like that, it was gone.

Every head turned.

Every conversation stopped.

The air snapped tight.

Kyle’s height always drew a little attention, but this was different. He could feel the stares like needles, could feel the shift in gravity as every eye landed on Charli small, lethal, pink, and shining like a loaded gun in broad daylight.

She stepped in one beat behind him.

The silence hit harder than any slap.

Kyle dropped into the front row like the room owed him something.

Every muscle in his body coiled tight as he hit the seat beside her, hunter’s jacket creaking against the vinyl. His knee knocked into hers, and she didn’t move.

She just smoothed her skirt like the most composed girl in the world. Like hadn’t just dragged him across campus, hips first, in that gingham fucking dress like temptation. His brain was soup. His spine had no opinion. She sat there like they were in matching thrones at the goddamn Hunger Games, chin high, hair glossy.

Kyle dragged in a breath that tasted like dust, lavender, and the threat of a nosebleed.

“Ms. Lafayette,” Said Professor Luntz, “...You’re not on my roster,”

“I’m aware,” Charli said crisply, with a smile that could slice jugulars, “I’m just visiting,”

“Of course,” Luntz replied, eyes flicking between them like he was watching a grenade flirt with a flame, “You’re welcome to share your thoughts when we open the floor,”

Kyle’s stomach did a slow, sour roll. He could already feel the glances slithering from the rest of the room; Quiet, twitchy interest blooming around them like mold. Whispers, some snickering, a too-loud phone tapping. Kyle didn’t have to look. He knew they were watching her, watching him, watching them like it was fucking reality television.

The projector screen flickered.

WINTER_FROLIC.mov lit up the wall.

Kyle’s fists curled against his thighs as the photobooth scene jittered to life, low-res, oversaturated, all raw nerves and young faces. That cursed little ghost of her in white tulle, and him, blinking like he didn’t know where she ended and he began. The whisper. The promise. The kiss.

Charli leaned toward him, breath warm near his neck, “We look like Cabbage Patch kids,”

Kyle didn’t laugh.

He was too busy watching his past self crumple.

Too busy staring at fourth-grade him clutching her like a drowning man and whispering, You’re the only thing that’s made sense all year. Like he didn’t know she was about to be ripped out of his life like a fucking organ. And maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d thought; stupidly, earnestly, pathetically, that if he just held on tight enough, she wouldn’t go.

“Early attachment wounds,” Professor Luntz was saying, gesturing toward the video like it was just a case study and not the single most humiliating moment of Kyle’s goddamn life, “These moments form our internal working models of love, abandonment, and emotional regulation,”

Kyle blinked, “I hate it here,”

Charli leaned over again, voice syrupy and deadpan, “Imagine being this invested in a couple of fourth graders dry-humping in a mall photobooth,”

“We weren’t–” Kyle hissed, then caught the grin tugging at her mouth, “You’re evil,”

“And you love it,”

He stared straight ahead, refusing to confirm or deny that accusation while his blood tried to boil out of his ears. He could feel his pulse in his teeth. He could feel her thigh against his. She wasn’t moving.

He didn’t want her to.

Luntz clicked to another frame, pausing on their frozen faces. His fists curled on her waist, her mouth soft with something like devotion.

“Now,” Professor Luntz began, “When we look at Kyle’s expression here, we see the classic hallmarks of a child experiencing internalized helplessness. When connection is threatened, the child attempts to hyperfunction. Notice the clenched fists, the frozen posture. He’s trying to self-regulate by gripping something tangible,”

“Oh my God,” Kyle whispered, “He’s dissecting my ten-year-old trauma in front of thirty people with screenshots,”

Charli didn’t blink, “We should start charging licensing fees,”

“I will commit arson,”

She smirked.

Luntz kept going, “...And Charli, here, demonstrates what we call co-regulation through physical touch. Note the way she gently uncurls his hand, an early indicator of emotional attunement. Despite the high-stress environment, she’s able to soothe and stabilize her peer,”

“Oh, now I’m your peer?” Kyle muttered, crossing his arms like it might hold in the mortification leaking from every pore.

“You heard the man,” Charli said, “I’ve been emotionally stabilizing you since we met,”

“What the fuck?”

“I’m basically your therapy,”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shaken, “You’re my aneurysm,”

The class chuckled softly behind them. Kyle resisted the urge to turn and throw a chair through the window. He could feel the TikToks forming. He could feel the captions. When the campus’s favorite messy couple shows up to psych class like it’s a roast battle.

Luntz, of course, wasn’t done.

“We can’t always go back,” He said, still half-facing the screen, “But we can re-parent our younger selves by choosing better in the present. By healing the rupture. By understanding the moment of fear and choosing empathy instead,”

Kyle felt his throat seize.

Beside him, Charli didn’t move. But her fingers drummed once against her thigh.

He glanced down.

Then back up.

Then forward again.

“What if we’re still dumb as hell in the present?” He whispered.

She didn’t look at him, “Then we’re consistent,”

Professor Luntz finally turned back to the room, “Ms. Lafayette. Mr. Broflovski. Would either of you like to share your reflections with the class?”

Kyle didn’t remember standing.

He didn’t remember pushing his chair back or giving that smirking little nod to Luntz like he was still pretending this was fine.

He just knew he was moving, forward, chest first, shoulder-to-shoulder with Charli as they walked to the front of the room like they hadn’t just watched their entire childhood tenderness pirated and dissected in front of forty fucking psychology majors and a man with a patchy beard who once compared children to primates with better PR.

His jaw ached. He realized, distantly, that he was clenching it again.

Charli walked next to him like it was no big deal, like she wasn’t seething inside, like the lavender haze of her perfume wasn’t crawling up his neck and making it impossible to breathe right.

She didn’t look at him. She hadn’t really looked at him all class. Her arms were still folded. She was standing with that perfect hip-cocked pose, like she was bored but gracious enough to humor the room anyway.

Kyle’s brain itched.

Luntz gestured with his hand like he was orchestrating a TED Talk and not a public vivisection, “Thank you both. That was intimate. Raw. Now, if you’re comfortable; let’s start with some reflections. How did you feel, in those moments back then? And now?”

Charli didn’t hesitate. She let her arms fall and stepped forward with this small, smug exhale, as if she was letting everyone know they weren’t gonna break her, no matter how they tried.

“I felt terrified,” She said flatly, “And seen. Which is worse,”

There was a faint chuckle from the front row. Charli didn’t smile.

“I was nine. My mom had just died. I was being passed around like a library book no one wanted to check out for more than a week. And suddenly there was this boy who wouldn't stop yelling at people when they looked at me wrong, and I thought maybe...” She blinked hard once, then tilted her head just slightly.

Kyle felt the breath seize in his lungs.

“I didn’t want to kiss him,” She continued, “Not because I didn’t like him. Because I did. So much it made me nauseous. So much it felt like I was betraying every rule I’d learned. You don’t get to keep anything. Don’t get attached. Don't act like you belong, or you’ll get yanked away again,”

She paused. The room was silent.

“But he asked me not to forget him. And I just didn’t want to. I still don’t,”

Kyle was going to fucking lose it. There were no other words for it. His whole body was rigid with the need to do something, touch her, yell at everyone, punch the air, sink into the floor and scream into the earth’s molten core.

Instead, he stepped forward.

His voice came out like gravel and broken glass, “I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing,”

Luntz gave an amused blink, but Kyle didn’t stop.

“I was ten. I didn’t even know what grief was. I just knew this girl showed up and wouldn’t stop arguing with me, and suddenly when she left I couldn’t breathe,”

A couple students laughed. Kyle’s eyes snapped toward them, sharp and defensive.

“I’m not being poetic. I literally could not breathe. I started wheezing. My mom thought it was mold. It wasn’t. It was her,”

Charli snorted softly beside him.

“And yeah, okay, maybe I didn’t say it back,” Kyle’s hands flinched into fists, “But I meant everything else. I meant every single word,”

Charli looked over at him then, finally, and fuck, it did something to his spine. He felt raw. Like she’d seen straight through his ribcage.

“Thank you,” Luntz said, voice syrupy with self-satisfaction, “Really powerful reflections. Let’s open the floor to questions, shall we?”

Kyle blinked, “What!?”

A hand shot up immediately. It belonged to some douche in a backwards cap who’d spent most of the class eating sour gummy worms like it was a performance piece.

“Yeah, uh, just curious,” the guy said, “You guys bone yet or what?”

Charli’s mouth twitched. Kyle’s soul left his body.

“Next question,” Kyle snapped.

Charli didn’t miss a beat, “You mean ever? Or recently?”

The class lost it. Kyle grabbed the edge of the desk in front of him to keep from lurching forward and slamming that guy into the floor.

Someone else, “Was that your first kiss?”

Charli shook her head, playful, “Mine? Maybe. Kyle’s? Definitely,”

“It definitely wasn’t,” Kyle barked, flushing hot, but she didn’t even look at him.

Another girl in the back, “Kyle, were you like, feeling her up in the video?”

The room exploded.

Kyle made a noise he couldn’t identify. Possibly part growl, part wounded animal. He glanced sideways like he was searching for a fire alarm to pull, or a loaded gun to aim.

“I was ten,” He hissed.

Charli smirked, “Emotionally? He was,”

That earned another round of laughter and someone clapped.

Kyle turned toward her, jaw hanging, “What the fuck, Charli?”

“I’m teasing,” She sang under her breath, lips barely moving.

He stared at her, nauseous with how badly he wanted to kiss her and also launch her across the fucking room. She looked up at him with a flicker of something dangerous in her eyes, calculated, soft, bratty in that pretty little way that made his body ache.

Another girl, “Did you mean it? Like, the actual words? ‘I love you?’”

Charli paused. Her lashes flicked down, then back up.

“Yes,”

Kyle blinked. She hadn’t told him that part. Not since.

He looked at her. She wasn’t looking at him.

His throat clenched.

Another hand shot up. Then another.

Charli looked unbothered, her chin tilted, posture relaxed, arms folded just loosely enough under her chest to be distracting. She didn’t break character. Not once. Aloof. Icy. Her voice smooth like syrup and daggers.

But Kyle could see it, knew it. The way she crossed her arms too deliberately. The way her fingers tapped once against her arm, then stopped. The practiced detachment that only existed to keep everything else from spilling out.

Someone in the second row raised their hand. Kyle recognized him. Some sophomore with perfect teeth and serial killer eyes who always tried to flex in group projects. Luntz nodded.

“Okay, but like; if you guys were already, you know, into each other in fourth grade, wasn’t that kind of... Psychosexual imprinting? Like, isn’t that technically fetishistic childhood limerence?”

Kyle blinked, “What the actual fuck...”

Charli raised a finger toward him like she was hitting pause on a remote, “I got it,”

She turned her head with that smooth, slow grace that made Kyle’s stomach tighten, like she was on a talk show, like she was used to this, like the blood in her body ran cooler than his ever could.

“I wouldn’t call it that,” She said, tone flat but sharp around the edges, “I was grieving. He was kind. We were kids. It wasn’t about sex. It was about survival,”

Kyle’s lungs squeezed.

Another hand shot up.

A girl in black, “Are you two like, dating now? Or is he just like, emotionally dependent on you?”

Charli tilted her head, “I’d say we’re exploring our emotional codependency together. As friends. With benefits. Or with childhood trauma. It’s fluid,”

Kyle barked a single laugh. Too loud. A few students turned.

And then it happened.

“So, like, after you left South Park... Did that kinda affect how you date now? And like...” A girl in the front row twirled her pen, looking annoyingly earnest, “Do you think it messed with you picked later? Like was Kyle your first love or just your first red flag?”

Charli froze.

It wasn’t big. It wasn’t dramatic. But Kyle felt it. Her inhale was too sharp, her mouth too still. The hand she’d been resting on the desk curled slightly in.

When she answered, her voice was quieter.

“I think the things that happened after I left messed me up more than what happened before,” She said, “I think it just made me... confused. About what love is supposed to look like. What it’s supposed to feel like. What you should have to survive,”

She shifted her weight.

“I dated someone who made me feel safe. Until he didn’t. And I stayed. Because I thought that’s just what you did, when people said they loved you,”

She didn’t look at Kyle, but she’d said it more for him to know than anyone else, “And now I know better,”

There was a pause. A quiet, breathless one.

Then she moved.

Too fast.

“I’m done,” Her words snapped like brittle glass.

She turned before anyone could say anything else, walking fast.

Kyle’s heart shot into his throat.

He was already moving.

Fuck the class. Fuck Luntz. Fuck the fucking campus.

He was on her heels, catching up by the hallway, her little dress swaying, her steps rigid and sharp like she was trying not to run or cry or break. She didn’t look back, even when he caught her arm outside the building.

“Charli,”

“I’m fine,”

“No, you’re not,”

She spun, “You don’t get to tell me that,”

Her voice was thick. Not crying, but close.

Charli stared at him. At his stupid face. His nose. His freckles. The soft pink part of his lips that had always chapped in the winter because Kyle Broflovski would rather start a war than use lip balm like a functioning person.

“Come home with me,” He said as his grip on her arm tightened.

She sucked in a quick, uneven breath.

Kyle squared his shoulders, “I’m not asking,”

Chapter Text

Kyle Broflovski sat in the second row of Professor Carter’s Ethics class, with one leg bouncing restlessly under the table.

He told her to come home with him.

He meant it. He still did. But now the adrenaline was bubbling up in his chest.

Kyle scrolled through notes but reread the same lines three times: Consequentialism, Kantian imperative, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He couldn’t focus. Every muscle wanted to bolt.

His brain kept replaying Charli’s expression when he’d said, “I’m not asking,”

It was defiance. Hurt. Maybe even want. Fuck, he hoped it was want.

She’d agreed to meet him at the library after her class. Or at least, she hadn’t told him to fuck off.

The class ticked by, painfully slow.

Kyle checked his phone under the desk. No texts.

He checked again. Still nothing.

In his head, Charli was already ghosting him, walking straight to Martine’s car.

He could just imagine her showing up to the library, pretending not to care. Or worse, not showing up at all. 

That's what she does best, right? She leaves.

His knee kept bouncing violently. 

Kyle pretended to take notes, jaw grinding. Every time Carter said the word “agency,” he thought about Charli and the way she never let him get away with shit, not really. Not when it counted.

Kyle slammed his laptop shut, mumbled something about needing to piss, and was out the door before the professor had even wrapped up.

He nearly took out a freshman with his backpack rounding the corner.

He wasn’t going to just wait at the library. That would be sane, and patient, and normal.

Fuck normal.

He crossed campus at a speed that made people stare, but didn’t slow down. He liked how the post-rain air was biting and cold. Made it easier to keep moving and pretend his pulse wasn’t pounding a mile a minute.

Charli’s class was Introduction to Political Violence. Kyle knew because Cartman never shut up about how much he loved the professor’s war stories.

And he’d been paying attention for any scrap of her voice.

He paused at the door, out of sight. Inside, he could hear Cartman’s braying laugh over the professor’s deep, deliberate drone.

Kyle pressed his back to the wall.

He knew she was inside, probably sitting with her notebook open, legs crossed under the hem of her pink dress, hair perfectly straight and gleaming under the shitty LED lights. He could almost smell her, lavender, peony, and the burn of nerves.

He didn’t know what he’d say when she came out. He just knew he needed her to. Needed proof she wasn’t going to run. That she’d choose him, even now, after all the humiliation and all the shit that had been dredged up in class.

The hallway felt cold. Kyle jammed his hands into his jacket pockets, fingers curling tight around the fabric lining, and waited.

He’d wait all fucking day if he had to after the way she’d walked out. The way she hadn’t flinched when the whole room was looking at them.

He tapped out a text on his phone and then deleted it. He needed to see her. Needed to be sure she wouldn’t disappear the second he looked away. It made him feel pathetic as shit, but there was no hiding it now.

His brain supplied every possible scenario: Cartman whispering something disgusting, Charli rolling her eyes, Charli laughing. Charli not even noticing him. All of it made Kyle want to punch something, ideally Cartman, but at this rate he’d settle for the nearest wall.

He posted up outside the building, just to the left of the doors, looking as casual as a six-foot-tall ginger can while pacing.

Kyle clocked the exact moment the class let out. The thick wooden door jerked open and out barreled Cartman, already mid-eye roll and clutching his phone.

Cartman didn’t notice Kyle at first. He was too busy talking loud enough that even the professor inside probably heard the word “snowflake” and “affirmative action,”

Cartman’s smirk hit before his body did. It was the punchable expression of someone who enjoyed being the villain because it meant never having to be boring.

“This looks like a restraining order waiting to happen,” Cartman grinned, swinging wide to block Kyle’s path like a pudgy gargoyle.

Kyle crossed his arms, “Fuck off,”

“Oh, relax, dude. I get it! I’ve been Heidi’s shoulder to cry on all week,” Cartman clapped a meaty hand over his heart and fluttered his lashes in a mockery of empathy that made Kyle’s skin crawl, “Girl’s a wreck. Absolute. Wreck. Texting me at, like, 3AM about... What was it? Oh, right! How much you suck, and how I was right all along,”

Kyle stared, every muscle in his face straining not to twitch. Cartman wasn’t even being creative, he just jabbed the bruise and watched eagerly for the reaction.

“But hey,” Eric's voice dropped conspiratorially, “You’ll be happy to know Heidi’s in fantastic hands. We’re hosting her little trauma brunch tomorrow. Meanwhile, you can keep playing Fifty Shades of Daddy Issues with Charli. You two are like a porn nobody finishes,”

Kyle couldn’t even muster a comeback, his guilt was eating him alive and Cartman could smell it. He just glared, hands balling in his pockets, forcing himself not to react. 

Cartman’s eyes flickered to the classroom behind them, then back to Kyle, and the smugness sharpened, like he was savoring every word, “Look, man. Heidi’s fine. I got her. You should probably focus on Charli, or, I dunno, let her go too. Share the wealth. Or, y’know, you could just keep tanking both of their lives and see which one cries harder,”

Kyle stepped around him, close enough to shoulder-check Cartman if he really wanted to, but forced himself to just walk by. The urge to punch Cartman in the throat lived rent-free in his muscles. His restraint felt like a disease.

Behind him, Cartman called out, “I’ll tell Heidi you say hi!,”

He barely heard it. Because right then, Charli finally emerged.

She paused at the threshold, head high, mouth set, books pressed tight to her chest. Her eyes flicked over the crowd as they skimmed past everyone, landing squarely on him.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t look away either. Just held him there, a heartbeat too long, like they were the only two people left in the world.

Kyle straightened too fast and pretended like he hadn’t been hunched forward, sweating through his clothes, waiting for her like a goddamn simp.

Charli stepped forward like the climax of a movie he didn’t know he was starring in. Her head was high, her lashes were lowered, and pink skirt swaying just enough to make his throat tighten. Her hair was still bone-straight and glossy despite the mist, like the rain just knew better. She stopped a few steps away from him. 

She didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just looked at him.

Kyle swallowed.

She cocked her head slightly. Just like she did when she was assessing him as kids, “What the hell was that?”

Kyle tried to breathe normally. Failed. He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, because otherwise he was going to reach out and touch her just to prove she was real. His brain short-circuited trying to decide if the guilt or the arousal was stronger. Probably the primal urge to just throw her over his shoulder and carry her somewhere he could start making up for everything.

He forced a shrug as casual as he could, “Nothing. He’s just being Cartman,”

Her lips parted like she was about to say something (something bratty as usual) but then she didn’t.

She just stared at him. Like she could smell the lie on him. Like she knew.

God, she probably fucking knew.

“You looked like you wanted punch him in the kidney,” she said, “Or shoot him. Or both,”

He tried his best but couldn’t fight back a broken chuckle, “Yeah. You know me,”

She didn’t answer, just waited. The silence was heavy.

God, she was going to make him work for every second of this. But that’s why he liked her. She never let him hide.

For one white-hot second, he thought about telling her the truth about Heidi, about Cartman, about all the messes he’d made and left festering. But Charli was here, actually fucking here, eyes locked on his, waiting for him to be enough of a man to not blow this up again.

He couldn’t tell her what Cartman said. Couldn’t say Hey, sorry I made your childhood trauma go viral and then lowkey coerced you into agreeing to come home with me just to possibly throw your biggest rival into the arms of a sociopath.

Couldn’t say he still felt guilty about Heidi, or that some twisted, deep part of him was worried that letting Cartman have her again was a dick move even by his standards. And he definitely couldn’t admit that a tiny part of him still hated himself for hurting both of them in the first place, no matter how much he wanted to pretend he was past it.

Not when Charli was standing there, eyes locked on his like she was about to strip him for parts.

Not when she’d actually said yes.

He forced a smirk, brash and careless, like he hadn’t been vibrating with nerves all day, “So. You coming or what?”

Charli tilted her head, her hair sliding silk-smooth over one bare shoulder. The strap of her pink dress pressed into brown skin. Her eyes dragged over him, slow, lingering, a flicker of something beneath the surface.

She smiled, “Lead the way, Tichen,”

Charli felt the weight of Kyle’s hand before they even cleared the campus. It was gentle, almost reverent, but so firm that it could only belong to a boy with a martyr complex and the world’s worst impulse control.

Every step he took beside her broadcasted a single, loaded message: Mine.

Or maybe, Don’t fucking run. Probably both.

She knew the line between protection and possession was always paper-thin with Kyle Broflovski.

It was as subtle as a brick on the small of her back.

She let herself get guided through the campus as her own pulse ricocheted against her temple. If he wanted to play knight, she’d play along.

He was taller now, older, heavier in the way he hovered at her side, eyes keeping watch like he was on an escort mission. She noticed.

She was exhausted. Especially after that hellscape of psych class, with sixty students poking at her scars like she was a lab rat and they were studying how to be cruel.

“Was he your first love or just your first red flag?”

The kind of question that fucked you up.

And now Kyle, the architect of half her wounds and half her comfort, was dragging her home like it was an answer.

Or a threat. Or a test.

Her childhood playing out all over again: invisible girl, invisible home, invisible rules.

Only this time, she wasn’t small enough to hide.

She was a grown woman walking herself straight back into the scene of the crime.

She didn’t pull away, though. That was the worst part.

Her mother would’ve called her stubborn, her father would’ve called her predictable, but the truth was simpler and more pathetic: Charli Lafayette would always follow Kyle Broflovski, even if he led her straight off a cliff.

She hated that about herself. She hated how the nerves burned just under her skin every time he touched her, even by accident.

Even as they cut across town, Kyle’s hand refused to budge.

She wondered if he could feel the way her breath caught, or the way her spine straightened every time his thumb flexed, as if he was reminding her that he could let go, but he wouldn’t.

He was hiding something. She could see it in the way his jaw flexed, the way his eyes darted everywhere except her mouth.

They crossed the last bit of pavement and the Broflovski house finally came into view, familiar, sterile, olive green against the sky.

It was the same, but it wasn’t.

She was the same, but she wasn’t.

Charli finally broke the silence, “You gonna keep touching me like that all the way to your bedroom, or you just making sure I don’t bolt?”

Kyle’s hand didn’t budge. If anything, her jab just made his grip firmer, thumb locked against her spine.

He almost smirked, almost let it slide, but the look in her eyes was just this side of scared. She wanted him to play it off. He couldn’t when she’d chewed her bottom lip raw the whole walk and every part of him was screaming to bite it for her.

“Yeah, I’m making sure you don’t run. Can you blame me?”

He knew how this went. Let her bait him, keep it flirty, keep it surface-level. Don’t let her see how desperate he was. The rules, if he ever had any, had all gone to shit the second she said yes.

He glanced down at her; brown skin gone golden in the late-afternoon light, hair ironed to perfection, her lip red and torn at the seam.

She was bristling with nerves but holding it all in her posture, chin high, spine straight, eyes sharp. She’d worn armor today, and he wanted to strip every bit of it off.

Carefully. Or violently. Whatever it took.

They hit the steps and he let his hand fall away, the absence sudden and cold. She paused on the porch, one pink heel worrying a crack in the wood, and for a second she looked so young.

Like the kid he used to share an attic with, all bruised knees and barbed wit and desperate hope.

Her voice came out smaller than he’d heard it all day, “This is weird. I shouldn’t be here,”

Kyle stepped in close, boots scraping against the peeling porch paint, his body crowding hers into the shadow of the door.

“You already are,” He said as his hand found her wrist.

The tension was so thick it was practically physical. He could smell her, lavender and anxiety and the ghost of strawberry lip gloss.

Every memory, every humiliation, every fucking thing they’d done to each other felt like it was trapped between them. Years of desire, resentment, and something sweet twisted up with something mean.

He forced himself to breathe, forced his body to move. Fished the house key out of his jacket.

The front door looked exactly the same as it always had. He unlocked it, swung it open, and let it slam back with that familiar rattle.

He didn’t let himself think,“Ma?”

He called out automatically, like muscle memory. As if he was still a kid and waiting for someone to make him feel safe.

His heart was pounding. She was right behind him. If she ran now, he’d never forgive himself. If she stayed, he didn’t know what the fuck he’d do.

“Kyle?” Sheila’s voice called from the kitchen, “Did you just come in? Do you want..,”

Her words cut off mid-sentence.

She was in the doorway between the kitchen, her sleeves rolled up, hair pinned up.

She froze when she saw them. Her eyes landed on Charli and widened like someone had just rolled back the stone from a tomb.

She gasped and her hand flew to her chest like she was seconds from collapsing on a fainting couch.

“Oh!” she whispered, eyes welling as she took one staggering step forward, “I thought– I mean, you’re here. You’re really here,”

Charli blinked.

And then smiled.

Small. Sad. But real.

“Hey, Miss Sheila,”

Sheila made a noise that wasn’t quite a sob or a laugh, the Jewish mom equivalent of a spiritual rupture.

And then all hell broke loose.

Sheila surged forward with the sheer force of every abandoned maternal instinct she’d ever hoarded, her voice already breaking into its most lethal form: Jewish Mother Reprimand Mode.

“And you didn’t tell me?” She cried, whirling on Kyle mid-stride and slapping a hand hard against his chest like she was checking to see if he still had a heartbeat, “You knew she was here and you didn’t say anything? Are you kidding me, Kyle? What if I’d gone to the store?!”

Kyle opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Just a sound like guilt being sucked through a straw.

But Charli laughed. That perfect, sudden sound like a cracked bell. Soft and sharp and alive. It cracked right down the middle of the moment, and when Sheila grabbed her, she didn’t flinch. She folded into it. Let herself be squeezed tight.

Let herself get mothered.

Kyle’s heart full-on ruptured. He thought back to being ten, back when Charli used to curl into the couch with Sheila during Hallmark movies. He’d hated how soft she got back then. Hated that his mom had always liked her.

He hated it now too. Except this time it hurt different. Like watching someone crawl back into their own skin.

“I missed you,” Charli choked. Her voice was ragged. Wet.

“I missed you too,” Sheila murmured, hands cupping both sides of her face now, thumbs swiping under her eyes like she could erase the last six years in a single motion, “You look just like your mother,”

And that was when Charli broke.

The sound she made was quiet but brutal. Her knees buckled slightly. Kyle almost stepped forward, but Sheila was already there. She gathered her in again, like grief was something she could physically fight off if she just held hard enough.

Kyle stood frozen by the door, one hand still half-raised like he didn’t know what to do with it. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. This was her. This was his Charli, breaking in the hallway like a kid again.

This was the girl who used to curl into his at night because she couldn’t sleep alone.

The girl who gave him her nickname for him like it was a secret.

The girl he let disappear.

And now she was standing in his house, crying into his mother’s shoulder like no time had passed. Like maybe this house had kept a space for her after all.

Charli sniffled, wiping under her nose with the back of her hand like she was twelve again. Her voice was quieter than Kyle had ever heard it, “I don’t know what to say,”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sheila said instantly, cupping her cheek again, “Just stay for dinner. Stay forever,”

Kyle didn’t let the silence answer for him this time.

“She’s staying,” he said, and it came out solid. Final.

Both women turned toward him, but he didn’t flinch.

He said it again, slower, “She’s staying,”

Sheila, to her credit, didn’t argue, she didn’t even wait for agreement.

She pivoted like a field general who’d just seized a hill and was now fortifying it with domestic warfare.

“Set the table. Dinner’s already made,” she called over her shoulder, “You’ll eat, you’ll sit, you’ll tell me everything,”

There was a pause.

Then her voice again, farther away now: “And you’ll finish the kugel,”

Charli exhaled through a soft laugh, her shoulders still trembling.

She turned slowly toward Kyle.

Their eyes met.

And for a second, neither of them moved.

He couldn’t describe the look she gave him. It wasn’t relief, not exactly. It was more complicated than that.

Kyle took a step closer.

Not all the way.

Just enough that her breath caught again.

“You readu?” he asked, roughly. As if there was too much weight behind it.

Charli didn’t answer.

Not yet.

She was still looking at him like maybe he was her next mistake.

Or maybe if he didn’t fuck this up... Her last one.

Kyle grabbed plates from the cabinet over the paper towel dispenser, while Charli reached for the stack of cloth napkins kept in the drawer that squeaked.

He passed her forks and their fingers brushed like it was nothing, but it felt like everything.

It was the static pop of old childhood sleepovers that were suddenly jammed into the same slot as the mental image of pushing that pink dress up around her hips against the fridge.

He nearly dropped a spoon.

Gerald was already at the head of the table, scrolling a case brief on his tablet and muttering about discovery deadlines in a water-rights thing that had “No damages cap, can you believe it?”

It was Broflovski for I’m present, I’m supportive, I’m useless right now.

Ike was out with friends, which was exceedingly frustrating because he was the only reliable conversation buffer.

Chairs scraped. Dishes thudded down. Charli took the seat beside Kyle.

Her spine was straight, ankles tucked, hands folded over the napkin in her lap. Her posture was perfect and poised like she was about to be judged by a panel.

Kyle sat too close. He didn’t mean to.

Her knee brushed his under the edge of the table and stayed there, barely touching. It was just enough pressure to remind him that she was real, that she’d sat in that chair, and that he could slide his leg an inch just to feel the heat of her thigh through the fabric of his pants.

He stared at his water glass like hydration would save him. The air went heavy fast. Every clink of silverware sounded like a gavel.

Sheila ladled out the food while throwing Kyle sniper-sharp glances: Why didn’t you tell me? What else didn’t you tell me? Do I need to call the rabbi?

He tried smiling once, but it came out as a weird grimace that made Gerald lower his tablet and squint at him like he was evaluating a hostile witness.

“So,” Gerald said, mild but loaded, “College treating you two okay?”

Sheila, still not sitting, jabbed a serving spoon in Kyle’s direction.

“He probably won’t tell us since he apparently like to keep things from his mother,” She said, “Eat,”

Charli finally moved in small, controlled motions, chewing politely, all while radiating a composure that made Kyle crazy because he knew it wasn’t real.

He’d seen her break ten minutes ago in the hallway and he could still see the faint salt crust where tears had dried along her lower lashes.

Her lip, still a little chewed from the walk over, kept pulling his attention.

He wanted to lean in and say You can go upstairs whenever, you don’t have to sit through an inquisition.

He wanted to say I didn’t tell her because I was afraid if I said your name out loud you’d vanish again.

He wanted to say I might dropkick Cartman into traffic if he breathes near you again.

He wanted to say Come back, stay, don’t run.

He wanted to say all of it but said nothing.

“Well? Kyle?” His mother's voice snapped his attention back.

She’d put her fork down. That was never good.

Charli’s knee pressed a fraction harder into his.

He glanced sideways. She was watching him now, her face seemed smooth for his parents but he could feel her broadcasting a distinct message under the table: Tell the truth or I walk.

His pulse hammered in his ears again.

“I have questions,” Sheila said as she leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“Are you eating enough? Are you sleeping? Are you still seeing that nice girl Heidi or do I need to send flowers? Because you clearly don’t tell me anything,” She paused and patted Charli’s wrist, “Like where is Charlotte staying tonight?”

Kyle’s throat locked. Every muscle from his shoulders down went stiff, like someone had just racked a shotgun and told him to speak or die.

Charli’s leg stayed pressed against his under the table. It was a warning.

Sheila’s hand was still on Charli’s wrist, motherly and territorial in the same gesture, and it made Kyle want to break something and hug her at the same time.

That tone she’d used while she said Charlotte wasn’t polite. It wasn’t performative.

It was Sheila Broflovski seeing a daughter and already planning a seating chart for Rosh Hashanah.

He cleared his throat, then did it again, rougher, just to stall the silence before it got fatal.

“She’s, uh crashing here,”

Sheila’s brows lifted like steam off kugel, “Here here?”

“I– Yes?” Kyle shifted, “There’s a lot going on and…”

He stopped himself before he could say he was afraid she’d disappear again if he didn’t keep her close.

Charli made a quiet noise that wasn’t quite a laugh but still seemed to call him an absolute coward. Her hand slipped from her lap to his thigh under the table, light and surgical, like she was testing how quickly she could kill him.

Kyle nearly launched himself through the window.

“Good,” Sheila said, as if that sealed a deal Kyle hadn’t realized was happening, “Because I’ve already made up the guest bed,”

Kyle nodded again, because words were broken and useless and his blood had abandoned his fuckng brain. Charli’s hand was still there. Not moving. Not generous. Just present. Just enough to remind him she had a chokehold on his nervous system and knew exactly what she was doing.

He couldn’t look at her. He could feel her, though. The careful poise, the clean lines of her pink dress cutting into his periphery like a weaponized memory.

He remembered her in this kitchen, a decade ago, with chipped nail polish, snorting milk from her nose when Ike farted too loud.

And now here she was with a grown woman’s body and a deadly little hand on his thigh and the lingering scent of lavender burning into the back of his skull like smoke from a match.

Gerald sipped water like the conversation was about the weather.

Sheila was back to eating, satisfied.

And Charli?

Charli turned her head, slow and deliberate, and looked right at him with a maddening calm. The same calm that always came right before she emotionally clothes-lined him.

He leaned in slightly, “You planning on moving that hand anytime soon?”

Charli blinked once. Sweetly. Innocently.

“Only if you ask nicely,”

He nudged Charli’s foot under the table. Just a light, quick tap, testing her reflexes, seeing if she’d flinch or kick back. She didn’t even blink. Her knee pressed right back, warm and firm, the tiniest smirk blooming on her lips.

He grinned and loaded his fork, shooting her a pointed look, “Still eat like a bird, huh? You sure you’re not wasting away at Martine’s? I heard all she eats is those vegan microwave bowls,”

Charli rolled her eyes, deadpan but with a dimple threatening at the corner of her mouth, “Sorry, Tichen, but some of us have evolved past fried bologna and discount mac and cheese. Martine’s a culinary genius compared to when you used to live exclusively on mac and cheese and beef stew,”

He snorted, “I’m six feet tall, must’ve been doing something right,”

Kyle was done pretending dinner mattered.

His nerves had been set on fire the second Charli’s hand brushed his, and now every fork scrape, every loaded joke, every lingering look was building up into something he couldn’t laugh off, couldn’t eat away, couldn’t drown in small talk.

The second Sheila and Gerald’s attention drifted, Kyle muttered, “C’mon, I wanna show you something,” and seized Charli’s wrist under the table, a warm, pulsing shock of skin-on-skin, so familiar and so new it made his knuckles ache.

He pulled her out of her seat. She didn’t resist.

The scrape of chair legs, the low rumble of Gerald’s “What the hell?” and Sheila’s “You just started eating!” chased them up the stairs, but Kyle didn’t look back.

He yanked her after him with the same reckless, desperate intensity he used to have when they’d steal snacks from the pantry as kids.

He was all adrenaline and aching now, knuckles whitening around her wrist, barely keeping his shit together as he pulled her past old family photos, the battered bookshelf, the familiar scent of wood polish, air freshener, and home.

Downstairs, the abrupt departure left a vacuum.

Sheila’s fork hovered in midair, Gerald blinking after the storm.

The house, for a moment, was weirdly quiet except for the fridge’s hum and the faint echo of footsteps and low voices overhead.

Sheila’s mouth tightened. She looked at Gerald, brows drawing together, voice pitched low so only he could hear, “He just grabs her and runs off. Like they’re still ten years old. Like nothing happened. Like her father didn’t rip her out of our lives and break her in two,”

Her words shook with something brittle. Anger. Fear. Maybe guilt.

Gerald reached for her hand across the table. He squeezed, gentle, his own eyes flicking up toward the ceiling as if he could see straight through plaster and secrets and years of missing pieces.

“They’re not kids anymore,” he said, “We can’t protect them from each other. Or from themselves. All we can do is set the table, keep the lights on, and hope they find their way back down when they’re ready,”

Sheila braced herself. She wanted to believe it. She wanted to trust Kyle, trust Charli.

From upstairs, a muffled thump. Laughter. Hers or his? She couldn’t tell.

Sheila pressed her lips together and started clearing plates like maybe, just maybe, if she kept moving, the world would hold.

Up above, Kyle hauled Charli past Ike’s door and she dug her heels in just long enough to yank her arm out of his grasp, defiant and breathless, “I’m still mad at you,”

Kyle didn’t blink, didn’t stop, didn’t apologize, “Good. Stay mad. Just stay,”

He popped the attic latch without thinking, muscle memory and too many years of fighting with cheap hinges and warped wood. The ladder creaked down, spilling dust and the scent of pine, and he motioned for her to go up first. Some old part of him expected her to refuse and argue, to draw this out. But Charli loved to keep him on his toes.

She turned, took the ladder in both hands, and started up.

Her skirt rode up with every rung, exposing the backs of her thighs in quick, devastating flashes. The attic was never made for dignity.

Kyle tried not to stare, tried not to let his mind go there. He looked away for half a second. Looked back. Those legs had that soft, dangerous curve that made his throat go dry.

He swallowed, hard, and followed, pulse pounding, trying not to think about all the times he’d hated this ladder;. It was too narrow, too exposed, too much space for the world to see how badly he wanted what he couldn’t have.

He followed her anyway. He always had.

The attic was different. Kyle’s lungs stuttered at the threshold, pulse battering his ribcage as Charli stepped inside and froze, silhouetted in the string lights he’d strung up with all the desperation of a man building a life raft out of nostalgia.

The old red-and-white bulbs were tangled up with newer, gold-amber ones he’d bought at the start of the semester. It was something soft, something that glowed, something that made her look even more out of reach.

There was a futon now, fresh blankets folded into a careless heap at one end, and his dumb, mismatched pillows. It didn’t smell like lavender and childhood anymore. It smelled like fresh laundry, a little dust, and home.

He closed the attic door behind them. Not slamming, just... final.

The kind of sound you feel in your teeth.

He watched her.

Charli, tracing the room with her gaze, taking it all in with that terrifying, clinical precision. Her hair was gleaming under the lights, and she looked both impossibly young and so grown he could barely breathe.

Her eyes landed on the small bookshelf, half-collapsed in the corner. Wedged between battered paperbacks and an old copy of To Kill a Mockingbird was a diary. The lock still broken.

She stared, blinked, and let out the softest, smallest “You kept it?”

He swore his voice might shatter, “I didn’t know if I should,”

Charli ran her fingers over the faded cover, thumb tracing her old doodles in the lamplight. She didn’t turn around.

“You kept me,” Her voice was soft and biting all at once.

He felt himself stepping closer, pride and shame tangling up in his chest, “I tried,”

Charli set the diary down and faced him, her mouth twisting into that bratty, razor-sharp smile he’d always fallen for.

“You can’t just act like we’re okay,” She said.

He shook his head, heart in his throat, “I’m not,”

She didn’t back down, “Then stop looking at me like I’m yours,”

And fuck, he was. He did.

He let himself look, let himself drink her in, the stubborn line of her jaw, the bite marks on her lip, the dangerous, shaking hope in her eyes.

He clenched his jaw, “You are,”

She rolled her eyes so hard he almost grinned, but her cheeks were pink and her posture said she wasn’t as tough as she wanted to be.

“God, you’re such an asshole,”

The air felt scorched and sticky, the weight of every year they’d lost pressing down on him.

“Say it,” he breathed, like the words might be his only chance.

Charli tilted her head, eyes dark and unreadable, but her breath caught just enough to make him ache.

“Say what?”

Kyle closed the space between them like gravity had snapped. Like it was already decided. Like the only thing he’d ever been good at was wanting her too much and getting punished for it.

His hands caught her waist just as she opened her mouth; maybe to argue, maybe to lie, maybe to leave again; and he slammed her back into the low slope of the attic wall with a thud that shook the ceiling joists. The wood groaned around them. So did he.

"Say you wanted this," Kyle rasped, his face too close, his grip too firm, his pulse thunderous. "That you came back for me. Just fucking say it."

Charli didn’t say anything.

Her mouth found his instead.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t even sane.

It was pure desperation and the raw, stinging fury of years lost to other people’s mistakes.

Her lips met his in a messy, gasping clash that knocked every scrap of self-control straight out of his spine.

The kiss was crooked, brutal, starved. Like she’d been holding her breath for years and wasn’t sure she’d survive the inhale. Like she hated herself for wanting this, and she hated him more for making her feel it.

His hands were in her hair before he knew it, fucking up that morning’s perfect flat-iron session. She pulled at his shirt, clutched it in both fists like she might shove him away or use it to hang on.

Either way, he didn’t care.

His mouth bruised hers. His teeth scraped the seam of her lip and her breath hitched like she was biting back a sound too raw to risk.

“God,” he muttered, dragging his lips down her jaw, “You still taste like strawberry lip gloss. What the fuck?”

“You’re still a fucking idiot,” She sighed with the slightest smile.

“Yeah,” Kyle muttered, “But you’re here,”

Her skirt had ridden up again. All the way this time. The backs of her thighs were flush against the drywall and he could feel the heat of her, the pressure of her, the maddening, fucked-up, magnetic pull of her body against his like they’d never been apart. Like there had never been anything but this.

He breathed. Didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She looked up at him with wide, dark eyes and flushed cheeks. Her lips were swollen, her expression wrecked.

"Say it,” He said again, but softer, “Please,”

Charli exhaled through her nose. Her breath hit his chin.

“I missed you,” Her voice shook, “You’re mine,”

His grip on her hips tightened. His jaw clenched like it might split.

This was the moment everything before had been leading to. Not the attic. Not the photo booth. Not the kiss at the restaurant or the rooftop pool or the thousand almosts that had never been enough.

It was this.

The crash.

Because they’d never really had a first time, not one that counted. They’d had memory. They’d had longing. They’d had trauma induced meltdowns and secret glances. But this? This was the first time she’d said it.

You're mine.

He felt like he might burn through the floor. Or cry. Or tear his fucking heart out and hand it to her like an offering.

But Kyle Broflovski didn’t cry. And he sure as hell didn’t back down.

His mouth found hers again, slower this time, like a match dragged down the side of a box.

Charli’s breath was a wild, shuddering thing between them, her fingers deep in his curls.

For a second Kyle thought she’d laugh, or push him off, or turn all of this into another joke, because that was always how they survived. Deflection, sharp edges, running away. But she didn’t.

She looked him dead in the eyes, lips swollen and red.

“I wanted this,” She whispered, “I came back for you. You happy now?”

He made a guttural sound, a growl of pure relief and disbelief, then kissed her like he’d never let her go again.

She bit his bottom lip, hard, and he groaned, biting her back, kissing her deeper, rougher, their bodies slamming into the low wall again as if the attic itself wanted in on the destruction.

“Do you have any idea what you fucking did to me?” He breathed, “When I saw you again, you looked at me like I was nothing, and I wanted to fucking burn the place down. You drive me crazy. You always have,”

Her breath ghosted over his throat, “You deserve it,”

“Yeah? I want it,” His hands found her waist, her hips, his thumb dragging up the fabric of her dress as he guided her backwards.

They stumbled together, limbs tangled and clumsy, laughter choking out between the hunger, before he shoved her down onto the futon, hard enough to jostle the frame, blankets spilling everywhere.

She arched beneath him, pink gingham riding high, thighs apart and shining in the fairy lights.

He’d climbed over her, not gentle, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, using the other to slide over her thigh, lifting it, holding her open and helpless beneath him.

Kyle kissed her hard, deep and dirty, pouring every missed year, every wound, every ounce of want with each lick into her mouth.

“You sure you’re not gonna pass out?” she whispered, smug little brat smile curling her lips, “You seem really wound up,”

Kyle’s head dropped to her shoulder with a soft groan, lips brushing against the slope of her neck, “Charli,”

She arched slightly. Just enough for her breasts to press against his chest. Just enough to short-circuit what was left of his brain.

“You think this is funny?” He hissed, nosing down her neck, dragging his teeth lightly against her collarbone just to hear her gasp.

“A little,” she admitted.

Her voice wasn’t steady either.

Her nails scratched lightly at his lower back, dragging toward the waistband of his jeans again like she knew how close he was to folding, “You’ve been losing your mind for weeks,”

“I’m still losing it,” He muttered, “You’re not helping,”

“You deserve it,” She shot back, voice breathy, “For pretending I didn’t mean anything. For leaving me at that tree,”

Kyle snapped upright.

Her expression flickered, instantly defensive, but it was too late. That was the match on the gasoline.

He grabbed her jaw, not rough, but firm, tilting her head so she had to look up at him. See him. His eyes were bright, wide and so green.

“I’ve wanted you since I was ten,” He said, voice low and harsh and shaking with restraint, “I never stopped. I never will. So don’t act like I left you. Don’t act like I didn’t fight for you. Every goddamn day I woke up and you weren’t there, I wanted to rip the fucking world apart,”

Her breath hitched.

Kyle leaned in, teeth grazing her bottom lip, “You left me first,”

He felt her flinch. There.

Her hands moved, one up to his chest like she might push him away, the other curling into the side of his ribs, holding tight.

“I didn’t want to,” She said quietly, “It was all bad down there. And then I got here and it got worse. Everyone hates me. They think I’m some side piece slut who broke you up, and no one cares that I’m in love with you because all they see is–”

Kyle kissed her hard enough to shut her up.

Her whimper fell against his mouth.

“You don’t get to leave again,” He growled, his grip possessive and tightening, “You don’t get to fucking run from me, Charli. Not after this,”

She bit his lip, nails dragging down his neck, daring him to prove it.

The attic was thick with the sound of them. Breathless, reckless, never enough

He kissed her as if he could memorize every inch, like every mark he left would write a new page. The way her hips rocked up to meet him, the way she gasped and arched when he bit her shoulder, it all said: I remember the attic. I remember the bow in your hair. I remember how you looked at me before. I remember what it felt like to lose you.

Because that was the thing, right? This wasn’t just some fever dream of skin, chemistry and history.

This was her, letting him in, letting him have her in a way he’d barely dared to want, even in his worst, best, most shameful nights.

And it was so much worse than he’d imagined because he actually loved her, had always loved her, and now it hurt.

He ranted as he moved, words tumbling wild and low against her ear.

“You’re mine, Charli. Every fucking inch of you. Every sound you make, every breath, every bruise I kiss into your skin is mine. Say it back or I swear I’ll fuck the word out of you,”

Chapter Text

Nine years ago, the attic was warm in that way only childhood spaces could be. Half insulation, half body heat, and the faint hum of string lights overhead.

Kyle laid back in his sleeping bag, arms crossed tight over his chest like he had to hold himself in.

Charli was sprawled beside him with zero hesitation, her head tucked into his shoulder like it belonged there.

He stared at the sloped ceiling beams, as his pulse pounding for no reason he wanted to admit.

Every time she breathed, he felt it move through him, like she was using his ribs as her personal mattress.

His hand hovered awkwardly at his side, fingers twitching with the urge to maybe touch her hair, maybe wrap around her waist, maybe do something stupid he couldn’t take back.

“Your mom makes the best kugel,” Charli murmured, voice slurred in that lazy way she got when she was winding down.

Kyle snorted softly, “You ate, like, three helpings,”

“Yeah. And I do it again,” She exhaled, “I’m never leaving your house. Ever,”

The words sucker-punched him. He knew she didn’t mean it the way he wanted her to. But something in his chest squeezed anyway, like it had been waiting to hear her say those exact words all along.

He almost said something back. Almost.

Instead, he rolled his eyes at the ceiling, “You can’t just move in here forever. My mom would lose her mind,”

“Your mom already lost her mind,” She smirked against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, “Pretty sure I heard her yelling ‘What, what, what?’ in her sleep last night,”

Kyle huffed a laugh, chest vibrating under her cheek. God, she was funny when she was bratty.

He liked it too much.

Silence stretched, comfortable but sharp around the edges.

He tilted his head, just slightly, to look at her. Her lashes rested heavy on her cheeks, lips soft and parted, breathing even.

She looked too close, too much, too easy to want. His stomach knotted, heat crawling up the back of his neck.

If he leaned just a little, just a fraction, he could kiss her.

He could do it. Their first kiss. He could taste strawberry chapstick and know what it felt like to finally shut her up without an argument.

He shifted, breath caught in his throat.

Then?

Voices.

Muffled, low, drifting up from the kitchen downstairs. His mom’s accent sharp even when quiet, his dad mumbling something back.

The attic floor creaked with every sound, amplifying them through the vents, filling the space between him and Charli with the reminder that they weren’t alone.

That they weren’t allowed to be this close.

Kyle froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid. Charli stirred at the noise, mumbling something incoherent in Creole, then went still again, breath warming the curve of his neck.

The voices faded. The silence returned.

Kyle let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding and turned his head, just enough to look at her again.

And there it was.

She’d fallen asleep.

Her mouth slack, lashes brushing her cheeks, one hand still clutching the fabric of his navy-blue pajama shirt like she didn’t trust the world not to take him away.

She’d conked out right on his shoulder.

The moment he’d been psyching himself up for was gone.

He swallowed hard, throat dry, chest heavy with something that felt a lot like defeat. He could feel her weight pinning him down, warm and safe and unbearable all at once.

Kyle turned back to staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, heart pounding like he’d just run laps around the gym.

He missed it.

He fucking missed it.

And it burned.

Kyle’s breath nearly hitched as he pressed her deeper into the futon.

The air felt thick and electric with heat, with the weight of every year they hadn’t touched like this.

Her dress was hiked to her waist. Her panties were lacy and pink.

Of course they’re fucking pink, was his first thought.

The second was how warm her skin felt pressed against him. She unzipped him with shaky fingers and the scrape of the metal felt loud in the hush of the attic.

It should’ve been clumsy. It should’ve been awkward.

But fuck, everything about it was smooth, as if they’d been rehearsing this in separate lives and now their choreography finally aligned.

He braced himself over her and he could feel every bit of her heat. Barely centimeters away.

The kind of nearness that was torture, that made his muscles tremble with restraint he didn’t even know he still had.

Charli arched, “You gonna stare at me all night or…?”

“Shut up,” He rasped, biting down on her shoulder, one hand dragging along her thigh, pulling her legs wider.

The press of her against him made his vision go white at the edges. He could feel just how slick and ready she was, just a tilt away from everything he’d ever wanted.

He wanted to savor it, wanted to make her say every filthy thing he’d ever dreamed about hearing. But the second he shifted, (just enough to press the head of his cock up against the wetness of her slit) he thought he might pass out.

This was it. Finally. He was seconds, less than seconds, from sliding into something he knew would wreck him forever.

Then?

His phone went off.

Loud. Obnoxious.

The buzzing rattled in his back pocket, muffled but undeniable.

His forehead dropped to Charli’s chest, and he groaned like the universe itself had just cockblocked him.

Charli blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, her chest rising hard under his weight.

Then she laughed in that bratty way that only made him harder, “Guess the world doesn’t want you to win tonight,”

Kyle gritted his teeth and pulled it out of his pocket. He silenced the phone with a violent jab of his thumb, before he hurled it to the floor beside the futon.

The thud barely registered before he shoved Charli down again, lining himself up, pressing forward until he was right there in the heat, slick, the promise of obliteration.

And then the fucking thing rang again.

Kyle’s soul crawled up the back of his throat in a strangled growl, “Are you fucking kidding me!?”

Charli giggled. Giggled.

Before he could stop her, she reached past him, grabbed the phone off the floor, and tilted it so he could see the screen: Stan Marsh.

Charli, smug little demon that she was, thumbed the button and pressed the phone to her ear.

“Hey Stan,” She purred, breathless and absolutely evil, “Can I take a message? Kyle’s balls-deep in my pu–”

The shriek on the other end nearly shattered the attic rafters, “What, what, WHAT?”

Kyle froze like someone had shoved a gun in his face. His stomach dropped. His dick immediately considered fleeing the scene.

That was not Stan. That was Sheila.

“Oh my God,” Charli whispered, horror finally cracking through her bravado.

Her eyes were wide as the color drained from her face.

For one tiny, glorious second, Kyle thought maybe they’d hallucinated it. Maybe this was the universe gaslighting them.

Then Stan’s voice, sheepish and loud, came through speakerphone: “Uh, hey, yeah, so you’re on speaker... I’m downstairs in the living room with your mom right now,”

Kyle’s entire soul left his body like a hostage extraction. He dropped his forehead to Charli’s collarbone with a muffled groan that was less sexual and more a cry for divine intervention.

Stan cleared his throat, trying to bulldoze through the chaos, “Listen, man, I hate to bother you while you’re, uh– Whatever the fuck that was– but you promised to help me move after classes today. Truck’s loaded. Nichole’s already over at 403 waiting with Kenny and Cartman,”

Kyle squeezed his eyes shut, humiliation pounding through him in hot waves. His hips still hovered between Charli’s thighs, too close to even pretend he wasn’t exactly where he was.

Charli tried to swallow her laughter, tried to look serious, but she was shaking underneath him, her face pressed against his temple to muffle the snort that slipped out anyway. Kyle wanted to die. Crawl under the house and never return.

Stan kept rambling, voice filling the attic like a funeral dirge: “Charli, you promised too. Nichole’s about to skin me alive if I don’t get this done tonight. She told me Cartman’s eating chips in the hallway and Kenny’s trying not to hump Martine’s leg. Please. I need actual help,”

Kyle forced himself upright, jaw ticking, pride and mortification waging civil war across his chest. His voice came out low and guttural, more growl than words, “Stan, I swear to God, if you ever put me on speakerphone in front of my mom again–”

Sheila’s voice cut in sharply, “Kyle, get down here,”

Kyle’s head thunked back against the low attic wall, the string lights shivering above them.

Charli shoved a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Absolutely no help.

He shot her a look that said he was one breath away from losing his last shred of sanity.

“Yeah,” Kyle said through gritted teeth, each syllable carved from his own grave, “We’ll be right there,”

The attic fell into tense silence as the line clicked dead.

Kyle looked down at Charli, hair messy, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling like she’d just won the lottery. His chest heaved, blood roaring in his ears, the weight of her body under his still screaming don’t you dare move.

He hopped up anyway.

Kyle’s hands shook when he buttoned his jeans. Charli stood after him, smoothing her dress while glancing in the mirror nailed crooked to the attic wall. Her hair looked like she barely survived a crime scene.

He watched her fingers fly over the flat-iron sleekness he’d destroyed, a half-smile creeping up even while his stomach knotted.

She was fixing herself, but the swollen curve of her lips was unfixable. They were already busted wide open by him.

By the time they creaked down the ladder, Kyle’s face was burning like he’d shoved it straight into a space heater.

Ike’s door was still closed (thank God) but the walk from attic to stairs was an execution march.

Every step thudded with the memory of Charli’s gasp, the soft almost that had been ripped away by Stan’s goddamn phone call. He adjusted his shirt again, like it might disguise the flush across his chest or the way his pulse was still too high.

Downstairs, Sheila was waiting like a crocodile in a swamp. Her arms crossed, chin lifted, eyes sharp enough to kill lesser teenagers.

She took one look at them: her hair still disheveled, her bow crooked, his shirt wrinkled, his curls sticking up like he’d been electrocuted, and Sheila’s mouth twisted like she’d bitten into a lemon.

Kyle knew that look. He’d grown up under that look. It was the look that meant I know what you’ve done, and you will suffer for it.

Sheila inhaled, gearing up.

Kyle panicked.

“We shouldn’t make Stan any later,” He blurted too loud and too quick. He grabbed Charli’s hand so fast her eyes went wide, “C’mon, Stan’s already pissed, right? Truck’s loaded. We’re going. Now,”

Sheila’s mouth snapped open to unleash hell. Kyle bolted.

Charli barely got her footing before he was yanking her toward the front door, his grip tight like she was a lifeline he couldn’t let slip.

“Seriously?” She stumbled as they burst outside, laughing under her breath, that bratty sound that both made him want to kiss her and throttle her at the same time, “That’s your exit strategy? Just run?”

Kyle hissed back, “You wanna stay and hear my mom say ‘balls-deep’?”

That shut her up. Mostly. Her shoulders trembled with suppressed laughter, cheeks red, but she let him drag her to Stan’s truck.

He turned his head just in time to see Stan trailing out, expression awkward as hell, like he’d just watched his friend’s funeral play out in real time and wasn’t sure whether to clap or mourn.

Apartment 403 was chaos before they even crossed the threshold, music rattling the door, voices overlapping, the thump of boxes hitting hardwood.

The second the three of them stepped inside, four heads turned, four sets of eyes clocking them like a crime scene.

Martine leaned against the kitchen counter, glass of wine in hand, her look razor-sharp. She didn’t even have to open her mouth, just one raised brow at Kyle’s wrecked shirt and Charli’s hair said everything.

The judgment rolled off her like her perfume, expensive and cutting.

Kenny, perched on the arm of the couch and grinned wide. His violet eyes glittering like Christmas lights on crack, “Holy shit, you two finally fucked?”

Kyle froze, heat crawling up his neck.

“Tried to,” Charli smirked, smoothing her dress like she hadn’t just been the cause of all the chaos.

Stan groaned, dumping his duffel by the door.

“Don’t ask,” He muttered, already regretting inviting anyone.

But Kenny wasn’t done. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, grin feral, “C’mon, tell me. Bedroom? Closet? On your mom’s table? Wait– Don’t tell me it was the attic? Dude, that thing’s a tetanus hazard,”

Kyle froze and Martine cut him a glare harsh enough to peel paint.

“Disgusting,” She sipped her wine, looking between Charli and Kyle like she was memorizing evidence, “You couldn’t even make it to a real bed? Figures,”

Before Kyle could even sputter a defense, another voice rang out from the corner: Cartman.

Because of course he was there, wedged into Nichole’s armchair like a swollen tick, arms crossed, smirk smug enough to make Kyle’s fists itch.

“Kaaahl,” He sing-songed as his lips curled up, “You dirty little fucker. Your mom must be so proud,”

Kyle saw red, every muscle in his body wound tight. Charli pressed a hand to his chest, subtle but firm, holding him back before he could launch himself across the room.

Kenny cackled, delighted, Martine rolled her eyes, and Cartman just leaned back, gloating like he’d just won something.

The room was too small for all that tension. Kyle’s jaw clenched, every cell screaming to punch first.

Cartman tilted his head smugly, “Did you at least get to come, or are you still struggling to get off like Heidi said?”

Kyle was ready to swing.

Charli saved him.

Sort of.

She tilted her head, hair falling in her face, all sugar and venom at once, “Don’t worry, Eric. I’m not exactly filing complaints,”

Martine groaned like she was being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment.

“God. Spare us the Yelp reviews,” She set her wine glass down and the clink cut through the tension.

Stan kicked the nearest box, muttering, “We’re supposed to be moving shit, not hosting a porn panel,”

“Speak for yourself,” Kenny grinned, already scooping up a duffel with one hand, “I move better with visuals,”

Kyle’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. Charli’s hand slid down from his chest to his side, just a brush, casual enough that no one should’ve noticed, but he felt it like a lit match.

Cartman smirked wider, like he’d just won front-row seats to the best show in town, “Figures. He finally gets his little girlfriend back and he’s still batting zero. Some things never change,”

Kyle’s hand twitched at his side, itching to grab the nearest box, the nearest object. He was way too fucking bricked up to deal with this bullshit.

The room snapped back into chaos, no time for blood or bruises when the real violence was a pile of Stan’s hoodies exploding out of a laundry basket onto the floor.

Nichole’s plants, three succulents and a dramatic fiddle-leaf fig claimed a quarter of the living room.

Stan was red-faced, breathless, trying to untangle a fitted sheet from a coat hanger in his laundry basket and failing spectacularly. Every time he yanked, something else fell.

A sock, a tube of hair gel, a lacy yellow bra that definitely belonged to Nichole.

Kenny swooped in, cackling, arms full of half-empty tubs and a shoebox. He dropped it right next to Martine’s feet, grinning like a little gremlin.

Charli stood backlit by the bay window, hair wild, skirt wrinkled, watching Kyle with a look that said I dare you.

It made his chest ache, made his palms itch. He wanted to grab her again, pull her in close just to see if she’d push back, or if she’d finally let him win for once.

Cartman’s grin widened, smug and venomous.

“C’mon Kyle, I thought you were here to help? Or are you savin’ all that pent-up energy for Miss Louisiana over there?” His eyes cut to Charli, sharp and mean, “Watch out, Charli. I bet he fucks as soft as he punches,”

Kenny let out a scandalized whistle, still rummaging.

“Damn, dude. You ever get tired? Let the man live,” He threw an arm around Martine, who shrugged him off with a flick of her fingers, but her lips curved, a dangerous glint in her eye.

Stan, sweating through his tee, tried to break the tension, “If you’re not carrying something, get out of the way,”

He shot Kyle a pointed look, half-pleading, half-daring him to step out of the fight and into the mess.

Kyle frowned and grabbed the nearest box labeled NICHOLE: NIGHTSTAND/PRIVATE and shouldered it like it weighed nothing.

Charli caught his eye, lips quirking, like she was daring him to open it.

He didn’t blink, just growled low under his breath, “Don’t start what you can’t finish,”

“Oh yeah?” She stepped closer, brushing his arm with her own as she passed, lavender and pink peony burning into his nose.

Every muscle in his body pulled tight, the box nearly crushed in his grip. He could feel Martine watching them, her gaze critical, searching for cracks.

She stepped in, immaculate as always, brushing past Charli to snatch a pile of Stan’s socks out of the path, “If you’re done, try not to drop Nichole’s things. She’ll kill you both,”

The apartment was a gauntlet of boxes and tension, the soundtrack: Kenny’s cackling, Cartman’s running commentary, Stan’s panicked inventory, Martine’s controlled sabotage, Charli’s silent, simmering challenge.

The second the girls ducked into the bedroom with an avalanche of tote bags and a chorus of “No boys allowed,” the air in the living room went feral.

The girls’ laughter bled through the wall, (Charli’s sharp and mean, Martine’s low and unbothered, Nichole’s warm but deadly) but it was background static compared to the energy building out in the living room.

The guys were left marooned among piles of duffel bags, Nichole's plants, and the battered debris of Stan’s life.

It was just Kyle, Stan, Kenny, and Cartman; No distractions, no audience, no mercy. One step from a brawl, two steps from therapy, twenty-three from a group hug.

Kenny started humming ‘Sexual Healing’ just loud enough to make Stan groan.

Cartman, who apparently had nine lives and a taste for pain, slid off the chair, sauntered past Kyle with a shit-eating grin, and plucked the yellow bra from the pile. He dangled it from one finger, waggling his brows at Stan, “Whose is this? Your mom’s?”

Stan lunged, snatched it away, “It’s Nichole’s, you sick fuck. Don’t touch it,”

Cartman laughed, tossing it at Kyle, who batted it away, still glaring.

The pressure in the apartment hit fever pitch of boxes, bodies, bruises, and barely disguised threats.

Stan tripped over a guitar case, Kenny made a show of rescuing it, and Cartman just kept smiling, watching every move, waiting for someone to explode.

Kyle could feel it coming, all of it. He just didn’t know where it would break first.

Stan plopped on the lumpy couch, damp with sweat and humiliation.

“That’s all the moving I’m doing today,” He declared as he sprawled out and looking half-defeated.

His foot knocked over a box labeled NICHOLE: TTRPG DICE; DO NOT OPEN (STAN!!). They skittered across the floor like confetti.

Kenny scooped up a handful, tossing one at Kyle.

“Roll for virginity loss,” He flashed a sharp grin, all teeth and trouble, “Maybe this time you’ll actually pass your check,”

Kyle caught the die, flipped Kenny off, and chucked it back hard enough to sting.

Cartman didn’t miss a beat, “Stan says you didn’t even get to stick it in? What’d you do, read her a poem and cry on her tits?”

He looked way too comfortable in Nichole’s chair, one leg up, smirking like a man who’d just been given the keys to the city and a police escort.

Kyle rolled his eyes, pride and embarrassment warring in his chest, “At least hers are real, unlike the last girl you were fucking,”

Cartman actually paused.

He actually had the gall to sigh, theatrical as hell, like he was reminiscing about fine wine, “Mmm. Alizé. Now that’s a girl who knew how to ruin your life properly. You wouldn’t last a day with her, Kyle. She’d eat you alive, bones first,”

Kenny snorted, nudging Kyle, “Dude, I’m honestly just impressed you two didn’t set the house on fire. She really answered the phone with ‘This is Kyle’s dick,’? I’ve never been prouder of anyone in my life,”

Stan snickered, finally sitting up.

“Dude, you realize I have to live next her now? Nichole’s already threatened to move all my stuff out if I let you infect the apartment with your–” He made a vague, circular motion, “Whatever this sexual tension thing is. If you two fuck on our bed, I’m burning it,”

“Stan, you’re acting like a real alpha for a guy who used to puke every time a girl looked at him wrong. What, did Nichole finally cure your performance anxiety?” Cartman said, digging for a sore spot, “Let’s be real. Out of all of us, you’re the only one with a real girlfriend. Kenny’s a stray Martine feeds on her doorstep, I’m an untameable sex god, and Kyle’s about as smooth as sandpaper,”

“Cartman, the only thing you’ve fucked lately is your own metabolism,” Kyle snapped.

Cartman shot back instantly, holding two thick fingers, “I fucked Heidi last night. Twice,”

It hit Kyle sideways. He went tense, heart skipping, stomach twisting itself into knots.

Cartman’s lies were legendary, but it was just gross enough to be plausible. If he was telling the truth, Eric had gotten laid by Kyle’s ex while Kyle was still busy not getting off.

His whole body recoiled, a toxic mix of jealousy and disgust. Cartman hooking up with Heidi wasn’t just grody, it was insult layered on injury, like someone had pissed on a wound and called it antiseptic.

Kenny let out a scandalized sound, “Damn, dude. Hey, Kyle, at least you didn’t blow it in front of the entire group chat, so, y’know, congrats on the personal growth,”

Stan grinned, a lazy, self-satisfied look that was all the more infuriating because it was real, “At least when Nichole's mad at me, she still lets me sleep in the bed. Can’t say the same for you, Kenny. I heard Martine made you sleep on the floor last night,”

“At least I got invited upstairs. Kyle can’t even get past first base in his own attic. Dude’s been blue-balling himself since fourth grade,” Kenny shrugged, flashing a mischievous smile, “You ever gonna close that deal or you gonna keep edging yourself until you die?”

Kyle’s face burned, somewhere between laughter and homicide. He flipped Kenny off again, harder this time, teeth bared in a snarl that was half real and half a challenge, “You realize I could end you, right? You and your little collection of vintage porn mags?”

“Little?!” Kenny gasped, wounded and offended.

Cartman wagged a finger in Kyle’s direction, “Don’t take it out on Kenny just ‘cause your balls are the size of grapefruits. Face it, Kahl, you peaked in high school. Now Stan’s got a real girlfriend, Kenny’s a kept man, and you? You’re just the emotional support Jew with anger issues and a blue-ball fetish,”

Stan wheezed, unable to hold it back, and even Kenny had to give Cartman credit. The old rhythm was back. Roast or be roasted, everyone fair game, nobody safe.

Kyle rolled his eyes and groaned, “Remind me why I put up with any of you?”

Stan grinned, voice softening, “Because you’d be bored shitless otherwise,”

Kyle felt the edge soften just enough to let a laugh slip out, rough, mean and necessary. There was still a thrum in his veins and Charli’s voice in his ear, but for one second, it was just the boys again.

Dumb, angry, honest, and alive.

Charli’s dress clung to her thighs, skin humming with leftover adrenaline.

The bedroom was a mess of suitcases, scattered hangers, and Nichole’s folded clothes, half-organized and already threatening to avalanche.

The laughter outside faded, muffled by the door and the heavy pulse of her own heartbeat.

Martine perched on the edge of the bed, ankle crossed over a knee, hair falling in lazy waves of curls down her back.

She didn’t bother with small talk. Her gaze was direct, deliberate.

“You good, Charli? That was a lot today. Kyle's class, his mom, his... Everything,” Martine’s eyes flicked over Charli as she took in the rumpled skirt, collarbone flushed and marked where Kyle’s mouth had lingered.

Charli tossed a pile of hangers onto the mattress, spine stiffening, “I’m fine,”

She almost believed it. She could feel the shape of Kyle’s grip on her hips, the imprint of him at her throat.

Martine didn’t let go, “You sure? He’s the first guy since...”

She didn’t say the name. She didn’t have to. The ghost of Louisiana hung between them, sticky and sweet as spilled syrup, rotting at the edges.

“He’s nothing like Jacob,” Charli said too fast, too flat, “That was forever ago. I don’t even think about him anymore,”

Nichole glanced up as she sortied a rainbow of T-shirts, her eyes gentle and always seeing too much, “You sure you’re okay?”

Charli forced a brittle laugh.

“I’m more than okay. I’m finally free. No more Jacob. No more ‘Charlotte, be good,’ no more looking over my shoulder. I’m doing exactly what I want. And what I want is–”

Her cheeks burned, but she let the sentence hang.

Martine sighed as she picked up a white blouse and slid it on a hanger, “What you want is dangerous. You don’t have to jump straight into the deep end, bébé. Healing isn’t just about cutting him off. Sometimes it’s letting yourself sit with the ache, not running from it,”

I don’t need to be healed by you or anyone,” Charli said, feeling every bit of old shame, fresh embarrassment, and that stubborn, coiled thing in her chest that hated being told what she needed, “I’m not some cracked little doll you have to fix, Martine. I’m allowed to want something good. Someone good,”

Martine sighed, not cruel, just tired, “He’s not easy, Charli. I’ve seen him. All teeth and heat. You sure you’re ready for that? You just got out. Let yourself be alone for a little bit,”

The words hit like a slap. Charli’s hands stilled, a shirt forgotten in her lap. For a split second she wanted to scream.

Instead, she choked on her pride and shoved the shirt back in the suitcase, voice tight and small.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Her mouth twisted into a smirk, ugly and false, “Guess I’ll leave you to your little boxes and therapy speak. Let me know when I’m safe enough to make my own messes,”

Nichole reached for her wrist, gentle, “Charli, don’t–”

She jerked away, hair whipping as she spun for the door, heart pounding loud enough to drown out every protest.

“I’m fine. I’m fucking fine,” She snapped, flinging the bedroom door open so hard it almost bounced off the wall.

Weeks ago in Louisiana, The hospital lights buzzed, white and punishing.

Charli stared at the ceiling tile above her bed. It was marred with an old water stain, shaped like a broken heart. Her lips were split. Her left eye throbbed and blinked sticky, lashes crusted together.

The inside of her mouth tasted like blood and mint, and someone else’s anger.

She could still smell Jacob, his sweat and cologne, the sick aftertaste of violence.

She’d been alone, pretending to nap when nurses hovered, feeling the ache run down her spine and into her hips.

When the door finally slammed open, she flinched out of habit until Martine’s voice sliced through the cold, layered with rage and something gentler, “I packed your shit,”

Martine strode in like she owned the ward, hair wild, baggy hoodie cinched at the waist, phone clutched in one hand like a weapon. Her eyes burned.

“We’re leaving,” She said, grabbing the bag off the chair and tossing it at Charli’s feet, “Tonight. I already called the social worker, and I told Maman you’re coming with me. We can go wherever the hell you want. New York, Chicago, Paris, Spain, Haiti. I don’t care, I’ll get us on a plane right now,”

Charli swallowed, throat tight and raw. 

She thought about lying. She thought about saying ‘anywhere’ just to see what Martine would do.

But the words fell out before she could catch them, “South Park,”

Martine paused, suspicion flickering under all that fire, “South Park? Where the hell is that?”

Charli licked her swollen lip, “...Colorado,”

Martine blinked, then snorted, shaking her head, “Colorado? Girl, what the hell is even in Colorado? We could go anywhere. Why Colorado?”

Charli shrugged, staring at the threadbare blanket, shoulders curled in.

Her heart kicked once, hard, at the memory of a boy with red curls and green eyes, standing in the cold, coat thrown over her shoulders, hands shaking as he tried not to look scared for her.

“It’s safe. Or it used to be,” She met Martine’s eyes for a second, voice soft, “It’s far. Nobody there knows Jacob. Nobody there knows me like that,”

Martine’s expression flickered, skepticism and affection duking it out on her face, “Safe? For real, Charli? Not, like, running to some white-picket fantasy, right? Not just trying to disappear again?”

Charli managed the tiniest smile, “What if I am? I just... I need somewhere that isn’t here. Where no one looks at me like I’m broken,”

Martine studied her, “Okay. If that’s what you want. But if it turns out Colorado’s full of weirdos and you want to dip, you say the word. No more sticking it out for anyone who doesn’t deserve you. Got it?”

Charli nodded, throat tight, fighting off a new wave of tears, “Got it,”

Martine made a noise halfway between a scoff and a sigh, then dropped into the visitor’s chair with a thump, “You always gotta pick the weirdest shit, huh? You want me to call that social worker in here? Or you want to tell her yourself you’re done with Jacob?”

Charli flexed her fingers, staring at her bruised knuckles. Her tongue felt too thick for her mouth.

“You call,” She said, threadbare but steady, “If I talk to anyone right now, I’ll cry. And if I start crying, I won’t stop,”

Martine stood, leaned over, and pressed a quick, fierce kiss to Charli’s hairline, the scent of her perfume grounding, “Let it out, chouchou. No one’s watching but me,”

Charli’s shoulders shook, silent. Tears ran hot and sticky down her cheeks, soaking into the hospital gown, but she kept her jaw locked, fists balled in the sheets.

For the first time in months, she wasn’t thinking about Jacob, or her father, or the ache that lived in her ribs.

She was thinking about snow.

She wanted out.

Out of this room. Out of this skin. Out of every life where she was something that needed fixing.

But Colorado was waiting. She could feel it. Her whole body ached for it.

Charli closed her eyes, letting the fantasy take over: The safety of the Broflovski attic, the burn of Kyle’s voice in the dark, that small, impossible town at the edge of the world.

Charli didn’t remember moving.

She shot through the living room, ignoring the guys (including Kenny’s startled “Yo?” and Stan’s “Charli, you good?”) and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

She was halfway to the door when Cartman, ever the troll, blocked her path to the door with arms spread wide, face full of fake concern.

“Hey, what’s the rush? You finally running from Kyle’s limp–”

She didn’t stop, just plowed right past, ducking under his arm.

Kyle was on her heels, moving twice as fast, voice tight with something wild, “Move, Cartman,”

Cartman barely had time to wheeze out, “Big man, huh?” before Kyle shoved him straight into a tower of empty boxes.

The crash echoed gloriously, satisfying, the only thing that felt remotely right.

Charli fumbled her key, fighting with the lock to 402, breathing too fast. Her hands wouldn’t cooperate, her chest was caving in, and she could taste her own humiliating panic.

She wanted to disappear. Instead, she jammed the key in the lock so hard she nearly bent it.

The door finally gave, and she stumbled inside, flicking the lights on, already bracing for a new kind of loneliness.

She barely made it three steps before Kyle’s shadow filled the doorframe. He didn’t even hesitate. He stepped inside like he owned the place, chest rising and falling as he shut the door.

Charli spun, “What are you doing? Go back,”

He shook his head, wild, stubborn, refusing to look away, “No. Not until you tell me what’s going on,”

She wanted to scream, wanted to shove him out, but her voice snagged in her throat.

The room felt too small for both of them; The little living room clean but disorganized, ribbons and books everywhere, pink throws draped over the couch, everything hyperfeminine and not at all ready for company.

A dozen half-burnt candles crowded the window, and the air was thick with rose oil, lavender, and the threat of something unfinished.

The only thing more raw than the feeling in her chest was the way Kyle looked at her hungry, worried, lost.

He blinked, and for a second, she saw how out of place he looked. He was six feet of battered, frantic boy, standing in a universe built for her and no one else.

He’d never been in here before. This was her world. Her space. He was an intruder, and he didn’t care.

He took another step forward, softer now, “Charli. Talk to me,”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Her voice sounded wrecked, even to her own ears, “Just leave, okay? I need to be alone,”

He didn’t move. The silence pressed between them. thick and charged.

His gaze lingered over her, trying to find the cracks, the places she’d let him in.

For a split second, she wanted to let him. She wanted to grab his shirt, drag him down on the couch, bury herself in his arms and his mouth until she forgot every word Martine ever said and she forgot Jacob’s name entirely.

But pride won out, or maybe fear, “You can’t fix everything, Tichen,”

He flinched at the nickname, but his eyes softened, “I’m not trying to fix you. I just– Fuck, Charli, I just want you to let me stay,”

Her breath hitched, and for a terrifying second, she almost said yes. The apartment felt like a stage she was about to be exposed on. She looked away, desperate to hold onto something steady.

Kyle saw the flicker in her eyes, the softness that almost broke open right before the wall slammed down, quick and brutal.

She tossed her hair back, folded her arms, chin lifting like she was daring him to try again.

“You gonna stand there all night? You following me now? Should I get you a leash?”

His blood went hot, pride snapping up before his brain could catch it, “Better than letting you run off every time someone says something you don’t like,”

Her mouth curved, sweet and poisonous, “Maybe I just don’t like you,”

He barked a laugh, sharp and humorless, “Yeah? Funny, you didn’t sound like that when you were under me,” His chest heaved, fingers twitching, the memory of her thighs around his hips searing hot through his jeans, “Or did you forget that already?”

Her eyes went wide, then narrowed to slits, “Fuck you,”

“Gladly,” He shot back before he could stop himself.

The silence burned. She stared at him, breathing fast, mouth parted like she wanted to bite him or kiss him, maybe both. His pulse thudded in his ears. He was drowning in the smell of her and it was killing him.

She shoved his chest, not hard enough to move him, just enough to sting, “You think you’re tough? You think you get to just barge in here, tell me what to do?”

He grabbed her wrist, “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m telling you I’m not leaving. So go ahead, keep pushing. I’ll still be here,”

Her laugh was mean and shaky, “You sound like a stalker,”

“You sound like a coward,” His voice came out low, rough, every word scraped raw.

Something cracked between them. She lunged forward, he bent down, and their mouths collided messy, and desperate.

It was everything they’d been choking down for weeks, spilling out at once. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him groan. His lips slid against hers, hungry, claiming, like he’d die if she stopped.

He shoved her back against the door, the wood rattling with the force. She gasped against his mouth, nails dragging down his neck, and it only spurred him on. His hands slid to the backs of her thighs, lifted her like she weighed nothing, and she locked around his waist.

He pressed her higher, pinning her with his body. Her eyes were dark, wild, lips swollen and glossy from him.

“I told you,” His voice came out hoarse, trembling with everything he hadn’t said, “You don’t get to run from me,”

Kyle’s grip tightened under her thighs, fingers digging into the soft skin there like anchors. He had her pinned to the door, her breath hot against his mouth, her nails digging into the back of his neck.

Every muscle in his body screamed with the need to keep her there, to never let her wriggle free.

Her hips pushed against him, sharp and teasing, and the sound that tore out of his throat was half growl, half prayer. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, grinding into her, and the door rattled under the force.

The hollow thump reverberated through the frame, loud enough that the neighbors could probably hear it.

He didn’t care. He wanted them to. He wanted the whole building to know she was his.

Her mouth was open under his, lips slick, tongue sliding against his with that bratty little edge that had always made him insane. She bit his lower lip and he nearly lost his balance, adjusting his grip to keep her higher, tighter against him.

His jeans were unbearably tight, every rub of her thighs around him a fresh wave of torture, and still he couldn’t stop grinding up like a dog in heat.

She broke from his mouth long enough to tease him, breathless and sharp, “Door’s gonna break, Tichen,”

He groaned into her throat, teeth dragging over her pulse, “Good. Let it break,”

“Big talk, but you’re shaking,” She whispered.

Kyle dropped his forehead to hers, panting, every thought mangled by the heat and the smell of her.

“I’m shaking because I’m trying not to fuck you through this door,” The words slipped out before he could censor them, raw and humiliating, and her answering smirk only made him burn hotter.

She rolled her hips against him, deliberately slow, and his vision blurred.

He hissed, pressing her harder against the wood.

Every part of him screamed to rip her dress up, shove himself inside her, finish this and for all. His self-control dangled by a thread.

Her mouth hovered a fraction from his, eyes dark and daring, “Then stop holding back,”

He kissed her again, brutal and hungry, biting her lip like he was starving, like he’d die if he didn’t taste her deeper. The door slammed again under the force of it, thudding in rhythm with the frantic grind of his hips.

Her moan vibrated into his mouth, and it nearly ended him. He pulled back just enough to look at her (wild hair, swollen lips, pupils blown wide) and his chest seized with something feral and stupidly tender.

“Charli,” He rasped, voice breaking on her name. His body jolted forward again, unable to stop, pressing her harder into the frame as the world narrowed to nothing but her heat against him, her laugh in his ear, the door creaking like it couldn’t hold the weight of them.

Her answer was a whisper, mean and shaky, lips grazing his jaw, “Show me why I came back,”

There was nothing delicate left, no lines to toe, just raw hunger.

He pinned her higher using his whole body to hold her captive; Half for her, half for him.

She arched up, thighs locked around his waist, skirt bunched at her hips, the hem riding up every time she ground against him. His cock strained hard, thick and heavy in his jeans, the friction almost unbearable.

He couldn’t breathe, could barely see. All he knew was the press of her hips, the wild heat of her mouth, the ragged little sound she made when he bit down under her jaw, marking her because he couldn’t help it, because he needed everyone to see, to know.

Her laugh was a threat and a promise, all teeth and teasing, “You gonna break the door, Tichen?”

He mouthed at the space under her ear, biting down until she gasped, letting go just to run his tongue over the mark, like an apology he’d never say out loud.

“God, you’re fucking impossible,” He groaned into her skin. He felt her nails scoring his scalp, her hips rolling up hard enough to make his vision go white.

“Don’t stop now. You started it,” She taunted, breath hitching, voice cracking at the edges.

He growled low, the animal sound scraping out of his chest. His hands slid down, one hand catching under her knee, hitching her higher so her dress bunched almost to her waist. The other hand fumbled at his own jeans, shaking with adrenaline, getting the zipper down on the second try.

She hooked her heel behind his back and yanked him forward, grinding her hips so slow and deliberate he nearly lost it. His boxers were damp, sticky with precome, the heat from her burning through the thin cotton.

He pressed himself against her, sliding his cock through the wet, silky mess at the center of her panties, the friction just this side of torture.

Her head hit the door with a soft thud, eyes fluttering, breath coming ragged and hot. She twisted, fighting to get her arms free, and he let her, just for a second, just to see what she’d do.

Her hands flew to his shirt, yanking it up, fingers digging into his sides like she needed to mark him back.

“Nine years and you still need me to tell you what to do?” Her breath was warm on his cheek, her words a private joke, a challenge she knew he’d never walk away from.

He barely managed a response, just a strangled “Shut up,” before he shoved her panties aside, fingers fumbling, and lined himself up, desperate and raw, nudging at her entrance.

Her whole body went tight, thighs clamping, nails biting into his biceps.

He kissed her messy and bruising, swallowing the sound she made as he pushed in, slow at first, not because he wanted to be gentle but because he was terrified he’d lose it if he went any faster.

Her breath stuttered, body going taut around him, the heat and slickness almost enough to end him right there. She rocked against him, biting his lip and dragging her tongue.

The door shuddered under their weight, echoing every frantic thrust, every helpless grind, the sound wanton and perfect.

He lost himself in the rhythm, the grind of her hips, the echo of every night he’d spent imagining this. Her laughter went ragged, voice breaking as she spat, “Harder. Fuck– Don’t make me beg–”

His grip on her thighs tightened, pulling her down as he drove up, the slap of skin on skin, the rattle of the hinges, every movement a threat to the door and to his own self-control.

He fucked her into the door, the bang and scrape echoing down the hall. Every thrust was an answer to everything she’d ever doubted: You’re wanted. You’re safe. I’m not leaving.

Their bodies met with a messy, furious rhythm, the kind of collision that was never careful, never quiet. 

Her legs trembled around him, her head falling back as he gave her everything, all the hurt, all the pride, all the years spent wanting and not touching, letting himself drown in the smell of her, the sweat, the sticky heat of her body, the sound of her saying his name like it was the only thing that mattered.

He felt her tightening around him like a vice, her voice breaking as she moaned, “Don’t stop– Don’t fucking stop–”

He kissed her like he was sealing a wound, sweat dripping down his face, muscles straining, “Not stopping. Never fucking stopping,”

The first bang rattled the picture frame above the couch in 403. Stan glanced up from where he was sitting cross-legged on the rug, halfway through a beer, eyebrow raised. Then came another that was louder, heavier in rhythm, and Nichole’s eyes widened.

“Is that–?” She asked, holding back a laugh.

Kenny was the first to crack.

“Holy shit! That’s Kyle,” He threw his head back, purple eyes gleaming with wicked delight, “Motherfucker finally cashed the check his balls have been writing since fourth grade,”

The thuds picked up tempo. The wall shook again.

Eric, sprawled on Nichole’s armchair like a bloated king, smirked, “Well, well, well. Sounds like he’s finally getting past first base. Took him, what, a decade? Mazel tov,”

Stan grimaced, running a hand down his face, “Dude. That’s my wall. That’s my girlfriend’s wall,”

Another slam hit, punctuating his words.

He groaned, “Oh my God. They’re literally desecrating my new apartment right now,”

Nichole snorted, trying (and failing) to stifle her grin.

Kenny doubled over, wheezing, “Bet he’s jackhammering her like it’s the NBA finals. Door’s their backboard. ‘And Broflovski with the slam dunk!’”

Another violent rattle shook the plaster.

Martine sat silent at the counter, glass in hand, lips pursed, her gaze fixed on the condensation ring forming on the table.

Eric chuckled low, lips curling, “Question is, how long before Jew fro pops off? Heidi always said he was a two-pump chump,”

Stan tossed a cushion at him, half-hearted, muttering, “Shut the fuck up, Cartman,”

Eric batted it aside, grin widening, “What? I’m just saying, if he can last longer than a TikTok video, good for him. Character development,”

Kenny cackled, pointing at the wall as it banged again, harder, the rhythm erratic, wild, “That ain’t a TikTok, that’s a whole fucking mixtape,”

Nichole covered her face with both hands, laughing into her palms, her voice muffled but amused, “They’re not even trying to be quiet,”

Another slam, the doorframe whining like it might splinter.

Eric smirked into his fist, “Hope you signed a lease that includes property damage,”

The next bang made the lamp flicker. Stan just buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Jesus Christ, Kyle,”

Eric, hunched over with his phone open, was recording a voice memo.

“Wait, wait, everyone, shh! Listen. Is that...?” He cupped a hand behind his ear, eyes bugging with wicked glee, “Is Kyle fucking growling? That’s not even human. Jesus, the man sounds like he’s in a Discovery Channel special,”

Stan shoved a pillow over his face, muffling his voice, “This is a hate crime. Against me, personally,”

Kenny was about to one-up Cartman with something filthy when he finally looked at Martine.

She hadn’t laughed at any of it. Her face was calm, unreadable, but her eyes were locked somewhere distant. The condensation on her glass, on the shadows gathering in the corners, on nothing in particular.

He let the others riff, quietly sidling over to her side of the island, his hip bumping hers. Without a word, he reached down and found her hand, curling his fingers gently through hers. She startled, barely, but didn’t pull away. He squeezed lightly, a silent promise to stay close.

She gave him a faint, sideways glance. There was worry there, and a tightness she wouldn’t let out in front of everyone.

He didn’t call her on it. Didn’t push. Just pressed his thigh to hers, letting the chaos swirl and bang and echo around them, anchoring her back with quiet, steady warmth.

The next morning, the rooftop patio of Tweek Bros. had been butchered into something Heidi insisted on calling an uplift space, White folding chairs and soft pink bunting stretched between cheap rental poles, a donut tower sweating in the sun, and a banner flapping that read SHEcovery Brunch: She Speaks, She Heals, She Soars.

Eric sat in the front row with his thighs spread, sunglasses too big for his face, pretending he cared.

He nodded when people glanced at him, hands folded like the picture of the supportive boyfriend, every so often snapping photos of Heidi for Instagram.

The truth, though? His brain was melting.

The coffee was bitter, the quiche lukewarm, and the only thing keeping him there was the steady drip of attention every time someone whispered, Wow, he’s really sticking by her.

Heidi floated between tables in a white sundress, the queen bee buzzing on compliments, kissing cheeks, adjusting her speech cards like she was about to deliver the Sermon on the Mount.

She looked at him every other second, as if making sure he was watching, as if his approval stamped the whole thing legitimate.

Eric smirked behind his sunglasses. She was good at this. Too good.

She had them all eating out of her hand. But he knew the shake in her fingers when she thought no one was watching, the need gnawing through her.

And he liked that. He liked that when the show peeled off, she always came crawling back to him.

Still, he was bored out of his fucking mind.

Every woman here looked like they bought their personality in bulk from Whole Foods. The speakers droned on about resilience and ‘finding your authentic self,’ and Eric wanted to scream.

He wanted a cheeseburger, not another miniature croissant.

Heidi moved past him toward the stage, cheeks glowing, cue cards clutched like they might shatter if she let them go.

Eric stood, sidled up to her with that lazy confidence, and tugged her by the elbow just as she was about to mount the steps.

“Babe,” He said, voice pitched low and syrupy, the kind of private tone that made her shoulders stiffen.

He leaned in close, “Two seconds. Before you go up there and tell everyone how brave and empowered you are,”

Her eyes flicked nervously to the crowd, then back to him, annoyance cutting sharp, “Not now,”

He tightened his grip, smile widening, whisper just for her ear, “Now,”

Eric tugged her farther from the crowd, away from the stage mic and the politely clapping sorority girls with their oat milk lattes.

They ended up near the edge of the patio, beside a potted ficus that had definitely seen better days. Heidi jerked her arm, trying to wriggle free, but he tightened his hold just enough to remind her he wasn’t asking.

“Listen to me,” Eric said, voice low and dangerous, the fake-smile still plastered on his face so no one across the patio would think anything was wrong, “If you’ve got some grand scheme rattling around that little head, some revenge plan or dramatic comeback, you need to drop it right now. Because after what I saw last night?”

He leaned in closer, breath hot against her ear, “Kyle’s done playing. That ginger motherfucker finally got his dick wet, and he’ll go full scorched earth for her. You push? He’ll burn the whole damn campus down with you in it,”

“Are you kidding me? Here? Now? Eric, I don’t have a plan,” She hissed the word like it was beneath her, tugging her elbow from his grip, “God, why do you always bring him up?”

“Why do you always set up events like this?” He shot back, eyebrows raised, “Don’t act like this SHEcovery brunch isn’t one big victory lap for your victim arc. You’re literally serving mimosas under a banner that exists because Kyle slammed that girl against a car while you were still calling him your boyfriend,”

His grip on her tightened again.

“The whole campus saw it, Heidi. The whole internet saw it. And you’re telling me this,” He gestured at the bunting, the curated donut tower, “Isn’t capitalizing on it?”

Heidi’s nostrils flared, but she didn’t flinch.

“It’s not revenge, Eric. It’s branding. There’s a difference. I don’t need to sink to Kyle’s level to stay relevant. Everyone already knows what he did. I’m moving on,” She plastered on a camera-ready smile, “And if you had half a brain, you’d know it’s better for both of us if you keep your mouth shut and just clap when I’m done speaking,”

Eric studied her, squinting, searching her face for the tell he knew had to be there, the twitch at her mouth when she lied, the nervous fidget in her hands.

She held firm.

It set his teeth on edge. He didn’t buy it, not completely. She’d always had a vindictive streak, and Kyle was the one boy who could slice her open without trying.

“Uh-huh,” He murmured as his eyes narrowed, “No plan. Just brunch. Just pink streamers and victim PR,”

“You’re paranoid, Eric,” She finally pulled away from him completely, shoulders squared, clutching her speech cards tighter, “Now shut up and let me go make history,”

He watched her glide back toward the stage, eyes following the sway of her hair, his stomach a knot of suspicion and grudging admiration.

He hated how good she was at this. Organizing events to “help” without actually doing any of the hard work. And if you called her on it? You're attacking a nice girl with good intentions.

He hated that part of him thrilled at the subtle maneuvering she wore like perfume. But underneath it all, a pit opened in his gut because for once, he wasn’t sure if he was warning her to protect her... or to protect himself.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, jaw tight, eyes darting toward the stage steps where she was already climbing, applause building again.

She was going to do something stupid.

He could feel it.

He hissed under his breath to himself, “Don’t fuck this up, Heidi,”

Heidi remembered the way her phone buzzed back on Kyle’s birthday.

First Cartman’s name, then the photo, sharp and undeniable: Kyle’s hands braced on either side of some gaudy purple muscle car, Charli Lafayette pinned against the door like something out of a trashy romance novel.

Then she’d posted. The caption wrote itself, acid bubbling in her throat until it hit the keys. The likes poured in before she could even shut the app.

When the knock came, her stomach had already been twisted into a knot of dread and anticipation.

Kyle didn’t text first. Didn’t explain. He just showed up at her door, shirt half-tucked, green eyes glassy like he hadn’t even caught his breath since.

She opened the door slow, phone still in her hand.

“So,” She said, “I guess I don’t have to ask how your day went,”

Kyle’s jaw clenched, throat bobbing like he was swallowing glass, “Heidi...”

“Don’t,” She snapped, the word ricocheting through her apartment.

She hated how her voice shook, “Eric told me everything. You saw her and you kissed her. You didn’t even wait a day. Not even a goddamn day,”

“She kissed me,” He wanted to protect Heidi's feelings, but the excuse faltered before it left his mouth. His face flushed, shame coloring his cheeks, “But, yeah, I kissed her first,”

The honesty cut sharper than a lie.

“I came to explain,”

Her laugh was sharp, humorless, “Explain? You mean explain why you shoved your tongue down some chick’s throat while your girlfriend, me, was at home waiting for you like an idiot?”

He flinched like she’d slapped him, “It wasn’t–”

“Wasn’t what, Kyle? Wasn’t cheating? Wasn’t humiliating?” She tilted her head, eyes raking him before she continued.

“You talked about her once. Remember? After fucking me. You laid there, sweaty, staring at the ceiling, and you said–” She mimicked his voice, low and cruel, “‘Charli used to crawl into my sleeping bag when she was scared of the dark,’”

His face flushed scarlet. He tried to cut in, but she steamrolled over him, “You said it drove you insane. But you didn’t sound mad. You sounded... Like you missed it. How sick is that?”

Kyle bit out, “Heidi, it’s not like that,”

“It’s exactly like that,” She snapped, stepping closer, jabbing a finger at his chest, “Because she’s back, and suddenly I’m nothing but a hashtag: #TheEx,”

“You’re not nothing. I swear you’re not. But–” His voice broke on it, a sound so raw it almost stopped her. Almost.

She crossed her arms over her chest, “But I’ll never be her,”

Silence slammed between them. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t even try.

Her throat burned, eyes stinging, but she forced the tears back. She wouldn’t give him that. Not after he had already taken everything else.

Kyle finally whispered, hoarse, “I’m sorry, Heidi,”

“Yeah,” she muttered, voice shaking, “You’re real sorry. Sorry you got caught,”

He winced, staring at her like he wanted to say something else, something that might fix it.

But she didn’t move, didn’t let him in. The weight of her own words pressed against her ribs, too heavy, too sharp, and still she kept her chin up, waiting for him to break first.

Heidi tilted her head, smile sharp and poisoned, “So tell me, Kyle. Did it feel good? Finally getting what you’ve been jacking off to since middle school?”

Kyle’s chest heaved, his voice hoarse, low, wrecked, “You don’t get it. She’s not–”

He cut himself off, swallowing hard, shame flickering, “I’m sorry,”

Her laugh cracked, too loud, too jagged, “You don’t even look sorry. You look relieved,”

Heidi sagged against the doorframe, her anger leaking out around the edges, leaving nothing but exhaustion and that old desperate ache for control.

She watched him, Kyle, her boyfriend, her almost-fiancé, the boy she’d already lost before she’d even realized he was slipping. She almost reached out, almost touched him, but stopped herself at the last second.

She took a long breath, let her voice drop, careful and soft, the way she uses to soothe clients in the psych lab, “You know this isn’t real, right? You and Charli. You’re not soulmates, you’re trauma bonded. You think you love her because you both got stuck together after all that mess with her mom, then her dad took her. It’s classic. You cling to the first person who made you feel seen, the one you couldn’t save. That’s not love, Kyle. You’re trying to rewrite the ending so you don’t have to feel powerless again,”

He didn’t look away. If anything, he seemed to draw himself up taller, all nerves and pride and that awful Broflovski stubbornness, “I don’t care what you call it. I know what I want,”

She swallowed, fighting for a last chance, “You want a project. You want to fix her. She’s always been broken and needy, and that gives you purpose. I’ve studied this, Kyle. It’s not going to last. You’re both going to rip each other up and you’ll end up worse off. She’s going to run again, and you’ll be here wishing you’d picked the girl who never made you beg,”

Kyle’s jaw clenched, and she could see the exact moment he made up his mind, “We’re done, Heidi. Even if Charli leaves, you and me? We’re never going back,”

She tried to smile, tried for the sweet, gentle tone, the good girlfriend, the one who could still bring him back if she played it just right, “Are you sure? You don’t want to wait? See if you change your mind? I could forgive you. We could try again. Don’t throw away everything for someone who might–”

He shook his head, a final, brutal certainty in his eyes, “No. I can’t. I don’t want to,”

That cut. She felt it, refusing to let herself cry. Not in front of him. Not now.

“Then go,” she whispered.

He hesitated, just for a second, just long enough that she almost hoped he’d turn around and take it all back.

But he didn’t.

She stayed frozen in place, swallowing the urge to scream, to chase, to fix.

Instead, she closed the door quietly behind him and slid down to the floor, head in her hands, the ache in her chest echoing every lie she’d told herself about forever.

Heidi’s voice carried clear and strong across the rooftop patio, slicing through the clink of mimosa glasses and the hum of polite brunch chatter. She had the microphone in one hand, her notecards forgotten on the table behind her, she didn’t need them. She knew every beat of this performance by heart.

“We don’t have to stay broken,” She declared, shoulders squared, her carefully blown-out hair gleaming under the late-morning sun, “We don’t have to be defined by the people who left us, or the things they took from us. We can rebuild. We can choose who we are. We can build the life we deserve, piece by piece, moment by moment. Until it’s strong enough to stand on its own. No excuses. No apologies,”

She let the words hang, long enough to catch the nods, the bright eyes, the little sniffles from the girls in sundresses by the buffet.

Long enough for the pity and admiration to cement itself into applause. And when the rooftop clapped, she soaked in the sound like champagne fizzing in her veins.

When she stepped back, Eric was there instantly, clapping loudest of all, his grin saccharine and smug.

He kissed her cheek, dramatic and staged, as though the whole speech was his doing. Heidi didn’t even care, he could play dutiful boyfriend all he wanted if it kept eyes on her.

She felt triumphant. Seen. Like all the venom of the past few weeks had crystallized into power. This was her narrative now. Not Kyle’s. Not Charli’s. Her’s.

She was still glowing when the girl appeared.

“Cute speech,” the stranger purred.

She had long lashes and a too-perfect smirk that bent sharp as a knife.

Heidi blinked, forced the polite-brunch-hostess smile, “Thank you..?”

“Alizé,” She supplied, sliding closer like she owned the patio, nails the color of blood, “Big fan,”

Her eyes flicked over Heidi, dismissive, then slid to Eric.

Something in Heidi’s stomach soured. She didn’t know this girl, but everything about her screamed dangerous.

Like a storm rolling in just as the party got good.

Heidi pasted on her best gracious-queen smile anyway, “I appreciate you coming,”

Her phone buzzed in her clutch. Saved.

“Excuse me, important call,” Heidi politely ducked away, relief flooding her as she turned her back.

She didn’t see the way Alizé’s smirk sharpened when Eric’s eyes trailed after Heidi.

Didn’t see the way Alizé leaned one manicured hand on the table beside him, close enough that her perfume wrapped around him like smoke.

Didn’t see the way Eric froze, then shifted, caught like a fly in honey.

Heidi was already striding toward the stairwell, phone pressed to her ear, convinced the day was hers.

Behind her, Alizé tilted her head, lips curving into something wicked as her gaze fixed on Cartman. Not admiration. Not polite curiosity. Pure, predatory interest, like she’d just found her next chew toy.

Eric felt it before he dared to look at her straight. That electric charge. That sense that he’d just been marked.

Alizé Monroe looked like trouble, and Eric hated how every cell in his body remembered it.

She was tall, normally eye to eye with him but taller in heels, built like God was tired of basic bitches. Her brown skin shimmered like silk under the sun, thick in all the places Heidi was lank and hollow: big tits, bigger ass, thighs that squeezed and suffocated, lips lined and wicked. Her silk pressed hair fell glossy and sharp to her collarbones, black and mirror-bright, not a strand out of place.

She wore a pink vinyl miniskirt that looked illegal in every state, fishnet tights, and a crop top cut to taunt anyone pretending they weren’t looking. She stood out like a sore thumb.

She smiled at him like she owned the block, eyes bored and hungry at the same time.

Eric stepped close, dropping his voice to a low snarl, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Alizé just rolled her eyes, her lashes heavy as theater curtains.

“Missed my pet, obviously. You always wander off but you never stay gone, do you?” She tapped a finger on his chest, all mock-sweetness, “Just like a stray cat. You always drag your ragged ass back to the same porch. Isn’t that right, kitty?”

He bristled, heat crawling up his neck, pride snarling under his skin.

“Cut the shit, Alizé. This is a closed event. You’re not supposed to be here,” He could feel her perfume, rich, animalic, the smell of sex and something sharper, something that wanted to swallow him whole.

She only arched a brow, unimpressed, “Let’s not do this in front of your new girlfriend, sweetie. She’s so fragile, it’s almost cute. If she cries in public again, someone’s gonna think you hit her,”

Eric grit his teeth, fingers curling into fists. He didn’t need this. Not today. Not with Heidi on the edge, the whole town watching, the taste of old mistakes back on his tongue.

He grabbed her arm, dragged her toward the back stairwell, down past the kitchen, into the store room stacked with cases of cold brew and boxes of disposable napkins.

He slammed the door behind them, back to the wall, “Don’t pull that shit here. Not today,”

Alizé just laughed, slow and smoky, rolling her shoulders back so her chest caught the weak light, “You’re cute when you’re territorial. Did Heidi let you off the leash, or are you just bored again?”

He stared at her, hating the way his pulse hammered, hating that even after everything, he wanted her like a knife wants a throat.

She leaned in, “You know you missed me,”

Her nails traced his jaw, and Eric’s mouth twisted into a wicked, helpless grin, “Shut up,”

Alizé grinned wider, “Make me,”

The storage room smelled like cardboard, coffee grounds, and bad decisions, and Eric couldn’t breathe around her.

She had him pinned without even trying, her smirk bright and cruel, her nails grazing the side of his throat now.

“You missed me,” She said again, dragging the words out so slow it burned.

He scoffed, “Missed you? You’re a fucking disease. Every time you show up, my life gets worse,”

Her grin widened, dark and smug.

“And yet,” Her hand trailed down his chest, “You keep coming back,”

He grabbed her hips, spun her around and shoved her hard face-first against the shelf stacked with cold brew flats, boxes rattling, “Don’t flatter yourself, bitch,”

Alizé laughed, sharp and delighted, bracing herself on the shelf like this was her favorite joke, “There he is. Always pretending he doesn’t need me until he’s begging,”

“I don’t beg,” Eric growled, words hot against her ear, but his hips were grinding into the curve of her ass.

His cock strained in his jeans, degradingly obvious, and he hated how alive it made him feel.

“You’re practically whining already,” She tilted her head, hair brushing his cheek.

The smell of her was sweet and poisonous.

“Shut up,” He snapped, grabbing a fistful of her skirt, hiking it all the way up to expose the fishnets and the thick swell of her ass.

“You think I missed this? You think you’re some kind of prize?” His hand came down heavy, the slap echoing in the cramped little room.

Alizé gasped, but the sound came out filthy, thrilled. She arched back against him, lips curling into a dangerous grin, “God, you did miss me!”

“I didn’t,” He spat, pressing her harder against the shelf, “I didn’t miss you for a single fucking second,”

Her laugh was pure sin, low and husky, vibrating in his bones, “Then why are you so fucking hard right now, Eric?”

He bit down on a groan, fingers digging into her hips as if he could anchor himself there. She was chaos and disaster, everything he wasn’t supposed to want, and he was already too far gone.

“Because you make me fucking crazy,” He growled, grinding into her with a desperation that left no room for lies.

The shelf rattled behind her as Catman yanked her tighter against it, his breath coming in ragged pulls that burned his throat. He knew he should stop before he ruined everything and Heidi found out, but Alizé was right there, pressed to him, hot and bitchy in every way he swore he didn’t care about.

Her fishnets tore under his hands as he dragged them down, the sound of ripping nylon slicing through the air. His palms spread over the wide curve of her ass, fingers digging in until he felt bruises blooming under his grip.

“You’re pathetic,” He hissed, voice shaking with equal parts fury and lust, his forehead pressing into the back of her shoulder, “Showing up here, thinking you can just–”

“Thinking I can make you mine again?” She was sweet and smug, pushing back into him like her body was made to torment him, “You already are,”

“Fuck you,” He snarled, jerking his zipper down. His cock slapped free, heavy and aching, slick with precome that made his skin tacky against her.

She purred, arching her back, ass grinding against him with ruthless precision.

Eric bit back a groan, hips rolling forward, rutting helplessly into the thick heat of her, teasing along the line of her pussy through the shredded netting.

He shoved himself in, no patience left, burying his cock in her with a guttural sound that echoed off the boxes and metal shelves.

Alizé cried out, a sharp gasp that melted into laughter, one hand flying back to clutch at his hair.

“God, Eric,” She moaned, cruel and breathless, “You still fuck like shit,”

He slammed into her harder, teeth bared, sweat dripping down his temple. Eric’s vision blurred, white-hot fury and lust tangling until he couldn’t tell them apart.

He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back so her mouth opened on a ragged groan, and growled against her ear, “You’re a dumb fucking bitch,”

Alizé smirked even as she panted, lips swollen, eyes wild, “That’s it– Right fucking– Like that,”

His thrusts grew savage, rattling the whole room, the sound of flesh on flesh obscene in the stillness.

He hated her. He wanted her. He wanted to kill her. He wanted to come so deep inside her that she’d choke on it later when she tried to talk shit.

Eric slammed her into the shelf so hard a box of cups exploded onto the floor, his teeth sinking into the curve of her shoulder as he lost the last shred of control.

“Shut the fuck up,” He growled, hips driving her forward like punishment, like prayer.

The shelves shook with every thrust, cheap wood and metal groaning like it couldn’t believe the audacity of what was happening. Eric’s lungs burned, his shirt clinging to the damp heat rolling off him, every nerve firing like live wire.

Her ass smacked back into him with merciless rhythm, the fat of it bouncing against his hips like she knew exactly how to dismantle his spine.

Every push inside her made his thighs tremble, the slick drag of her walls pulling him in, holding him there.

She was wet like her body had been waiting, ready, aching for his cock the whole time he’d been pretending to be Heidi’s dutiful boyfriend.

Her laugh cracked again, breath hitching with each brutal snap of his hips, “You act like you hate me, but your dick doesn't lie,”

Eric bared his teeth, everything in him shaking with the effort to deny her, deny this, deny the molten truth crawling up his spine.

He shoved her harder, face-first into the shelf, grinding into her like he wanted to break her in half, “Shut the fuck up before I choke you,”

Her answering moan was pure victory, “There’s my boy,”

Eric’s palm clamped around her throat before he even registered moving, the curve of her windpipe hot and slick under his grip.

She rocked back against him, harder, testing the hold, nails scraping along the shelf until one of the boxes above them tipped sideways with a dull thud.

“Yeah,” She rasped, “Be a fucking man for once,”

He snarled, every nerve raw, hips jerking into her with blind fury. He meant to drag it out, punish her with rhythm, make her beg, make her fold the way Heidi never could, but Alizé wouldn’t give him that. She met him thrust for thrust, her body greedy, mocking.

Her laugh caught in her throat when he squeezed tighter, head tilting back against his chest. He could feel the pulse hammering under his thumb, feel her body clench down on him, sucking him deeper like she owned him.

“Fuck–” He bit out.

He wanted to hold it, prove her wrong, grind her down until she broke. Instead his hips bucked helplessly into her hot little fuckhole. The edge hit him hard, balls pulling up tight before he could stop it. He groaned into her neck, low and vicious, spilling inside her before he meant to, shuddering like she’d stolen every spurt of cum right out from under him.

“God, you’re pathetic,” She whispered, breathless and smug, ass grinding back to milk every last twitch out of him, “All that talk, and you still finish first,”

Eric sagged against her back, panting. He didn’t loosen his grip on her throat, not yet.

“Keep fucking laughing,” He growled, “And see what happens next,”

Across town, the morning felt too bright and sharp after the night they’d all had.

In 401, Martine slept flat on her stomach, hair spilled over the pillow like honey, her bare shoulder rising and falling in slow rhythm. Kenny watched her for a while, listening to the faint catch in her breathing, before slipping out of bed.

The air felt cold without her. He rubbed a hand over his face, grabbed his boxers off the floor, and padded barefoot toward the closet.

All he wanted was a towel that didn’t scream trust fund princess, something that felt a little like his, and wouldn’t remind him he was a guest in her world, playing house in an apartment he could never afford in his wildest dreams.

The closet door groaned when he tugged it open, revealing neat stacks of towels folded with surgical precision, creams and pastels that looked like they cost more than his monthly rent.

He sifted through them anyway, muttering under his breath, “Jesus, Martine, you gonna make me dry off with silk next?”

That’s when his hand brushed something that wasn’t fabric. A small, weighty box tucked behind the linen stack. Her handwriting curved across it in tight, deliberate strokes: Kenny – In Case He Means It.

His stomach flipped like he’d swallowed a lit match.

For a second he just stared, fingers hovering above the lid.

He didn’t open it. Couldn’t.

It felt too sacred, too final, like cracking it would be breaking into her ribcage with bare hands.

But holding it felt like being seen in a way that terrified him.

She’d thought about this. About him. About him meaning it. And she’d prepped for the impossible moment he might.

Kenny shoved it back into place before his palms started sweating all over it. Closed the closet and leaned his forehead against the wood, heartbeat a jagged rattle in his ears.

He’d always joked about her being high-maintenance, impossible, the kind of girl who saved receipts for both handbags and heartbreaks. But this wasn’t a receipt.

This was a contingency plan.

And suddenly he felt like he understood her more than he wanted to.

He stood there too long, chest tight, wrestling with a thousand thoughts that wouldn’t line up. Guilt. Want. Pride.

The gnawing ache that maybe, for once, he didn’t want to be the joke who got tossed back in the morning.

He raked his hands through his hair, grinning at himself in the reflection of the closet mirror because what else could he do? He’d been in fistfights, overdosed in alleys, died more times than he’d admit, but this?

This scared him worse.

While the rooftop brunch brewed across town and Kenny tiptoed around in 401, the light in 402 was made rosier because everything in Charli’s room was pastel pink.

Her walls were layered in bows and framed prints, stacks of books on the nightstand, books on the windowsill, books on her vanity, next to perfume bottles that caught the light like glass candy.

It looked nothing like him, but Kyle almost felt at home in this bubblegum cocoon.

Charli was draped half on top of him, cheek pressed against his chest, one arm curled tight around his waist like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

Her breath came in slow puffs, lips parted, eyelashes brushing her cheeks.

Kyle laid still, holding her, his muscles loose for once, not knotted and coiled like usual.

His hand rested on the curve of her hip beneath the blanket, fingers spread in idle possession, his thumb moving in lazy arcs he wasn’t even aware of.

His brain replayed flashes of last night in a loop: Her back against the door, the way her skirt rode up when he shoved her there, the sound she made when he pushed inside.

How they stumbled to the stove after, his hair damp with sweat, her skin glowing under kitchen light as she cooked, smirking at him like he wasn’t already gone for her.

How she slid the plate across the counter to him, sat cross-legged on the counter herself, and forked food into his mouth with that maddening little grin.

He hadn’t asked to stay. She hadn’t asked him to leave. They just gravitated toward her bed like it was inevitable, like the air between them demanded it.

And then again, and again.

Their bodies humming and reckless, the hours a blur of sweat and noise and quiet aftershocks.

He didn’t feel anxious about it, didn’t feel guilty, didn’t feel like he was waiting for something to collapse. He just felt steady. Settled. Exactly where he was supposed to be.

Kyle’s eyes traced the ceiling, then drifted down to her hair, splayed across his chest in glossy dark strands, curled fro heat and sweat.

He remembered another night, years ago, attic slanted above their heads, both too young and too terrified to name what they felt. He’d been stiff with nerves then, frozen, afraid to ruin everything. Until he finally reached out and twirled one of her curls between his fingers, gentle, reverent, like the strands held answers he was too afraid to ask for.

Now, without hesitation, his hand rose from her hip to her hair. He brushed the silky strands back from her cheek, then caught a piece between his fingers and twirled it. The muscle memory was so ingrained it hurt.

It grounded him and set him spinning all at once. He didn’t freeze this time, either. He didn’t even think, just curled the soft hair tighter around his finger, thumb rubbing against the strand, as though by touching her he could keep her tethered here.

She stirred faintly, murmuring something incoherent against his chest, her lips brushing his skin.

He felt the vibration travel through him like a live wire. His throat tightened, and for a second he thought he might laugh, or maybe break, but instead he bent his head and pressed his lips to the crown of her head.

Kyle’s hand lingered in her hair, possessive now, protective, like he wasn’t going to let go even if the roof caved in.

Charli shifted again, tightening her hold on him in her sleep, and he thought, This is mine.

His pulse slowed, matched to the rhythm of her breathing, and for once in his life, he didn’t feel like he had to prove a single thing.

He just let himself lie there, in a pastel-pink world that didn’t belong to him, with a girl who always had.

While Kyle held Charli in 402, next door the smell of butter and toast was thick in the air.

Nichole moved at the stove, her curls pulled up into a pineapple puff, wearing nothing but one of Stan’s t-shirts and a pair of panties like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Stan leaned against the counter, trying to look helpful while mostly just getting in the way.

Every time she turned to reach for the salt, he leaned down, lips searching, catching the curve of her jaw, her shoulder, her neck.

She laughed, swatting him with the spatula, but didn’t actually push him off.

“I’m trying to cook,” She said, fighting a smile.

“Yeah, and I’m trying to taste-test,” He murmured into her skin, hands sliding around her waist.

Her giggle broke into a sigh, indulgent and warm, and Stan thought for a second how unfair it was.

How good it felt to just hold her here, in this room, like the universe had finally given him something soft instead of tearing it away.

The frying pan hissed, eggs popping, and Nichole nudged him back enough to stir them.

“You know, I still can’t believe we had to hear Kyle and Charli last night through the wall,” She gave him a look, half amusement, half exasperation, “Against the door, Stan. That’s just rude,”

“Yeah, well. Revenge, right? Next time they can hear us,” Stan’s face twisted into a grin despite himself, leaning in again to kiss the corner of her mouth, stealing a taste before she pulled back with a laugh.

“You’re ridiculous,” She said, shaking her head.

But her smile lingered, slow and sweet.

Stan tried to keep his cool, but his chest ached with how badly he wanted her, how much he was afraid of wanting her this much.

He felt out of his depth, like at any second he might mess this up, drop it, lose it.

And yet when she leaned into him, when her hand slid across his, he believed for half a second he might not.

The eggs hissed louder, a little smoke curling up, and Nichole swore under her breath, pulling the pan off the burner.

Stan laughed, reaching for the spatula, “See? You need me,”

She raised a brow, amused, and let him take over, watching as he clumsily scraped the eggs onto a plate.

His hands shook a little and he hoped she didn’t notice.

She did. Of course she did. Nichole set the plate down and touched his wrist, grounding.

Her eyes softened, quiet, “Stan... You’re allowed to be happy, you know,”

The words hit him like a punch, stupidly tender, breaking something in his chest he hadn’t realized was locked.

He swallowed hard, mouth opening like he wanted to argue, but instead he just kissed her, hard and messy like she’d just given him permission to breathe.

The spatula clattered onto the counter. The eggs went cold.

Nichole laughed against his mouth, teasing but breathless, “If you want revenge on Kyle and Charli, you’re gonna have to be louder than this,”

Stan’s grin curved into hers, reckless, terrified and ready, “Then let’s give them a fucking show,”

In the alley behind Tweek Bros., the morning felt quieter than it had any right to.

The coffee steam curled out from rooftop vents, the sound of cutlery and polite applause drifted faintly through the brick walls.

Heidi stood with her back to the alley, phone still warm in her hand. She’d hung up minutes ago, but her thumb twitched against the case like she wanted to call again and double-check that this was really happening.

As she waited, she was humming with the certainty that she was finally steering things back on track.

Eric could whine all he wanted about Kyle “burning down the campus” now that he’d screwed her, but Eric didn’t understand.

He never did.

Kyle wasn’t built for girls like Charli.

Girls who spoke French and whatever else. Who flitted around like pretty little dolls in pink bows and heart-shaped earrings.

Kyle needed grounding, structure, somebody who’d understand his imperfections and harness them, not fan them with wide-eyed trauma and messy nostalgia.

Charli was an outsider. Three weeks in South Park nine years ago didn’t make you a local, no matter how many memories Kyle wrapped around it.

She was a tourist in his life, and Heidi wasn’t about to watch her play house in her town.

She’d done the work. Late nights scrolling through Charli and Martine’s socials, following likes, names, and threads until she landed on Jamal Lafayette.

Jamal was some other cousin, studying Playwriting because the Lafayettes had more money than sense, and through his page she found a man who made her stomach twist.

His profile picture said enough: sharp suit, smug chin tilt, Charli clinging to him in the corner of the frame, like she’d been edited in as an accessory.

He said they’d been together for years, apparently, before she “ghosted,” him.

Heidi latched onto that word. Ghosting wasn’t trauma, it was cowardice. Proof Charli wasn’t stable enough for someone like Kyle.

Footsteps clicked on asphalt, slow, deliberate. Heidi’s stomach fluttered, but she straightened, smoothing her hair, fixing her smile into something composed and diplomatic.

The man who approached didn’t belong in an alley behind a coffee shop.

His clothes were too clean, too tailored, the dark blazer pressed sharp at the shoulders, the gold watch catching in the weak Colorado light.

His hair was perfect, his cologne too strong with crisp notes of leather and cedar that screamed new money trying to smell like heritage. His vowels came out stretched thin and polished, every syllable calculated.

“You must be Heidi Turner,” He said, his voice polite but heavy with practiced authority.

She nodded once, chin tilted up just enough, “And you’re Jacob,”

A smile curved his mouth, genteel, faintly condescending.

“Jacob Aaron Rosenberg the Third,” He corrected, offering his hand like it should mean something.

When she didn’t take it, he let it fall, unbothered, “I wanted to thank you personally for reaching out. You have no idea how much it means to me. Charli... She left without a word. Vanished. I’ve been worried sick,”

“She’s here,” Heidi said carefully, “With friends. Acting like none of it happened,”

Jacob’s expression shifted, just slightly like her words confirmed something he’d already known.

He sighed, running a hand over his jaw.

“She’s been erratic. Before she left, she wasn’t herself. Flights of fancy, paranoia, mood swings. I was doing everything I could to help, and then...” He spread his hands, helpless, “Gone. No explanation. No goodbye,”

The way he said it made Charli sound like a child, too fragile for her own choices. Nothing like the girl who'd stood toe-to-toe with her in the bathroom on campus. Heidi felt a flicker of something that might’ve been guilt, but she buried it.

“I just want to bring her home,” Jacob continued, stepping closer, lowering his voice like they were co-conspirators, “Where she’s safe. Where she belongs,”

Heidi’s throat tightened. She thought of Kyle, desperate and feverish, like he’d finally been given permission to breathe. Then she thought of how quickly that kind of flame burned out and how much wreckage it left behind.

Jacob’s hand brushed her arm, feather-light, “You understand, don’t you? Sometimes people need saving from themselves,”

Heidi’s heart kicked harder, a pulse of adrenaline tightening her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was excitement or fear. Maybe both.

She nodded once, slow, “Tell me what you need me to do,”

Chapter Text

Jacob’s presence was quiet, but it made the air feel colder. Pale skin, sharp dark hair, and a wardrobe so expensive it was almost performance art in a place like South Park. He was older and every line of his posture screamed law student, LSU arrogance lacquered over old money, never quite blending in with the mountain town grit.

He didn’t just stick out, he clashed.

Even standing still, Jacob radiated the smug energy of someone waiting to tell you how things should be done. His eyes were sharp, restless, always dissecting and tallying.

Heidi was already half-hooked, he could see it in the way her jaw tensed when he brushed her arm, how her eyes moved like she was afraid to blink and miss her chance to be useful.

Pawns never realized they were pawns until the board flipped.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice to something confidential, “You’ll hear things about me. Exaggerations. Stories she tells when she’s... In one of her moods,”

He let the pause linger, savoring Heidi’s quick inhale.

“But you’ve seen it. The instability. She’s reckless. Dangerous, even. To herself, and to anyone foolish enough to indulge her,” He tilted his head, gold watch catching the pale morning light, “Like that boy. Broflovski,”

Heidi bristled. He liked that. Anger meant energy, and energy could be pointed.

“Kyle’s not– He’s not stupid,” She muttered, too quick, too defensive.

Her voice cracked, betraying that flicker of panic she always tried to mask under mascara and platitudes. Jacob filed it away, a neat bullet point in his mental case brief: Heidi Turner, invested in Kyle’s fragility, desperate for relevance.

He almost smiled.

“Of course not,” Jacob soothed, “He thinks he’s saving her. But all that righteousness without discipline? That’ll burn out fast,”

His mouth quirked, dangerous and amused, “Tell me, Heidi. When he comes apart, do you want to be the one who steadies him? Or do you want to watch her drag him down with her?”

“Neither. She doesn’t love him,” Heidi said, the words bitter, shaky, “She’s just... She’s making him think she does. He needs to know the truth,”

Jacob stepped past her, close enough she could smell his cologne. Spiced leather, cedar, too rich for this dump of an alley.

“Then we agree,” He bent low, just enough to let the corner of his mouth graze her hairline without quite touching, “She’s not fit for him. She was never fit. I’ll take her back, cleanly, privately. Before she does any more damage,”

Heidi shivered, he couldn’t tell if it was thrill or disgust. Didn’t matter. Either worked.

Her hands curled around her phone like it was a weapon she wasn’t sure how to use.

“And if she fights you?” She asked.

That was when Jacob finally smiled, the mask slipping just enough to flash the shark underneath, “Then I’ll remind her who I am,”

The sound of a door slamming open on the far side of the alley broke the moment. A barista in an apron dragging a trash bag, oblivious.

Heidi flinched, then immediately straightened her posture. Whatever she’d been feeling, she locked it up and threw away the key.

Jacob only straightened his jacket, smoothing the wrinkle her nerves had left in the air.

“One month,” He said softly, gaze flicking to her like a verdict, “That’s all I need to prove it,”

And with that, he stepped out of the shadow of the alley and into the weak daylight, leaving Heidi alone with the sour smell of coffee grounds and the uncomfortable certainty that she’d signed a contract she hadn’t read.

Kenny picked at a carton of sweet and sour chicken, legs sprawled across Martine’s lap.

The TV flickered hellish reds against the wall. She had one hand on his thigh, absently tracing shapes, but her eyes were locked on some final girl limping through the third act bloodbath. Kingston had surrendered and was snoring from the windowsill.

Kenny turned the fortune cookie over in his fingers first, then cracked it clean, careful not to scatter crumbs anywhere near her. He tapped the shards into his palm, shook them into the greasy paper bag on the table, and plucked out the slip like he was fishing a message out of a bottle.

He read it, snorted low in his throat, then offered it with a flourish, like he was handing her a loaded gun.

“Someone mysterious will change your life. That’s gotta be about me, right?” He tapped the fortune lightly on her knuckles, “Gonna make the cut for the memory box, right? Be honest. If it’s not premium enough, I can find a weirder one,”

Martine didn’t blink. She took the paper, rolled it between her fingers, and for a second Kenny felt the knot low in his gut that meant she was actually keeping it.

Like, for real. Not to humor him. Her fingers smoothed it once, twice, then tucked, like she was already slotting the memory into place.

“Yeah,” She looked at him sideways, eyes shiny in the TV glow, “Maybe,”

He grinned, warm spreading through his chest, but something electric crawled over his skin. He wanted to push it, because whenever Martine let him close, it never felt safe for long.

He heard his father’s voice in the back of his skull like a smoke alarm (Don’t need, don’t beg, don’t expect.) and he told it to shut up with the kind of resolve that always sounded better than it felt.

“So how many guys before me got their own shrine?” He asked casually, like he was immune to the answer, but he watched her face closely, “Am I in the Hall of Fame yet?”

Martine’s lips twisted, slow, “Nobody else. Just you,”

Time stopped. It hung in the air and for a second he almost hated her for saying it, because now he was the only one who could fuck it up.

He poked, but softer this time, nudging where it hurt because that’s where things were real, “Why do you keep ‘em anyway? You got a whole graveyard in there,”

“Objects hold charge. They remember what people forget. I keep the proof so nothing gets erased,” She shrugged, voice lower, “People leave, stuff doesn’t,”

He wanted to tell her about walking home with pockets full of ticket stubs and empty lighters because sometimes the only thing you could afford to keep was proof you existed at all. Tiny condemned museums titled Kenny Was Here just in case he ever wasn’t.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re just waiting me out,” He exhaled.

He let it come out naked and small. Martine’s posture stiffened. She didn’t look at him.

“I don’t know how to stop expecting the worst,” Her fingers tightened around the fortune, then she let out a shaky laugh that wasn’t laughter, but a breath escaping from somewhere bruised.

He knew that sound, he’d made it in bathrooms with bad locks his whole life.

She folded the paper in half, “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t bother keeping anything. I’m terrified of you staying. I’m terrified of you going. That’s the truth,”

There it was, laid out like contraband on a table. He could see how hard she was working to keep her spine straight, to stay the queen on the chessboard while her heart rattled the pieces. He’d always loved her for that. She could be decadent and disciplined in the same breath. Her control wasn’t cold, it was survival dressed up as couture.

“It’s insurance. If I’ve got a piece of you, I can call you back. Or keep you safe. Depends how much I care,”

Kenny scooted the cartons a few inches so the table didn’t look like a crime scene, then shifted. That was the thing about him, everyone told him he was reckless, and he was, but the second something mattered he turned precise.

He cupped her face, thumb tracing the ghost of her cheekbone, burning with all the things he wanted to say and nothing that sounded good enough.

“You don’t have to keep me in a box to remember me,” He said, low and rough, “I’m right here,”

Her breath was hot against his palm, eyes scanning his face, pupils huge and blacked out.

He felt her considering him, the way you weigh an omen. He wondered if she could feel his pulse in the palm of his hand and whether she’d file that away too. One more piece of proof to catalogue.

He squeezed, just enough to make her blink, “You hear me? I’m not a ghost,”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth and then back up, a tell he’d learned meant she was thinking about surrender as a strategy, “You’re the first thing I ever wanted to keep. That’s what scares me,”

He leaned in, close enough to smell the hibiscus on her skin, the trace of patchouli that clung to her when she’d been moving things on the altar.

“You’re stuck with me,” He murmured.

Martine pressed her mouth to his, desperate, the fortune still clutched in her hand.

Kenny tasted spice and something iron. He wanted to sink her into the couch, pin her choices to the cushions, make permanence a body weight she couldn’t shrug. He didn’t. He kissed her hungry enough to mean something, holding back enough not to scare her old ghosts.

The horror movie raged on, but nobody on screen was half as doomed as they were.

Kenny’s hands slid to her hips, thumbs pressing in, his body ran on a dozen engines at once, lust, panic, pride and the idiotic joy of being chosen.

He didn’t resent her memory box, he understood it like he understood a well-placed knife. Insurance, she’d said. He wanted to be the kind of man who made insurance obsolete. He also knew better than to promise anything he couldn’t make good on. So he kissed her like a someone learning to keep, not steal.

He kissed her harder, hungry and messy, like he could burn every exit route she’d ever built, just in case she tried to leave anyway.

Stan was elbow-deep in pancake batter, boxers sagging low on his hips, hair standing up like he’d just rolled out of a headlock instead of a warm bed. He’d been humming Usher (loud and shameless) while using Nichole’s favorite spatula as a drumstick on the counter.

He’d had the bright idea to make breakfast for dinner, kitchen was a mess.

Nichole had one of his old t-shirts knotted at her waist, her hair pulled up in twin puffs, bare legs peeking out as she hopped from foot to foot looking for her missing phone.

He didn’t think before saying it, not even a beat, “I’m gonna marry you,”

The words hit the room like a dropped skillet. Stan froze mid-whisk. Nichole stopped, blinking, spatula in one hand and phone in the other, throat tight around a snarky comeback she never got to say.

It was a joke. Sort of. Except, yeah, not at all, actually.

He watched the words hang in the air, waiting for the panic to hit.

Except, it wasn’t his own anxiety this time.

Nichole bolted for the sink, dropped the spatula, and braced both hands on the counter, gagging once before retching into the basin.

Stan stared.

Was he radioactive? Was that a thing? Was this what it felt like to be on the other side of the love-vomit equation?

The sound of her heaving echoed off the tile and his stomach swooped so hard he almost joined her.

“Oh my god, Nichole. Shit. Are you– Did you just..?” He trailed off, “It’s not a proposal, I swear! It was, like, an observation. A Stan Marsh Original Thought. You know I don’t–”

She spat, then rinsed her mouth out with cold water, face bright with embarrassment and, fuck, maybe a little amusement?

“A Stan Marsh Original Thought? You planning on engraving that on a ring?”

Stan groaned.

He wanted to say something cool, something that would explain away the flush crawling up his neck, the heat blooming behind his ears, but all he managed was a strangled, “I mean... I could,”

Nichole straightened, wiped her lips on the back of her hand, and stared with a look that made him feel like he’d just been benched for talking shit to the ref, “Stanley Marsh, are you proposing to me in boxer briefs with syrup on your elbow?”

“I wasn’t– It’s wasn’t–” He blinked, “Not unless you want me to, I mean–”

“Stan,” She warned, but her voice was too soft for it to be anything but affection.

He grinned, relief breaking through, “You’re the one who puked. That’s my thing. You just stole my bit,”

She shook her head, laughing, fingers lacing around his wrist.

He let her pull him in, noses bumping, sticky-sweet. He wanted to kiss her so badly it almost hurt, but there was still that electric, hilarious horror hovering between them. This was new. This was real. The word “marry” tasted wild on his tongue.

“Next time you say something that big,” She murmured into his collarbone, “Give me a little warning. Or at least flowers. And maybe a trash can,”

He barely managed, “No promises,” before her mouth was on his neck.

His phone vibrated on the counter, a buzz slicing through the kitchen’s golden mess. He ignored it, arm wrapping tight around her waist, syrup and batter and all, desperate to memorize the curve of her smile against his skin.

The “Underground Poetry Club” was technically the old rec basement under the student center, curtains taped and glued to cinderblock and a thrift-store rug swallowing a mic stand. The goths called it underground and meant it literally.

Michael tapped the mic with two rings and a sigh like he’d seen too much of the world and found it mid.

“Our next reader is the reason you’ll pretend you understood the last four people,” He intoned, his cane leaned against his leg, “Charlotte Lafayette,”

Charli slid out from behind a curtain that still had a price tag dangling off a staple. She wore a skimpy, silky black dress, no bra, flat-ironed hair falling kissing her collarbones.

The old rec basement shivered around her.

Kyle stood near the back with Stan and Nichole, hands in the pockets of his jacket like he was immune to poetry and also the concept of breasts.

He wasn’t.

He clocked three different flasks doing rounds: Kenny’s metal one vanished into Martine’s purse. A red Solo cup passed with “juice” that could start an engine. Somebody’s water bottle that had a halo of contraband.

The goths called it underground and meant it literally, the campus cops called it not their problem as long as the door stayed shut.

Charli palmed the mic, eyes sweeping the room. A slow drag that lit Kyle up in a way he wanted to fight. He could feel her scanning for him and then pretending she hadn’t found him, which somehow made his cock twitch.

“This one’s called,” She began, her Creole lilt coming through like always it did when any of her emotions ran high, “the wolf at my door,”

A ripple. A few smirks. An eyeroll.

Stan murmured, “Dude, I love wolves,”

Nichole elbowed him without looking away, supportive in a varsity sweater and ready to murder with her eyes if anyone laughed at Charli.

Charli didn’t rush. She watched them settle, the goths folding into themselves like crows.

She touched her lower lip with her thumb and then spoke, low and unhurried:

“He paces,”

She let it hang. The words hovered over the room.

As she continued, Kyle felt her voice settle in his spine, “Moonlight sharpens him to a silhouette, something feral made of fire and frost,”

“Sometimes I dream his coat is red,” She kept her eyes down for that line, like she didn’t want the world to see the thought behind it, and then flicked them up at Kyle, “Fur rough with the pigment of my pulse,”

A graze. Casual. Nuclear.

Kenny leaned into Martine, whispering something dirty that made her shoulders twitch with a smile she smothered in her knuckles. Kyle didn’t catch the words, and had to unclench his jaw before his molars cracked.

“I sleep, but I feel his eyes burn the door,” Charli said, softer, “Waiting for the latch to break, waiting to devour or protect me, I can’t tell which,”

Kyle’s chest tightened. He hated poetry. On principle, on rhythm, on the way people performed feeling like it was a craft.

But she wasn’t performing. She was confessing. She let the mic slide through her fingers just a fraction so it clicked in the stand, and the tiny sound made half the room lean forward.

“In dreams, I open the door,” Here she tilted the mic. The dress caught the light.

She breathed once, visible, and Kyle felt the stupid instinct to put his jacket over her shoulders and his tongue down her throat, protective and obscene in the same breath.

“My wolf creeps in, hungry and right,” She glanced at the ceiling, as if asking if she was allowed to be that brazen, then said it anyway, “His teeth sink deep into my skin, and the red in his coat is mine,”

There was this odd beat, as if the room had to remember it had lungs, and then exhaled in a chorus of applause, snaps and inside jokes about death.

Michael bowed his head. Henrietta nodded once, generous and severe.

A bleached-mohawk kid near the amp muttered “holy shit” into his sleeve.

Nichole started snapping with the kind of perfect timing that made Stan panic and follow along like he was afraid of getting it wrong.

Kenny kissed the hinge of Martine’s jaw as if there weren’t thirty people and a mic a few feet away.

Kyle didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Right,” He muttered, because he couldn’t say the other thing in this room, because she’d written a door with his name filed off and opened it for an audience.

Charli dipped a little curtsy (Show off, Kyle thought) and passed the mic back to Michael, who smirked like he deserved credit. She shouldered past a stack of milk crates and vanished behind the curtain.

Stan leaned in, “You okay, man?”

Nichole murmured, “That was brave,”

“Yeah,” Kyle swallowed, still looking at the curtain, “I’m good,”

He wasn’t good. He could feel her words under his skin like they’d been tattooed in real time. His legs were buzzing. His phone lit up in his hand and he couldn’t remember picking it up.

The flask passed to him, he handed it to Stan without looking.

On stage, Michael started on a monologue about nihilism, something the goths found religious. Kyle heard none of it.

He heard her voice still. Pace, pulse, teeth. He didn’t like being performed at. He did like being chosen.

Charli knew that. Of course she did.

Nichole touched his sleeve, quick.

“Go,” She said, not quite smiling, “Before Eric shows up and makes this weird on purpose,”

Kenny didn’t even look up, “Use protection,”

Martine leaned back, “You’re dismissed, Romeo,”

Kyle rolled his eyes and slipped along the wall.

The curtain swallowed him into a cramped hallway that smelled like dust and mildew. He pushed past a water heater, a pile of bad amps, a few band flyers curling off the wall.

Charli was by an old corkboard, spine propped, ankles crossed, like she’d conjured herself exactly where she knew he’d find her.

“Was it about me?” He asked, and hated how it came out. Too blunt, too hungry.

“Poetry is universal,” Charli said, eyes mean and soft at the same time as she looked up at him, “But if your ears pricked up, that’s on you, Tichen,”

The dress’s strap slid down her shoulder, and she didn’t fix it.

He stepped in, “I don’t like poetry,”

“You don’t like anything that makes you feel stupid,” She said, sweetly, “Good thing I read it slow,”

He laughed once, “You read it like you were daring me to say something,”

“You passed,” She angled her chin up like it would erase the twelve inches of height between them, “Gold star,”

He should’ve said something about how consuming as a metaphor for romance was an overwrought cliche.

Instead he planted a hand to the wall by her head as if the cinderblock had asked him to hold it up, and she inhaled like that counted as a kiss.

“Don’t fuck with me,” It came out lower than he meant.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a plea in disguise.

“You’re not a toy,” She looked up like he’d surprised her, “I don’t play with things I can’t replace,”

That did it. He grabbed her wrist and tugged. She came without drama, small and hot and smelling like lavender and trouble.

They snaked past the soundboard, past a goth girl smoking clove cigarettes who didn’t blink. He shouldered the exit into the alley. Night rolled over them, cold and wet with leftover summer rain, the whole town a dark bowl quiet and streetlights.

The Charger sat there, Martine’s purple paint job luminous under a busted lamp. Stan’s truck brooded at the curb, dull blue, dented, reliable, like a good boy with bad ideas.

“Truck,” Kyle said.

Charli rounded the front of Stan’s old pickup, boots crunching gravel, silk shimmering as she yanked open the driver’s side door and climbed up into the cab. The truck had a single bench seat, cracked and stained.

She didn’t slide across to make room. She stayed planted on the left side like she owned it, like this was her truck now, dress hiked up just enough to show thigh against torn vinyl. Kyle followed anyway and shut the door behind him, the slam echoing across the parking lot.

It was quiet in the cab, just the creak of the old suspension and their breath.

Kyle didn’t speak. He turned toward her, one knee braced up on the bench, his body already angling to trap hers. Charli just leaned back, wrists resting against the edge of the window, her expression unreadable and taunting.

Moonlight bathed her in silver where it touched her throat, her collarbone, the scoop of that ridiculous dress that made it impossible to think straight.

She tilted her head at him, “You gonna just stare at me?”

He pressed forward, pushing her gently but firmly down into the seat. His hand caught behind her knee and slid up slow, like he had all the time in the world to learn her again. Her legs parted just enough to let him settle between them, the bench groaning beneath their weight. His hand flattened on the seat beside her, the other skimmed up her leg to her ribs and landed at her jaw, thumb grazing her mouth.

Charli exhaled like she’d been holding it in since the poem, “You jealous of a metaphor?”

Kyle dipped closer, nose brushing her cheek, his voice rough, “I’m the fucking wolf,”

He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He just hovered, lips grazing skin, her pulse jumping under the point of his teeth. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t talking. She was letting him choose. Which made it worse. Or better. He didn’t know.

“You wrote about me,” He said, breath hot against her ear, “Like I’m always waiting. Like I don’t have a name,”

Her thighs squeezed around his hips and pulled, “You done waiting, Kyle?”

He surged forward, mouth finding hers in a collision that scraped all the restraint out of his spine. Her hands grabbed the front of his jacket, dragging him closer. His fingers slid up her bare thigh, under the hem of the dress. She arched up, her spine curving off the seat, dress twisting higher just to taunt him.

His body braced hers into the seat, his thighs caging hers, his chest pressing her down until she was small, soft and completely underneath him, everything he wanted to own and protect and fuck stupid at the same time.

Their bodies moved together in short, desperate bursts until her dress was around her waist, his belt undone, jeans shoved low enough to make space. He locked her to the bench with his forearm braced above her and his other hand at her hip, drawing her to meet him while the old springs complained.

He sank into her, hungry and right, until there was nothing left to want but more.

Jacob’s month back in Louisiana had been nothing but paperwork and posture. Three days in South Park were more than enough to confirm Heidi wasn’t lying, and he’d left her standing in that alley like a nervous intern who’d just been promised a promotion she didn’t deserve.

Louisiana was humid and slow, but Jacob made it work for him. He returned to his townhouse with the deliberate concentration of a man tightening screws.

His desk stacked itself with ‘concerned’ documents, letters phrased in soft, paternalistic tones, the kind that painted a vivid picture of Charli behaving erratic without using the word. Drafts to administrators and staff at PCCC, each one laced with polite queries about student safety protocols and mental health oversight.

He didn’t accuse, he suggested. Nudged. Left enough implication to sour a reputation without ever staining his own cuffs.

At night, he poured bourbon and reread her old texts like they were testimony. Sweet at first, then sharp. A brat’s voice, brittle pride papering over panic. He knew every inflection, every comma. He could hear her when he closed his eyes. The biting, daring, the little princess who thought she could vanish.

The memory made his skin crawl and burn in equal measure. Control had slipped once, and he wasn’t going to let it happen again.

One month later, South Park greeted him with air that felt too clean, too thin. He had a plan now, neat and airtight: isolate her, box her in, make everyone realize she was the problem until she came crawling back for rescue. She always crawled back.

His phone buzzed. He glanced down, thumb sliding across the glass, and there it was: An alert glowing like an invitation.

Hot Girl Hotline, new episode live. Hosted by Charli, Martine, and the other one. Jacob’s jaw locked.

He slipped one AirPod in, settled against the leather of his rental’s seat, and listened.

Charli’s voice cracked through the speakers. She was laughing at some joke, at herself, at the world. The sound coiled in his chest.

Jacob smiled, slow and sharp. The kind of smile that belonged in courtrooms when juries started to sweat.

“This isn’t freedom,” He murmured under his breath, “It’s delusion,”

His thumb hovered over the volume, turning it up, greedy for every note of her laughter.

Because soon, she’d be laughing for him again.

And this time, she wouldn’t get away.

The ON-AIR light glowed arterial red, and the room seemed to shrink, stale coffee and warm plastic curling in the air.

Charli adjusted her mic, felt the weight of the cans on her hair, and watched the phone bank explode into blinking lines like a slot machine.

Nichole slid faders with surgeon calm, one hand on the talkback button. She shot Charli a look: Behave but make it good.

Martine leaned in, elbows on the desk, gold bracelets chiming soft.

“South Park,” Charli purred, voice sugar cut with razor, “Welcome to Hot Girl Hotline. You already know who it is,”

Martine tapped a nail against her pop filter, “Phones are hot. Keep it cute, keep it honest, don’t waste our time,”

Nichole lifted two fingers, then made a little circle with her finger: Line 2. Spin them.

Charli hit the button.

A boy tumbled onto the airwaves breathless and overeager, “Uh, hey, long-time listener, first-time caller. Okay, so, rumor is, like, we’ve got, um, weird Jewish soulmates on campus–”

“Nope,” Charli said, sweet as poison, “We don’t do folklore. Try again,”

Martine snorted, “The only thing weird on campus is your Google search history, bébé,”

“Boundaries are hot,” Nichole’s voice came cool and efficient from the producer mic, the little red tally lighting for her just long enough to land the line, “So is minding your business,”

“No, I just meant, like, if two people have, like, a–” He fumbled, groping for a word he absolutely did not have permission to use, “A thing that makes them...”

“Rumors are for group chats and cowards,” Charli said, smiling bigger because she liked having something she could slice, “If you’re bored, go to class. Next,”

She clicked him off. Martine glanced over at her, amused. The phones kept screaming.

Charli shifted, her body was its own broadcast: the faint bruise high on her thigh announced itself when she shifted, the ghost of a bite at her collarbone under the neckline of her dress.

Focus. She pressed her knees together under the desk and kept smiling.

Nichole flicked Line 5 on, “You’re live,”

A girl giggled into the void, “Hi, I love you guys, um, okay, question. You’re always giving advice... What are your lives like? Like, actually. Are you okay?”

Martine’s mouth curled, “Define okay,”

“Define life,” Charli let a warm laugh slip, “We’re functioning. Allegedly,”

“And moisturized,” Nichole dropped in.

The caller squealed like she’d been blessed by three petty saints. Charli took the pitch and steered.

“My love life is...” She said, syrupy, like she’d just woken up in a bed that still smelled like somebody else, “Thriving. If my neighbors complain again, it’ll be for noise pollution and our building’s structural integrity,”

Martine fanned herself with a notecard, purring, “You’re gonna owe me for drywall,”

Nichole didn’t look up from the board, but her smile showed in her voice, “Domestic update from me: I’m cute, I’m employed, my plants are still alive, and my man can’t poach an egg without breaking it,”

“Domestic queen,” Martine decreed, “Unfortunately, I am in a committed relationship with a hobosexual,”

Charli laughed into the palm her hand, “Be kind,”

“A hobosexual,” Martine repeated, merciless, “He loves me, he loves my water pressure. He has a key,”

Nichole sighed, “He does wash dishes,”

“He also steals my clothes,” Martine shot back, affectionate even in the roast, “If you see a blonde in a black cashmere sweater with a gold zipper, mind your business,”

Charli’s laugh flicked sharp, then softened. Her phone vibrated under the rim of the console.

It was probably Kyle asking what time she’d be off, if she wanted tacos, if she’d left her notebook at his place, if she could stop pretending she didn’t love when he picked her up by her waist and moved her where he wanted. Control issues were ugly on paper and wickedly pretty when he growled against her throat.

She swallowed that thought before it hit the mic.

“Okay, logistics,” Nichole said, toggling to talkback with them for a beat before bringing herself on-air, “Announcements, then we take another call,”

Martine slid into it like silk, “Since y’all are so invested, come be nosy in person. Hot Girl Hotline goes live at Club Mirador this Friday,”

“Doors at nine,” Nichole added, crisp, “Come party with us,”

“First one hundred girls get in free,” Martine sang, “First one hundred boys cry to the bartender,”

Charli grinned, “Wear something you can dance in,”

The phones leapt. Nichole shot them a look: Campus rumor mill.

Charli took it anyway, because she liked fire, “You’re live,”

A voice slid in, too smooth, “Question for Charli,”

“Make it good,” She said, even as something in her stomach tightened like a string tuning itself mean.

The voice was too deep to be familiar, but the cadence (polite, polished, like money that thinks it’s a personality) brushed old nerves the wrong direction.

“How do you counsel codependency masked as romance?” The caller asked, “Say there’s a boy on campus who thinks he’s a hero and a girl who likes to be rescued. Where’s the line between fantasy and pathology?”

Martine’s head tilted, pleasure gone flat. Nichole’s finger hovered, ready to dump the call. Charli’s mouth smiled on reflex, but her hands slipped under the desk.

Her first instinct was to hang up, call him a bland little troll with a thesaurus, pivot back to lipkits and boundary checklists.

Her second was uglier: explain that some men confuse possession with protection because they’ve never been loved all the way through, and some women learn to treat panic like a hobby because nobody ever taught them gentler ways to breathe. Neither belonged on air. Not like this.

“Here’s a wild thought,” She said, “Two people can be intense without being your business. If you’re not being asked to help, you’re not the lifeguard. Get out of the fucking pool,”

“Some pools,” The caller said, almost laughing, “Are hazards to the community,”

“And some callers,” Martine cut in, velvet turned to steel, “Are cowards trying to diagnose girls they don’t even know,”

Silence on the line. In the studio, you could hear three heartbeats pretending not to race.

The caller’s smile came back thin, “Noted,”

Nichole cut him. The phones screamed louder like the room had been waiting to inhale.

Charli’s hands shook once under the desk and stopped. She felt the ache in her thighs again like a private joke, like proof of life. She had a guy who didn’t talk like that, who kissed like he meant to keep every argument on his own body and not hers. She pictured his hands braced on either side of her in Stan’s truck, the way he said calm down into her mouth while absolutely not calming down, and the heat uncorked low and mean.

Nichole’s voice came in her cans, private channel, “You good?”

“Perfect,” Charli murmured, “Next?”

Nichole nodded and lit Line 1, scrawling harmless on a sticky note and plastering it to the glass.

“Hi!” A new girl chirped, “Just wanted to say, I’m bringing my cousins to Mirador and I’m wearing platforms and low self-esteem. What shade of lip should I–”

“Cherry,” Martine decided, equilibrium restored, mouth already curving like she’d never lost it, “And bring bail money,”

Charli smiled into the mic, pulse settling back into the little groove it had carved for Kyle and trouble and every stupid choice that felt like freedom when she made it herself. The studio smelled like hot plastic, good perfume and a hint of adrenaline baked into carpet.

The next call lit up, blocked number, no caller ID, just a blank line pulsing like a held breath.

Charli tapped the cue light with her nail and looked at Nichole through the glass.

“Put it through,” She said, and didn’t blink.

On Friday night, the elevator had stalled somewhere below the fourth floor, its doors refusing to open while the overhead lights buzzed.

The hallway was alive with footsteps, perfume, laughter, and the push-pull of bodies squeezing past one another.

Kenny nudged the door to 401 shut with his shoe, hair already a mess and laughing too hard. Behind him, Martine emerged in a red dress that draped like it was designed to make eye contact impossible. Gold bracelets were stacked high on her wrist as she fixed her lipstick in the black mirror of her phone.

The door to 402 was open, a soft pink glow spilling across the floor. Charli stepped out in a pink bodycon dress, tugging the hem once like it might suddenly behave, before tossing her sleek hair over her shoulder.

Kyle’s palm stayed firm against the small of Charli’s back as she stepped into the crowded hall. Her perfume hung in the stale apartment air, and he almost forgot the noise around them.

Then Cartman barreled past, swinging a golf club like it glued to his hand, the head of it missing Charli’s ass by inches as he moved towards the elevator.

“Cartman,” Kyle growled, “You don’t have enough lives left to pull shit like that around me,”

Cartman didn’t even slow down.

“Relax, I’m just trying to escort the ladies to the elevator so they can finally fucking leave,” He said, smirking over his shoulder like he’d invented chivalry with a side of homicide.

Kyle shifted forward, ready to rip the club straight out of his hands and introduce it to Cartman’s skull, but Charli’s elbow pressed sharp into his ribs.

From 403 came the squeak of sneakers and Stan’s voice.

“Babe, I got it,” He mumbled as he tugged Nichole’s zipper smoothly up the back of her yellow dress. She stood tall under his hands, curls gathered high in a pineapple puff, one hand steady on the doorframe while the other adjusted the strap of her purse. Stan brushed her shoulders like he was sealing the whole outfit shut before she swept past him into the hall.

Further down, Wendy adjusted the bust of her purple dress, tugging the fabric up to ensure there’d be no wardrobe malfunctions. Tolkien hung at her side, calm as ever in a collared shirt, phone in hand, a stabilizing presence against the chaos.

The hallway looked like a backstage lineup, heels clicking, sneakers squeaking, voices overlapping, perfume and cologne tangling in the air. Too many bodies, not enough space. The girls glittered, the guys cluttered, and the night hadn’t even started.

Kingston parked himself squarely in front of the elevator doors like a bowling ball with opinions. His tail whipped contempt into the air. He stared up at Charli, then at Martine, then at the elevator, and yowled the long, widow-at-a-wake kind of cry.

Martine crouched and rubbed his chin.

“He doesn’t want us to go,” She said, half to Kingston, half to the hallway.

“We could bring him to Guys’ Night,” Kenny offered as he hovered behind her, “He might have separation anxiety. Or FOMO,”

The guys all groaned in unison.

Tolkien made a sound like someone offered him food from a bathroom floor, “We’re not bringing a live animal to Guys’ Night,”

“Speak for yourself,” Cartman said, squinting at Kingston like he could already see him in a tiny jersey, “If the cat shows up, I’m making him our mascot,”

“No pets,” Stan added quickly, “Last time was a nightmare,”

He glanced over at Nichole, who was already looking at him, amused and a little washed-out around the edges. She had her purse glued to her hand and gum tucked in her cheek, and she reached for his wrist the way she always did when she wanted him to relax.

He went steady like he’d been waiting all day to be told.

Wendy crossed her arms as she glanced from Cartman to the cat.

“Okay,” She said, sweeping her phone up for a quick 180 of all their faces, “We’re going to dance, get content, and leave every man on read,”

“I’m escorting you downstairs,” Tolkien told her, following down the hall.

Wendy tipped her chin toward him like a queen acknowledging a useful knight, then turned the camera on him.

“How to know an Econ major is into you,” Wendy whispered to the mic, “He offers securities,”

She slipped the phone into a her purse like she’d put him in there too, “We’ll be fine,”

Kyle ignored all of it and watched Charli. The pink dress played dirty with the hallway light. He could smell her skin under all the perfume, the ghost of his mouth on her shoulder where his teeth had gotten ambitious earlier.

Cartman clapped once, loud, “Hate to interrupt foreplay, but Mirador is waiting and I already used up my ‘seen in public with you people’ quota for the month. Can we move this along?”

Martine didn’t bother to look at him, “Eric, breathe near me again and I’ll have Kingston claw your eyes out,”

He sucked in a breath to argue and coughed on it instead.

Kingston yowled and Martine’s hand paused in the cat’s fur. Things flickered behind her eyes, math nobody else got to see. She looked down the hall, toward the stairwell, like it was a second elevator waiting to offer a different night.

“He’s being dramatic,” She exhaled, re-holstering composure, “We’ll be fine,”

“Because it’s a cat,” Nichole murmured, gentle and dry. She dug a forefinger into Stan’s hoodie pocket and reeled him in. He bent as if gravity itself reeled him in.

Kyle kept failing to stop touching Charli. Thumb along her spine. A half-step closer. The quiet tilt of his mouth to hers.

Something they could pretend was casual if the hallway grading panel felt merciful.

It didn’t feel casual. She tasted like something that made people start religions.

She chased him when he tried to be decent and pull away, turning a single kiss into two and then into almost three. He held her hips too long. She smiled into his mouth, pleased in a way that ran straight into his bones.

“Guys,” Stan said plaintively, “Some of us are trying to watch a game tonight,”

Nichole pinched his side, and he went bashful immediately, which should not have been hot and was.

Tolkien, unfazed, addressed the group at large, “I’m ordering food. Something with protein. Electrolytes. We’re not repeating the last time,”

Kenny perked up, “Protein? Like wings? Sliders? Get sliders for the cat,”

“No cat,” Tolkien huffed.

“Hard line,” Stan echoed, “No cats, no strip poker, and if Cartman turns on golf at Guys’ Night I’m leaving,”

“I turn on golf one time,” Cartman pretended to be wounded, “And suddenly I’m the asshole. Meanwhile, the women are on CP time and take forty minutes to leave a hallway,”

“You’ll live,” Wendy chirped, phone out again, already framing Charli and Nichole for a ten-second story, “Smile like you’re not about to doomscroll our night,”

“Don’t go crazy,” Kyle told Charli under the chatter. It came out like a warning, like a beg disguised as a rule. He hated the sound of it but didn’t take it back, “If you step outside, text. Stay together,”

“You’re not my dad,” She said, amused and warm.

“Thank fucking God,” He kissed her again, faster than his pride could stop him.

When he broke it, he thought he was being disciplined. She made a small sound that obliterated that fantasy and followed his mouth for one more hit, a quick mean press that said mine in a language not approved by the elevator.

Cartman stabbed the elevator button again, “Get moving,”

The elevator dinged. Kingston’s ears flattened. Martine’s hand tightened around the cat’s middle.

She looked like she might call the whole thing off, yank the night back into 401 and lock the door.

The girls were already moving though. Wendy backwards into the cab, filming, Nichole with a last squeeze to Stan’s wrist, Charli turning at the threshold to look at Kyle one last time.

“Be reachable,” Martine told Kyle, gaze levelled right at him. Not a suggestion. An agreement.

“I will,” He said. He meant it like a vow, heard it like a threat to his own self-control.

“Be good,” Charli murmured.

“Not really my brand,” He said, too fast.

The doors kept closing. Kingston stretched both paws toward the gap like he could pry the night apart. Cartman scooped him up.

Kyle stepped forward without deciding to, and Martine’s voice cut through the hum.

“Answer,” She said, not loud, not soft, “If I call,”

He nodded once while the phone buzzed again and Cartman muttered, “Three... two...”

The elevator swallowed the girls with a polite chime.

Club Mirador was already humid and strobing by the time the Hot Girl Hotline girls made their entrance. Charli leading, Martine dead center, Nichole and Wendy at her sides. Their drinks hadn’t even been poured yet and the room had already clocked them. Phone screens lifted like periscopes. Girls whispered. Boys stared too long.

The air pulsed. Sweat, glitter, spilled tequila, perfume that smelled like sex and citrus warfare. Upstairs was strategy, where the predatory glitterati loomed over the main floor like gods of poor impulse control. Downstairs was where the bodies ground together like tectonic plates.

Tonight, Mirador wasn’t a club. It was a stage. And HGH was live.

Charli’s voice was already halfway gone from the pre-party meet-and-greet, but she didn’t care. The grin was glued on, glitter caught in the corner of her eye, and the pink dress she was poured into was working overtime. People had lined up outside just to say a sentence into their mic, call into the hotline, say something stupid, get roasted. Martine had her heel on someone’s foot within ten minutes. Nichole had already confiscated four boys’ phones and two of their hopes and dreams.

“Who hurt you the worst?” The last girl had asked, breathless and grinning.

Martine answered without recoil, “Probably me,”

Now they were deep in it, fully submerged.

Martine was calling shots like a general, “One for bravery, one for bitches, one for never texting first,”

Charli tipped them all back.

She wasn’t drunk. She was warm. Humming under the skin. That kind of burn that made you reckless enough to start believing your own hype.

Wendy found them near the bar, already filming. She’d slipped away earlier, doing her usual recon, collecting clips for HGH social media accounts, talking to people in cool shoes, probably texting one of her polyglot exes about late-stage intimacy theory just to keep things interesting.

“Any creeps yet?” She asked, eyes flicking over the crowd like she was planning to identify and roast one on camera.

“Just one,” Nichole said, pointing, “That guy tried to show me his abs and a Bible verse at the same time,”

“Of course,” Wendy muttered, “Anyway, everything I’ve posted tonight? The comments are unhinged,”

Charli laughed. She wasn’t faking that part. Not exactly.

She was sweating. Not from dancing. From all the eyes. From the closeness. From how good it felt to be wanted, then instantly ashamed of wanting it. She leaned against the bar, her plastic cup half full and already losing it’s chill, watching the swarm of bodies blur into heat and color and bass.

Her phone buzzed. Nichole plucked it from her hand like clockwork, sliding it into the cleavage of her dress like a vault.

“We made a pact,” she said calmly, dancing in place, “No guys. No texting. No bathroom crying,”

“I’m not crying,” Charli said.

“You’re going to start spiraling,”

“I’m vibing,” Charli snapped, biting the rim of her cup.

Nichole laughed, “So we’re lying now,”

Charli flipped her off. Wendy cackled.

The song changed, and Wendy dragged them all into the pit before Charli could fall further into her own head. The floor was vibrating. Charli danced like the heat would burn her clean if she just stayed in it long enough.

That worked for a few songs.

Then it didn’t.

It crept in slow. The burn in her throat. The tightness behind her knees. A phantom pressure on her wrist where Kyle’s fingers had gripped her earlier. Her body still remembered him. Not the sex. The aftermath. The ache. The soft apology between his teeth. The kiss he hadn’t meant to give her on the elevator. The way he couldn’t stop kissing her.

God, she’d liked it.

He made her feel...

Her brain slammed the brakes. Don’t go there. Don’t do this here. She could handle one night away. What’s one more ontop of the three-thousand she’d been away from him over the last nine years?

Charli ducked through the bodies and found the wall, planting herself near the exit sign like it could light her way back to sanity. Martine joined her a beat later, sliding a drink into her hand and watching the crowd.

“You okay?” Martine asked.

“Define okay,”

Martine didn’t smile, “Do I need to drag you home?”

“No,” Charli said, “I’m just hot,”

“Then talk to me,”

“I don’t want to talk,”

Martine gave her a long, level look, then shifted her weight and didn’t press. The silence was weighty enough.

Charli looked back at the crowd, “I think I’m waiting for him to blow it,”

Martine didn’t pretend not to know who she meant.

Charli kept going, “Like. I’m here. I’m with you. I’m drinking free drinks in a dress I can’t sit down in. I’m having a good time. And I still feel like if I blink wrong, he’s gonna change his mind. Like there’s a countdown,”

“You think he’s leaving?” Martine asked.

“No. But I think everyone does. Eventually,”

Martine was quiet for a moment, then sipped her drink and said, “You know that’s your trauma talking, right?”

Charli snorted, “You say that like it’s not hot,”

“It’s not,”

“Then why do men love it?”

“Because they’re broken,”

Charli smiled, sharp and a little drunk now, “So am I,”

They stood like that for a second, two girls, two drinks, too much history. Then Wendy passed by, yelling something about a twerking contest, and Martine peeled off to supervise.

Charli didn’t follow. She stayed put, watched the exit sign glow and flicker. Her heart stuttered like it was skipping a beat for something that hadn’t even happened yet.

A group of girls nearby was doing a TikTok sound, laughing and slurring through it.

“Don’t text your emotionally destabilizing ex,” one of them said.

Charli pulled herself upright, and rolled her shoulders back.

The roof of the apartment building was sticky with heat and dude energy. Beer cans sweating on patio tables, the Broncos game casting flickering oranges and blues over the rooftop pool bar, and Cartman gleefully launching golf balls off the side of the building like God gave him permission to do crimes.

Kyle sat perched on a pool lounger, thumbs twitching over his phone, screen brightness cranked all the way up. Charli’s Instagram story was grainy and fast: neon lights, hands in the air, the shape of her back moving to the beat, some guy’s silhouette too fucking close.

It could’ve been anyone. Could’ve been no one. The point was that it wasn't him.

And that she was glowing. And that he wasn't there.

“Dude, you're gonna pop a vein,”

Kyle barely looked up as Tolkien handed him a beer. Kingston was flopped on a towel next to Kenny, who had brought the cat anyway. Kingston was licking his paw, because the lion never concerns himself with the whims of boys from Colorado.

Tolkien sidestepped Kingston and shot Kenny a glare.

"He's fine," Kenny said, "It’s summer. Let the boy live,”

"He's a cat on a roof," Tolkien snapped.

Kyle wasn’t listening. His phone vibrated again. Another story. This one from Wendy.

Bathroom mirror. Charli in the reflection, back arched slightly as she leaned over the sink. Flash from the phone camera caught the pink dress, short, skin-tight, inching up one thigh like it wanted to flash the audience. The audio was clipped from Pick It Up by Cardi B.

Kyle locked his jaw so hard his molars clicked.

His thumb hovered.

He could reply. He could say something hot. Say something needy. Say Who the fuck is that guy, Say I hope he chokes.

He didn’t.

“Kyle,” Tolkien said, “Give me your phone,”

Kyle ignored him.

"You’re doomscrolling. Hand it over,”

“Dude,” Stan added from his folding chair with an empty shot glass in hand, “It’s Guys Night. Come be insufferable with us in real time instead of through Instagram,”

“You're whipped,” Tolkien said flatly.

“He's in love," Kenny corrected, “It’s hot,”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kyle muttered, still scrolling.

Then a thirst trap post. Not a story. A full post.

Charli in the club bathroom, lips parted, lashes low. The flash caught her collarbones, the glint of a gold choker. Dress still pink. Still unfair. Captioned what time do mistakes start?

Kyle made a low noise in his throat, half growl, half whimper.

Tolkien snatched the phone.

“Nope,” Tolkien said, slipping it into his back pocket like a smug older sibling, “You’re off the clock,”

Kyle surged forward, then immediately stopped when Kingston launched himself into his feet like a weighted blanket with claws. He hissed. Kyle nearly hissed back.

“He’s protecting you,” Kenny said, petting the base of the cat’s tail, “From yourself,”

“You’re all insufferable,” Kyle snapped, “You brought a fucking cat,”

“I brought a companion,” Kenny corrected, “He’s more emotionally intelligent than Cartman,”

“I heard that,” Cartman said from the edge of the roof, lining up another golf swing.

He whacked the ball into the dark with a terrifying thwack.

Stan’s voice hit the group again like a stray firework that hadn’t gone off earlier.

“I told Nichole I’m gonna marry her. She blew chunks in the sink,”

The rooftop stilled, save for the low drone of the game behind them and Cartman teeing up another ball like he was trying to hit Wyoming.

Kyle blinked, “Wait. You what?”

Stan sipped his beer.

“I didn’t propose,” He said quickly, “I just said I was gonna marry her,”

“Was it before or after she puked in the sink?” Tolkien asked, deadpan.

Stan winced, “Right before,”

Kenny let out a wheeze and dropped onto the chaise lounge, laughing so hard he almost sloshed his drink onto the cat.

“She was being hot! I was cooking making pancakes,” Stan said, defensive now, “It was intimate,”

Kyle gawked at him, “Are you insane?”

“She smiled after,” Stan muttered.

“No she didn’t,” Kenny grinned.

“She absolutely didn’t,” Tolkien confirmed.

Stan kicked the side of Kenny’s chair weakly, “Shut the fuck up. You brought a fucking cat,”

Kingston, mid-purr, glared at him, and sauntered over to Eric.

Cartman leaned down to scratch under Kingston’s chin like they were in some goddamn Hallmark movie.

“Can we talk about how all your girlfriends are Black or half-Black?” Cartman said casually, voice lilting as he massaged the cat’s cheeks, “Statistically? Kinda sus,”

Kyle’s jaw snapped shut. Kenny blinked. Stan froze. Tolkien sighed like he was only surprised this didn’t happen sooner.

Cartman kept petting, “It’s giving fetish. Like you're trying to fix racism with your dicks or something? You think you’re heroes?”

Kingston hissed. Loud. Violent. Cat-equivalent of an airhorn.

Cartman didn’t flinch.

“Relax, I’m making a point,” He resumed scratching and Kingston being a traitorous little bastard, settled in and let him.

Kyle stared at the scene like it broke physics, “Are you–? Did you really just say that while petting Martine’s cat?”

“It’s called multitasking,” Cartman shrugged.

“You’re unbelievable,” Tolkien said.

“Funny, considering you told me that you fucked Alizé in some backroom at Tweek Bros,” Kenny announced, grinning like he’d just thrown a live grenade onto the table.

Cartman’s face froze.

Kyle whipped around, “What?”

“Yeah,” Kenny said, delighted, “Next to the mop bucket. Same one Stan barfed in junior year,”

“You’re fucking Alizé?” Kyle snapped, “After everything with Heidi? And you’ve got the balls to come at me about Charli?”

“She begged for it,” Cartman smirked, “Who am I to deny a pretty girl a BWC?”

“You’re a chud with a god complex,” Kyle said, “You don’t get to moralize from a cum-stained utility closet,”

Cartman smirked, “Don’t kinkshame me,”

Kyle’s phone buzzed in Tolkien’s back pocket.

Again.

Then again.

Everyone fell quiet.

He pulled it out, glanced at the screen. Paused.

Kyle tensed, “Who is it?”

Tolkien didn’t answer right away.

Buzz.

Buzz.

He turned the screen so Kyle could see. Just the name.

Heidi.

Mirador pulsed like a living thing, hot and mean and a little too close. Charli had timed the first thirst trap for maximum psychological warfare. Her dress flirting with insubordination on one thigh and handed Wendy her phone for a second pass, a smarter one. They’d posted within ninety seconds of each other, twin missiles aimed at the same boy.

He hadn’t bitten.

Fine. Totally fine. She wasn’t tethered to him, she was tethered to a beat. The bass rumbled up through the soles of her heels and rattled her ribs, all that neon fog turning strangers into heat signatures and false promises.

“You’re chewing your straw,” Nichole said, sidling up with one hip cocked.

Charli spat the straw back into her cup, “Mind your business,”

Nichole handed her a highball she hadn’t ordered, “Random guy bought me this. He’s wearing three chains and calling women queens unironically. I’m being respectful by giving his money to my friend,”

Charli sniffed it, gin and something green, then took a sip as Wendy swooped in recording.

“We’re live,” Wendy said to no one, to everyone, “Hot Girl Hotline at Mirador! Come make some bad decisions!”

Martine followed, sliding a lime across the bar with two fingers, “We are not catching anyone’s lawsuit tonight,”

“I’m litigious-proof,” Wendy said, “My ex did adjunct hell,”

“You dated an adjunct?” Charli blinked, “Ew,”

“I date brains,” Wendy shrugged, “Sometimes they come attached to men,”

“Tell your adjunct to adjunct some self-awareness into the guy who bought Nichole a drink,” Charli said, sipping again, “He keeps hovering like a drone,”

“You okay?” Nichole asked, low, with the uncanny accuracy of a woman who could spot a tremor through a strobe. She placed the untouched gin back in Charli’s hand.

“Am I ever?” Charli said, the joke didn’t even make it to her mouth before it curdled, “I’m fine,”

“You don’t have to be,”

“Please don’t therapize me,” Charli muttered, and then smiled to take the edge off, “I’m good. Go supervise Wendy before she interviews a bouncer about his skincare,”

Nichole held her gaze for a second longer than comfortable, then handed Charli her phone and moved. Martine, who had been doing math on the room the entire time, flicked her eyes at Charli. It was an offer: stay under the lights, under the gaze, under her wing. Charli made the contrary choice on instinct.

Air. She needed air that didn’t smell like seven brands of desperation.

She slipped along the wall, past a pyramid of empty Red Bull cans masquerading as decor, and out the side door to the narrow curbside where people came to disappear for ten minutes at a time. The night hit warm and damp, the kind of summer heat that stuck to your knees and made the town feel like it was breathing in your ear.

Charli leaned her shoulders to the brick and let the neon bleed over her skin. The sounds of the club turned into a familiar, distant throb. Her phone vibrated against her palm. She glanced at it, thumb hovering..

Don’t text him.

Don’t.

She opened their messages anyway. The last thing from him was earlier in the evening:

7:06 PM 💬 Kyle: You’d look ridiculous in my jersey. Don’t try it.

Bossy. Hot. Infuriating. He hadn’t called. He hadn’t replied to her stories. He was out being a man on a roof under a stupid TV with his stupid friends and a cat, probably, because Kenny couldn’t not make a sitcom out of real life.

She typed: Are you alive?

Deleted it.

Typed: I look hot.

Deleted that faster.

Typed: Think about what you did to me and don’t touch yourself.

Her pulse kicked at the same moment her thumb did. She didn’t send it. She stood there with the words glowing like a dare, like a sin, like a demand she didn’t want to admit she wanted to make.

Her finger hovered, her mouth went dry, and then the heat shifted like the night had inhaled and decided she needed a different problem.

Footsteps. Expensive leather on the pavement. A scent that made her stomach turn. Bourbon, ambergris and leather.

She didn’t look up right away. Couldn’t.

“Charlotte,” Jacob said evenly, “You’re scaring everyone back home,”

Tolkien handed Kyle’s phone over like it was a live bomb.

10:55 PM 💬 Heidi: I’m in the parking lot.

The next ping hit before Kyle finished processing the first.

10:56 PM 💬 Heidi: I can’t breathe.
10:56 PM 💬 Heidi: I really need to talk to someone.
10:57 PM 💬 Heidi: I heard you’re at Stan’s new place.
10:57 PM 💬 Heidi: I’m downstairs.

Kenny whistled low, “If she says she’s pregnant, call Maury,”

“Neutral, open area. Be smart,” Tolkien said, already in logistics mode, “Outside. No closed doors. Don’t stand between her and her car,”

Cartman raised a finger from the driving range he’d created, “Tell her to take deep breaths and then tell her to go fu–”

“Kyle,” Tolkien cut in, “Balcony. We’ll cover your six,”

They moved. Chairs scraped. Cans clinked. Kingston trotted after them. Down the stairwell, across the hall, into 403 and onto balcony that hung over the cracked asphalt like a cheap VIP box. The flatscreen glow from the pool bar didn’t reach here, they blended into the dark, four idiots and a cat.

Kyle’s heart hammered his ribs like someone trying to kick a door. He could feel the text in his pocket like it was a living thing he wanted to smother.

Charli’s bathroom post flashed uninvited in his head, lip bitten, dress cheating up her thigh. He pocketed the thought and forced himself down the interior stairs, out the auto-lock, into the night air that smelled like hot tar and someone’s poorly maintained engine.

Heidi was exactly where she said, under the jaundiced cone of a lamp post, hugging herself into a shape that read Damaged but Photogenic. Hair too neat for crisis. Lips too glossy. She had her keys between her fingers like claws, which would’ve been impressive if he hadn’t watched her practice the move in a mirror once.

“Kyle,” She said, breath hitching on his name, “I– Can you just...”

He stopped a car-length away. Close enough to talk. Far enough to think.

“What’s going on?”

“I can’t breathe,” She put a hand to her sternum, pressed like she could push the panic back inside.

“Everything is... Loud. I feel crazy. Did you ever have that thing where it’s like you’re underwater, and you can hear everything and nothing, and–” She looked up at him, “You’ve always been good at talking,”

From the balcony above, metal rattled, Kenny leaning on the rail. Kyle didn’t look up. He could feel them up there anyway: Kenny, Tolkien, Stan. Cartman breathing too loud. Kingston peeking between bars like a furry gargoyle.

He kept his voice measured. The good-kid tone he hated using but knew how to wear, “Okay. Walk me through it. When did this start?”

“Weeks ago,” She said, too fast stepping closer, “I can’t sleep. I keep thinking you hate me. Everyone hates me. I know people think I’m...” She swallowed, teared up, “I made mistakes. I get it. I’m just... Alone. I thought I had friends. I thought you,”

She shut her mouth, stopped in her tracks and let the sentence dangle like bait.

Guilt came in thin cold waves, reflexive and stupid. He let one wash over him and then counted five breaths to let it pass.

“You could’ve texted one of your friends,” He said gently.

“Who? Bebe thinks I’m drama. Red is Switzerland. Kelly is...” A quick, guilty flinch, “Not someone I could talk to,”

From above, a soft hiss, Kingston issuing a judgment. Kyle ignored it.

“Do you want water?” He said, “We can get you something,”

“No,” She took one more quick step, “I don’t want to go inside. I just– Can I talk to you? Five minutes. You’re the only person who looks at me like I’m not...”

She gestured vaguely, “Like I’m not the worst things I’ve ever done,”

Kyle tasted bitterness. That used to be true. He’d always been too ready to give her the benefit of the doubt, to believe her at her neatest, most practiced. The muscle memory wanted to flex. He made it hold still.

From the balcony, Cartman whispered, “If she tries to kiss him I’m pulling the fire alarm,”

“Shut up,” Tolkien whispered back.

If Heidi heard anything, she didn’t react. Somewhere the ambient club bass from Mirador throbbed across town, a distant heartbeat. It made Charli exist in the space between Heidi’s words. Like static around the signal. Like the taste of the kiss in the elevator cut through with tequila and want.

“You don’t have to fix anything,” Heidi said, softening, “Just be here. Talk. Tell me I’m not crazy,”

“You’re not crazy,” He said “You’re overwhelmed. That’s different,”

Her mouth trembled. She looked pretty when she cried, she always had. It was the problem.

“You were always so good at making sense of me,” She took another stoft step forward.

He took an easy step backward and shoved his hands in his pockets so he didn’t look like he wanted to hold her the way he used to when he was dumb.

Her eyes cut to his knuckles anyway.

“Are you seeing her tonight?” She asked, like it was an accident, like she was catching up on the weather.

He shrugged, “It’s Guys’ Night,”

He focused on the task at hand.

“Name five things you can see,” He said.

She laughed like he’d told a joke, “Kyle,”

“Humor me,”

Heidi looked around, shivering on purpose, “A lamp. Stan’s truck. That crack in the asphalt that looks like a hole in the world,”

She squinted over his shoulder, “Your friends spying on us,”

Kyle didn’t give the balcony the satisfaction of looking up.

“Four,” he said.

Heidi’s gaze swung back to him.

“You,” she said, small. It landed with embarrassing accuracy, “And my hands. I’m shaking,”

“You’re doing fine,” He said. He meant it, which annoyed him.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. She flinched and killed the screen so fast he didn’t get a glimpse.

He knew the shape of avoidance like he knew his own, and this was it, dressed as fragility. The night air felt thicker. He thought about how long this needed to last before it became something else, something he couldn’t justify to Charli or to himself. He thought about the way Charli had looked at him in the elevator.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Once. Again. He let it go the first time, the second, he fished it out and glanced down.

11:03 PM 📱 Missed Call: Fatass

11:04 PM 💬 Tolkien: Two minutes, then wrap.

“Do you ever think about how we were? Like, before everything got...” Heidi’s hand fluttered, “Complicated,”

He stalled. Not because he didn’t have an answer. Because every answer had a price, and he didn’t know which currency she was charging tonight.

“Sometimes,” He said, “When I’m grading papers in my head and need a worse task,”

She huffed a laugh through her nose, and the wet in her eyes turned glossy, performative. The club bass rattled a bottlecap near the curb. Somewhere above, Kingston knocked something off a railing in solidarity.

“I don’t want to get between you and...” She stopped, bit her lip, corrected: “Whatever you’re doing right now. I know you hate me,”

“I don’t hate you,” He said. Truth, inconveniently.

The silence went chemical. She twisted her keys, metal teeth flashing. Her phone buzzed again in her palm, she palmed it behind her thigh like a magician hiding a coin.

“Will you walk me to my car?” She asked, “I’ll go. I swear. This lot is just creepy,”

Kyle fired a look at the shadow of her driver’s side. Nothing there. Nothing obvious.

From the balcony, Cartman snorted, “Clock’s ticking, man,”

Heidi stepped closer, reaching like she might touch his sleeve, like muscle memory might do the rest.

“Please,” she said, voice small and miserably sweet.

“I know I made it hard. I’m trying. I’m trying so hard. Just don’t leave me out here with–” She broke off and stared past his shoulder, smile going tight, “Never mind,”

Kyle didn’t look where she was looking. He kept his eyes on her and his hands on the line he’d drawn in his own head, the one that separated being decent from being a fucking idiot.

His phone buzzed again, insistent against his palm, and the balcony rail gave a tiny metallic whine like someone leaned too hard. He toggled it onto silent.

“Five more minutes?” Heidi asked softly.

Charli had the text half-typed, when she saw him.

Jacob. Strolling up to her like they were back on his porch. A manila envelope tucked under one arm.

“You’re scaring everyone back home,” He said.

She let the phone go dark, “You don’t get to be here. Go,”

He smiled the way he smiled at ushers and cops, “Baby, c’mon. Don’t be like that,”

She flinched, “Don’t call me that,”

He shifted, took her in like a clinician noting symptoms,“I flew in because I care. Everyone’s worried. I’m worried,”

“Book a therapist, not a flight,”

He tipped his chin toward her.

“Heard you’re... Wrapped up with someone,” The pause was performative, “Kyle. That the name? He’s on your socials. Campus mentions him. Temporary itch, right? You get itchy when you’re like this,”

“Stop talking,” She snapped, “And you don’t get to call him anything,”

He absorbed the hit with a pleasant sigh, “You didn’t leave because you wanted to, Charli. You were scared. You’ve always been scared. You run during episodes,”

She laughed like it was scraping out her insides, “I left because I wanted to keep breathing,”

“I’m sure you believe that. Martine is manipulating you,” He went on patiently, “She always pushed you. Kept you from your better judgment. But I forgive you. Come home. We can fix this before it gets worse,”

“Fuck off,” She said, clean and bright, “I am home,”

He studied her, then softened his voice, almost fatherly, “That’s not you talking. You’re not acting like yourself,”

She lifted her chin toward the smeared pink light on the brick, caught her own reflection: hair tussled, dress too tight, mouth stubborn, eyes clear.

“I finally am,”

He sighed like she’d failed a test he wrote.

“This is an episode. Everyone sees it,” The manila envelope came up into the neon, officious and insultingly tidy.

“And before you spiral, I already spoke to PCCC. Housing. The dean’s office. I told them I’m concerned. Family is concerned. I brought copies. Evidence,” He tapped the flap with a fingernail, “Screenshots. Notes. Your aunt’s aware,”

Her stomach flipped. Heat flashed cold. Mosquito welts lit up in memory. Pages shredded and stuffed in the sink, her hands wet and small while she fished herself out in pieces. The club’s bass fell away, replaced by that thin, high ringing in her ears that meant wrong timeline, wrong room, wrong him. Her chest felt tight and heavy at the same time. Like she couldn't catch a breath.

“Stay with me,” He murmured, like he’d felt it too. He reached without asking and found her elbow. Not hard. He didn’t need hard. Just pressure dressed as care.

“There you go. Let’s get you out of the noise. We’ll talk in the car,”

The old program fired. He guided, her feet considered obeying. She hated that. The sidewalk tilted. She planted. He gave the smallest tug and her chest snapped shut. Heels bit concrete. Her breath misfired.

“Easy, baby,” Soothing, the way you say it to a dog you’re luring back into a crate.

“Don’t–” Her voice sounded distant to her own ears, “Don’t call me that,”

“You’re tired. This is when you get tired,” He angled her toward the lot, keeping her vision low, “I’ve got you,”

If she looked up, her hands would shake. If she stepped, she’d be back in Louisiana, phone dead, welts on ankles, collecting ripped pages like confessing to a crime. He was building a case like he always did. His voice the evidence, her silence the signature.

A door opened up behind her. The club spit out bad decisions in perfume. Wendy first, phone lifted like a ward, Nichole next, and Martine two steps later, slower, eyes doing the math that always ended in someone else paying.

Jacob didn’t look at them yet. That was the trick, pretend there’s only one person in the scene until the others get loud.

“You’re not thinking straight,” He told Charli gently, “That boy will get bored, this town will eat you alive. I’m offering a soft landing, and you know you need it,”

Now he looked up, finally cataloging the threat: influencer, enforcer, judge. Envelope lowered a centimeter.

“Evening,” He said, bland, to the trio.

“Step back,” Nichole ordered.

Martine didn’t blink as she stormed towards him, “Get the fuck away from her,”

Wendy angled the camera and smiled like she smelled blood, “Hi! Quick question: how do you say ‘no solicitors’ in creep?”

Martine didn’t waste a single second. She put her hand on Charli’s shoulder. The touch clicked Charli together. Breath, spine, name. The ring in her ears thinned to manageable static.

Her voice came back meaner, “We said go. You don’t belong here. Leave,”

Jacob held Martine’s gaze one polite beat too long, did the calculation again, and found new math: wrong night, wrong ratio, wrong optics. He pasted on a neighborly smile, slid the envelope under his arm, and brushed a speck og lint from his sleeve.

“We’ll finish later,” He said to Charli, not looking away from her, “Text me when you’re done pretending,”

“Fuck off,” Charli and Martine hissed together.

He turned. The night took him in three casual strides, his shoes loud until they weren’t.

Charli stayed planted because she didn’t trust her legs not to follow an order they’d been trained to hear. The second the corner swallowed him, her body mutinied.

She stumbled towards a hedge by the door. Barely. She heaved, ugly and loud, palms scraping brick. Tears hot and involuntary. It felt like dragging a hook out of flesh. It felt like saying no with your whole stomach.

“Good,” Wendy muttered, soothing and savage, “Get him out,”

Nichole gathered Charli’s hair without asking, firm and competent, “Breathe. In. Out. Again,”

Martine positioned herself to block the street. Her phone lit her thumbs as they moved. Charli didn’t need to see the screen to know.

“Don’t,” She rasped, spitting, eyes watering, “Don’t call him,”

She didn’t know which him she meant until her chest hurt with the answer, “I don’t want him to see me like this,”

“Not asking,” Martine said, neutral.

Charli wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and realized her hands were still shaking.

Which meant she was still here.

Which meant she had to decide what to do with the next breath.

Heidi’s phone buzzed. She flinched, ghosted the screen with her thumb, and whatever was in her eyes recalibrated from soft to practical.

“I should go,” she said, breath hitching like it needed an audience, “Thank you. This helped,”

“Do you want me to–?”

“No,” She said too fast as she moved, “I’m okay,”

She wasn’t. She was also already halfway to her car. Door, ignition, brake lights bathing the lot red. She was gone before he could decide if that was mercy or setup.

The lot exhaled. He stared at the empty cone of light like it could explain anything, then remembered he had blood and a spine and friends being idiots upstairs and a girl in pink with his mouth on her shoulder.

He made his way back upstairs.

Up in 403 The Broncos were trying to lose with style. Kenny had Kingston on his lap, Cartman had stolen the remote, Tolkien sat forward in a chair he refused to admit was uncomfortable, Stan kept doom-checking his fantasy stats.

“You alive?” Kenny asked.

“Define,” Kyle said.

Cartman muted the game with tyrant efficiency, “Did she cry? Did you cry? Did you guys do that thing where she says she’s a monster and you say, ‘No, you’re just misunderstood by haters, babe’?”

“Unmute,” Tolkien said without looking, “And shut up,”

They spent about 20 minutes in something that sort of felt like normal.

Something thumped in the hallway. A muffled shuffle. Voices, quick and female.

Kyle pulled up his phone. 

11:15 PM 📱 2 Missed Calls: Martine Guede

11:16 PM 💬 Martine: Answer when I call.

Another buzz.

11:19 PM 💬 Martine: The girls are staying in 404 tonight. Don’t come over. 

Guilt shot cold. He’d promised. He hadn’t. He pictured Charli’s thumb hovering over his name, how many times. He pictured the way he’d said be good in the elevator and meant don’t be dumb.

Another clatter outside. Wendy’s voice doing damage control in meme cadence, Nichole’s steady hush, Martine’s low, lethal logistics.

Kyle was up before he realized he was moving. The guys didn’t follow. They didn’t even pretend to. Kenny’s voice died under the door as it swung shut.

The hallway was too bright. 404’s door was closed, bolt slid, a strip of light and shadow at the bottom that looked like someone holding their breath on the other side.

He knocked too hard. It echoed up his arm, into his neck, into whatever fight response still lived in his teeth.

Locks shifted. A sliver opened. Martine slipped through it and shut the door behind her with the careful finality of a bank vault.

She looked at him the way a judge looks at a man who swears he’s changed and yet is in fact, still him. Clean face, calm mouth, eyes that knew exactly where to stab.

“Do you think making loud banging noises while Charli is reliving her trauma is a good idea?” She asked quietly, “Or something a good boyfriend trying to get a psych degree does?”

Kyle froze.

“What happened?” He asked, voice already too loud for the hallway, “Is she okay?”

“She’s shaking,” Martine said, “Which is what happens after your ex corners you,”

The word hit like a bottle to the skull.

Heat raced up his neck, “What the fuck?”

“Outside the club,” She said calmly, “He told her she’s scaring everyone back home. You can guess the rest,”

Kyle’s hand curled until his knuckles popped. The door at his back seemed to hum, his body trying to take the hinge off it by osmosis.

“You don’t get to go in there,” Martine added, like she’d read the thought, “Not until you hear me,”

He dragged in air, tasted dust and the waxy lemon of whatever janitor-grade polish lived on these floors.

“Say it,” He managed.

“Okay,” She folded her arms, like a teacher deciding how much truth a kid could swallow, “He isolated her. That’s the first thing you need to understand. Not metaphorically. He made her go no-contact with me for six months,”

Kyle’s stomach flipped.

“I’m going to tell you everything she didn’t tell you,” Martine said, “Because she’s proud and she wants you to see her like she sees herself on good days,”

He swallowed. The hall light buzzed. His hand itched to do something stupid.

“He tore up her diaries,” Martine went on, steady, “Every one. Then he made her delete the photos she had of her mom. All of them. You ever seen someone try to re-download a dead woman?”

Kyle looked at the wall because if he looked at her he’d break something.

“She got locked out of their house once,” Martine said, “He had the car keys. Her phone. She slept on the porch. You ever felt a summer’s night in the bayou? She woke up covered in mosquito bites. Welts on every inch of skin,”

A throb hammered the base of his skull. He pictured her curled on concrete, that small, that stubborn. The rage came fast and stupid, his fist twitched toward the wall.

Martine’s voice cut through it, “You put a hole in anything, and I will personally get you evicted,”

He breathed through his teeth, tasted metal, forced the fist open, “What else,”

“He called her dumb whenever she spoke Creole,” Martine said, “Said it sounded ‘ghetto’ and ‘ugly.’ So she stopped. To make the house quiet. You like her voice? He turned the volume down on purpose,”

Kyle’s throat worked. He pictured the way Charli’s mouth shaped certain vowels, the soft curl, the quick bite. The way he tried to hear the music under it that she didn’t let out.

“And the cat,” Martine said, “She had a cat. Kingston’s sister. Loved that animal like a person. He hated it because she loved it. One day he told her the cat ran away. I don’t think it did,”

The hallway tilted. Kyle’s stomach dropped like an elevator that forgot its job.

“Stop,” He said, hoarse. He didn’t know who he said it to. His forearm bumped the wall. He wanted the hurt. He wanted to let it bleed because it felt like doing something.

“That,” Martine said, watching his jaw, “Is exactly why you can’t see her,”

“I’m not...” He started, then swallowed it because he was. He was vibrating like a bad neon sign. He was a problem with sneakers on.

“She doesn’t need a man who wants to rip a door off its hinges because it’s between him and his feelings,” Martine said, voice low, “She needs quiet. She needs sleep. She needs to wake up somewhere safe, without a boy shaping the room around his temper,”

He stared at the doorknob. He could smell Charli, or thought he could, the faint ghost of her shampoo sneaking under the door and wrecking him. His chest hurt with the stupid, adolescent want to press his forehead to the wood and say I’m here, I’m here, I’m here like that meant anything.

The urge to hunt, wreck and fix roared around the inside of his ribs until it didn’t have oxygen left.

He went quiet. The quiet wasn’t surrender. It was a weapon on the table.

Martine didn’t smile. She didn’t soften.

“Leave,” She said.

He nodded once. It felt like chewing glass.

He turned and walked into 403 like a storm without the thunder. No hello. No eyes. Fridge. Can. Crack. He tipped the beer and swallowed until the cold hurt, until it didn’t.

Tolkien looked up from the game, “What the hell..?”

Stan’s phone buzzed. Tolkien’s. Kenny’s, too. They read at the same time and went very still in the same way. Stan’s jaw set. Kenny’s mouth lost its joke.

“Nichole says they’re back,” Stan said, eyes flicking to Kyle and away, “Charli’s in 404. Wendy’s with her. Martine’s on guard,”

“Mirador,” Kenny added, “Charli’s ex showed,”

Cartman snorted, “The guy with the mean right hook?”

Kyle’s head jerked up, eyes locked on Cartman like he’d just pulled the pin on a grenade, “I’ll show you what a fucking right hook feels like,”

Cartman waves Kyle off, “Dude, I just want to know the play-by-play. You’re the one with the vendetta. You wanna bury him, bury him. I love a good murder montage,”

Tolkien muted the TV, and read off his screen, “Quote: ‘He found her outside. She’s safe now. Don’t come over here.’ And then a lot of knife emojis,”

Kyle’s knuckles whitened around the crushed can. He could still taste Charli’s mouth from the elevator, quick, serious, the kind of kiss that made promises and bad ideas shake hands. That was thirty feet away and a locked door and he’d been pounding on it like an idiot. He could feel her on his tongue and couldn’t go to her. The rage had no place to land, so it ate at him from the inside.

“What happened exactly?” Cartman groaned, exasperated.

“He touched her,” Kenny’s eyes stayed on the text, “She puked after. She’s wrecked. That’s the gist,”

“Jesus,” Tolkien said, anger flattening his voice, “Okay. We’re going to be smart,”

Cartman kicked his feet off the coffee table and grinned, “Or we can be fun,”

Kyle tossed the dead can, grabbed another, didn’t open it.

“I’m gonna end this motherfucker,”

Silence. Not doubt. Permission.

Stan stood, “Then I’m coming,”

Kenny lifted Kingston off his lap like a fat void-loaf and set him on the couch, “Me too,”

Cartman popped up, already reaching for his golf club, “Fuck yeah. Boys’ trip,”

“No,” Tolkien said, “Absolutely not. We do not go hunting vigilante-style through town because your adrenal glands want enrichment,”

Kyle finally looked at him, “I’m not hunting. I’m drawing a line,”

“You’re young men with terrible impulse control and an amateur therapist’s understanding of escalation,” Tolkien said, “That’s a casserole that gets people arrested,”

“Then watch the girls,” Stan said, “If anything twitches, you text us. You’re better at logistics than murder,”

“High praise,” Tolkien deadpanned. He stood anyway, already moving to the door, already checking his phone battery, the peephole, the hallway sightlines.

“Fine. I’m base. I’ll sit here actually being supportive while you four try to cosplay Reservoir Dogs,”

Kenny grabbed his hoodie from the chair, stuck his arms through like he was suiting up for a stupid heist, “Where do we want him? Somewhere quiet. Neutral. No cops,”

“Pond,” Kyle said, immediate, “No neighbors. Long sightline,”

Cartman swung the golf club, almost knocking down one of Nichole’s succulents, “I’m bringing the nine iron. I like the sound it makes,”

“Put that down,” Stan said.

“I’m keeping it,” Cartman grinned.

Kyle didn’t argue. He was already moving, brain hot with logistics. Car keys. Phone. Wallet. Jacket. He thought of Charli sleeping across the hall, her mouth open a little when she passed out, the way she trembles when she talks about sleeping alone. The way she always did. He thought of dead cats, mosquito welts, torn paper and Martine’s voice: That is exactly why you can’t see her.

“We don’t go loud,” He said, “We go clear. He talks, we listen, we draw the boundary so straight even he can read it,”

Cartman smirked, “And if he can’t?”

“Then we make him feel stupid about breathing Colorado air,” Kenny said cheerfully, “You know. With words,”

“Yeah,” Stan said, rolling his eyes, “Words,”

Kyle’s phone buzzed. He looked down out of reflex.

11:56 PM 💬 Martine: Don’t make me regret trusting you.

He slid the phone into his pocket.

“Text if anything touches that hallway,” He told Tolkien, “If they order food or anything, don’t let them get out of the elevator,”

“Will do,” Tolkien said, “Do not be idiots,”

“Impossible,” Kenny said, breezing past.

Stan fished his keys from the bowl without looking, metal cold against his palm, the weight of the night swinging with them.

Cartman rolled the club in his hand like a baton, “Shotgun,”

Kyle pushed through the door, already picking the route in his head, already tasting the line he was going to carve into the dark.

The fog at Stark’s Pond was thick, bleeding the moonlight into greasy halos. Jacob stood waiting, blazer buttoned, white shirt starched, cuff links glinting smug. Not a hair out of place. His shoes were Italian, supple, already losing the war against mud. He didn’t sweat. He waited with that dangerous patience that says: You’ll break before I do.

Footsteps on gravel. Not heels.

He expected Charli wrecked, contrite, easier to herd back into his corner. What he got was four boys out of a mugshot lineup: Kyle with a rifle, Stan built like a linebacker, Kenny twitchy and mean, Cartman swinging a golf club like a threat.

He clocked them instantly. The faces from Charli’s tagged photos, the mess she’d thrown herself into since landing back in this hick town. Broflovski, Marsh, McCormick, Cartman. South Park’s very own Mount Fuckmore. Not ideal, but improv wasn’t new.

Kyle didn’t bother stopping at a polite distance. He came close enough to share breath, then planted, the pond’s chill coiling off the water and into his sleeves.

“Martine said Charli would come alone,” Jacob observed, faintly amused, as if he’d asked for an intern and got a committee.

“We changed the plan,” Kyle said. He didn’t take his hands off the rifle strap. He didn’t blink much either.

Cartman rocked the club in his hand, “Aww, were you hoping to kidnap your way to a happy ending? That’s adorable. Maybe try leaving the van running next time,”

Jacob kept it smooth. Didn’t take the bait. He stepped forward, lifting the manila folder in his hand like a peace treaty he’d already notarized.

“She’s spiraling,” Jacob said, letting concern drip over condescension, “You think you’re protecting her, but you’re enabling. I have documentation. Evidence. Screenshots. Timelines. Everything the Dean and the housing board need to see. If you actually care about her, you’ll need to know what you’re dealing with,”

He handed the folder to Kyle.

Kyle took it. Didn’t even look down.

He flicked his wrist and sent the folder arcing over Jacob’s shoulder. Pages caught the air, scattered like startled birds, and dropped with a slop into the black water. A few white corners bobbed, then vanished.

Jacob’s face went stone cold, “That was evidence,”

“Now it’s gone. Leave,” Kyle’s jaw clenched, voice coming out cut-glass, “Get the fuck out of Colorado,”

Jacob’s eyes went tight, a flash of something raw before he steeled it over.

“This place is a joke,” He said, trying to pivot, “Charli deserves better than a dump where the highlight of the month is when the bait shop gets a new batch of worms. She’s meant for something bigger than this– This sad little mountain town. You’re just hicks clinging to shotguns and campfires. She needs a future. She needs structure. Martine coddles her, you all keep her sick an–”

Kenny’s cigarette arced through the dark and landed dead on Jacob’s right shoe, ember flaring, stinking up the imported leather.

“Say Martine’s name again,” Kenny said, soft as broken glass, “And you’re leaving with a limp,”

Kenny’s cigarette ember hissed out where it had branded the Italian leather, a black kiss that said We can touch you. We will.

Jacob jerked back, shaking off the ash, anger flaring but beaten down by the numbers.

Kyle stepped forward, “You hate Colorado? We grow up on campsites and rifles. I was eight the first time I held a gun. Stan’s uncle runs the shop. You fix fences or you freeze. You learn how to track, fight, and call your own bluffs before you’re old enough to drink. It’s not pretty, but it’s real. You don’t belong here. You don’t even know what the fuck here is,”

Jacob squared his shoulders, “She’s too naive for this. For everything. That’s why she ran,”

Stan stepped in, eyes steady, “She left you. I’m the one who told her to come back. She chose this,”

Jacob’s jaw flexed. He looked from Stan to Kyle, reading the silent threat. Saw Cartman’s wild-eyed glee, Kenny’s bright stare, the way Kyle’s fingers twitched. Saw the calculations come up zero.

“Heidi reached out,” He said coolly.

Cartman’s head snapped, “She what?”

Jacob didn’t look at Eric, he kept his eyes on Kyle, threading the needle, “She was worried. For you. For Charli. For everyone,”

Cartman’s breath went rank and fast.

He planted, swung, and the nine iron blurred a mean arc through the fog. The rock he drove screamed past Kyle’s hip, then knifed by Jacob’s thigh and hit the pond.

Jacob flinched, shoulders spiking, blazer jumping. Kyle didn’t blink. He didn’t even look at the splash. His eyes stayed on Jacob like an apex predator deciding which bone to start with.

“Jumpy,” Kenny observed, almost bored.

Jacob’s heart spiked and he hated that they could see it. He scanned what stood in front of him because data made fear feel like strategy: four low-class rural delinquents. One with a gun, one with a face that promised follow-through, one who fought dirty for fun, and one who turned pettiness into artillery.

He was uppercrust, trained, bulletproof by upbringing. And yet none of them bought his suit, his diction, his careful benevolence. Least of all the ginger who refused to give him an inch.

Kyle looked feral in the moonlight. Freckles meaner, eyes too bright, chest tight like he was swallowing growls.

He was holding himself together with rules he’d carved into his own bones: Don’t scare her, don’t become him, don’t let the part of you that wants the shot make the choice.

He was past anger and somewhere more dangerous.

Cartman rolled his wrist with the club, itching.

Kyle let the silence sit.

“I know about the diaries. Her pictures. The porch. The cat. All of it,” Kyle unslung the rifle.

Slow, deliberate. Not a raise. Not a point. He slid it off his shoulder and held it vertical with the muzzle down, one hand around the stock, finger indexed like he’d been taught, barrel kissing his boot. 

The movement re-wired the night.

Jacob’s mouth went dry. He’d expected tantrums he could narrate as instability. What he got was control so tight it cut. That scared him more. Men like him were used to other men deferring to polish. These ones stared through him like glass.

Kyle’s voice came quiet enough to make the pond lean in.

“You have one path. The interstate. You take it now. You don’t text her. You don’t say her name. If you show your face anywhere in Colorado again, I stop trying to be the version of myself she can sleep next to,”

He didn’t add what everyone heard: and then I finish you.

Jacob’s jaw worked. He aimed for disgust and felt something like altitude sickness instead. He glanced at the dark tree line, how it swallowed sound, how fast it would swallow a man. He glanced at the water, how fast paper had vanished. He glanced back at the four of them and didn’t see boys. He saw a border. He wasn’t invited to cross.

“I’ve known him my whole life,” Stan’s tone stayed gentle, which made it worse, “Clock’s running out on his self-control,”

“Bodies disappear in these mountains,” Kenny said, conversational as weather, “Bears don’t ask follow-up questions,”

Cartman tapped the club into his palm, “Leave before you learn the local definition of ‘lost,’”

Jacob felt it crack then. The story where he was the adult and they were the tantrum. It didn’t match the scene. It didn’t match Kyle’s stillness, the gun held like a promise to not use it until he had to. It didn’t match the way the fog muffled sound and made bad things feel tidy.

He backed up, found the door handle by touch, and opened the SUV. The hinge squeaked, the first ugly sound he’d made all night. He kept his eyes on Kyle, searching for a blink, a flinch, a tell. He gave him nothing.

Jacob put one shoe in, then the other.

He hesitated, tried for one last sliver of control, “Tell Charli–”

Kenny lit another cigarette, exhaling smoke and let it drift between them, “No,”

Jacob closed the door.

He drove slow at first, then faster when the pond let him go. The tail lights smeared into the fog. The road took him. The mountains watched.

Kyle didn’t breathe for three beats.

When he did, and it sounded like the first inch of a scream he wouldn’t allow. He re-slung the rifle with hands that shook once and stopped. Cartman’s club clicked against his palm. Kenny’s head dropped back and he exhaled another plume of smoke into the night. Stan’s eyes stayed on the dark where the car had gone, waiting to be sure it stayed gone.

No one said good. No one said done.

Kyle finally turned and started walking.

The lights in 404 were dimmed to that soft, sleepy gold that makes everything look kinder than it is. The Women murmured in black and white on the mounted TV while the coffee table suffered under three abandoned water bottles, a bowl of pretzels nobody liked, and Martine’s tidy stack of empty shot glasses like a little museum exhibit titled: We Were Fine Until We Weren’t.

Charli was sprawled out on the couch, trying to will her drunken hiccups away.

“I wanna see him,” She whined into the throw pillow, “I want Kyle,”

Another hiccup. She swatted at the air like that would conjure him.

“I want my– hic– Tichen,”

Martine rolled her eyes without looking away from the TV, “Absolutely not,”

“We live down the hall,” Nichole said, sitting cross-legged on the rug beside Martine, chin propped on the couch cushion, “Go see him,”

Charli scrunched her face, stubborn and glassy.

“He can’t see me like this,” She squinted up at the ceiling, tragic, “We’re in the sexy phase. ‘My ex materialized like a swamp demon and retraumatized me’ is not sexy,”

She hiccuped again, glared at the betrayal of her own diaphragm, “He’s gonna try to fix me. Or psycho– hic– analyze it,”

Nichole eased a palm over Charli’s forearm, slow circles with her thumb. Calm, steady, present.

“He’s probably down the hall pacing a hole into my baseboards,” She said softly, “Relationships aren’t about being sexy at each other 24/7. They’re about taking care. Sometimes you don’t need fixing, you just need someone in the room so you know you aren’t alone,”

Charli blinked at her, big doe eyes wobbling. Nichole heard her own voice and felt it hit some bruised place she kept neatly bandaged.

She forced a smile anyway.

“Stan couldn’t fix anything if he tried,” She murmured, “But if I was falling apart, I’d want his stupid hoodie and his stupid face right there,”

“I hear that,” Charli muttered, “Kyle’s face is stupid. And perfect,”

A beat. She writhed.

“I’m gonna die,”

“No, sweetie,” Nichole soothed, brushing a curl off her shoulder, “You’re gonna sleep,”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Charli mumbled and then, mid-defiance, her lashes drifted. Her breathing went slow and even. Out cold.

“She’s not alone,” Martine said softly as she glanced over, “We’re her people,”

The words came out like a policy she’d already filed.

She watched Charli for one long, measuring beat, then sighed like it cost her, “And, fine. Kyle is her people too,”

Nichole didn’t smirk. She wanted to. Instead she looked at Martine, and Martine was already looking back, both of them doing that girl telepathy where you keep your face neutral and your eyes shove an entire paragraph in a look. Martine’s chin flicked toward the door, minimal and imperious.

“Go,” She said, “Standid the grown-up thing tonight. He deserves a reward. Whatever that entails,”

Her gaze flicked, not unkind, over Nichole and back up, “Try not to wake the entire floor,”

“Considerate sex is my brand,” Nichole said, because jokes were lighter than fear.

And fear was coiled in her, tight and mean.

She pictured Stan out in the dark somewhere, summer air thick in his throat, jaw set. She squeezed Charli’s hand once more, then stood. Her dress clung where sweat had cooled, and she suddenly hated it for advertising a version of herself that didn’t include shaking hands.

Martine was already up, tucking a throw over Charli, grabbing the remote.

“Exactly,” Martine said, and turned the volume down on Rosalind Russell eviscerating someone with a smile.

The hallway was summer-warm, the building’s old bones humming softly. Nichole’s flats whispered over the industrial carpet, and she felt that anticipatory shiver she always did right before she knocked on the door that meant home more than it should. She paused by 403, thumb hovering over her phone, steadying her breath.

02:16 AM 💬 Nichole: you up?

She watched the typing bubble, pulse in her throat.

02:17 AM 💬 Stan: door.

The latch clicked almost instantly. He didn’t bother with the chain. Stan stepped into the hall in a wrinkled T-shirt and those sinful grey sweatpants hanging low on his hipbones. Sleep-rough hair. Red around the eyes. He smelled clean and human, like sweat and the lingering trace of weed from the balcony earlier.

His voice came out a hush that clipped her knees, “Hey,”

All the careful composure she’d curated for the last few hours went volatile.

“Hey,” she said back, and it came out too relieved. She reached for his shirt instead, tugging him a half-step closer into a quick kiss, “For your heroic restraint. And because you forget you’re mortal,”

He let her, knuckles grazing her hip as his eyes did that full inventory, “You okay?”

That stupid question. That perfect question. Her spine floated for a second, a half-inch over herself.

She nodded, then shook her head, then hummed, “I will be,”

He smiled, equal parts sorry and I’ll be here anyway, “C’mere,”

The thing about letting him touch her was that it recalibrated everything. His hand came warm to the back of her neck, thumb under her hair, the other palm sliding around her waist.

He didn’t pull, he waited. She went, because she always did, and she finally exhaled. Foreheads found each other. The hallway suddenly felt safe.

“Were you scared?” She asked against his mouth, and hated herself for needing the answer.

“Yeah,” He said, simple.

“But not like that... I knew we had it. Kenny, hell, even Cartman. And Kyle. He was...” Stan’s jaw worked, the muscle twitching. “He did good,”

Pride for Kyle nudged the corner of her heart, jealousy for how cleanly men could hold courage without it turning sour, lust looping, because Stan’s voice had dropped and his breath hit her lip.

She laughed, small and wrecked, “You’re not allowed to sound that hot while talking about your friends,”

He bit back a smile. Failed.

“Wanna go inside?” He jerked his head toward 403, “They’re knocked out. Once the adrenaline and alcohol ran out everyone crashed. It’s a lot,”

Her brain flashed a map. 403 bedroom, yes. 404 guest room, occupied. Hallway, oh absolutely not... Or absolutely yes if they wanted to get risky enough to be stupid. The summer air pressed soft at the end of the corridor where the stairwell door propped like an invitation.

“Roof,” she heard herself say, “I want sky,”

He blinked and brightened, the exact look that made her want to kiss him until he couldn’t breathe, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” She said, and grabbed his hand, “Bring your keys. And your mouth,”

“Copy,” He said mumbled and followed, fingers threaded, steps quick and quiet past 402.

She glanced at Charli’s door and kept moving. The stairwell was cooler, concrete and night breath, the metal railing cool against her palm.

She kept hearing Martine: We’re her people.

She kept hearing herself: Sometimes you just need someone in the room.

She wanted to be that for Charli. She wanted to let Stan be that for her.

On the landing he tugged, gentle. She stopped one step above him, and suddenly they were aligned, her chest level with his mouth, his hands at her hips.

Stan looked up at her like she was everything he didn’t feel worthy to ask for, and her heart did that fluttery flip it always did. The one she never admitted because love like that was embarrassing in the light.

“Last chance to be go to sleep,” He murmured, a tease he didn’t mean, thumbs sliding down to the sides of her thighs and back up the hem the dress.

It made her sigh, small and helpless. The sound made his eyes go black.

“I’m not sleeping,” She said, reminding him, reminding herself.

“Say it,” He breathed in that soft dominance he never named, that she let him borrow because he always gave it back.

“I want you,” She whispered.

“Here. I can’t–” She swallowed thickly, “I can’t finish tonight without you,”

His exhale was like a plea.

He kissed her, soft first and then hungry. Claiming.

Her hand shoved into his hair and tilted his head and his mouth opened quick, grateful.

Stan’s tongue swept into her mouth tasting faintly of smoke and boy, and when he groaned she felt it somewhere hot and useful.

“Roof,” She said again, pulling back, barely, just to see the denial hit him.

It rolled through his shoulders and landed in his grin. He was going to make her pay for that on the other side of a lock, and she was going to let him. Fair was fair.

They pushed through the final door together. Summer hit them soft and electric, the town spread below in pinprick streetlights and the air smelled like pine and asphalt.

Nichole walked backward, tugging him by the shirt, letting the stars make everything feel bigger and less survivable. He followed until her calves bumped a low utility box.

She hopped up onto it, dress sliding, knees opening for him like a reflex she didn’t pretend wasn’t. He grabbed her thighs, his breath collided with hers as their lips brushed.

He ducked to kiss below her ear, and she stifled a laugh that became a gasp.

“I’m gonna get sentimental,” She warned him, already gone.

“I’m gonna lose it,” He said into her skin, and looked up at her with that patience she could never endure, “Tell me what you need,”

“Start with your hands,” She said, because if she didn’t direct him, she’d melt, “Think before you bite,”

He laughed under his breath, “Thinking is my worst skill around you,”

But he obeyed, hand slipping between her legs, pulling her panties to the side. He groaned when his fingers met her wet heat, thumbs drawing slow, obscene figure-eights that made her lungs feel small.

She watched him watch her, he took his time, eyes flicking between her face and where his hands were, like he was making sure her expression stayed soft. That ridiculous thoughtful streak got her wetter than bravado ever could.

Stan dragged his mouth along her throat, not quite a kiss, and the shock of that tenderness had her fingers curling over the edge of the metal to ground herself.

“You’re stalling,” She murmured.

“I’m paying attention,” He hummed back, and moved faster. The hem of her dress bunched over his wrist.

He finally put his mouth where she needed him, still not where she needed him, because he was obeying, starting with hands, but his lips and tongue on hers, slow and claiming. It made her spine arch until it almost popped.

He kissed lower, breath hot against skin he shouldn’t be this reverent about, and then he looked up for the check-in. It cost him nothing to ask and it made him impossible to refuse.

“I’m here,” She said, and threaded her fingers into his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. The sound he made sank right into her skin.

“God, Stan, do not make sex noises that sweet on a roof, I will actually fall in more love with you,”

“We’re already... You know,” He grinned helplessly, and she tugged his hair for daring to be earnest.

“Shut up,” She whispered, smiling, and he did, long enough to mouth lower, over her breast.

She felt her pulse everywhere it mattered, her brain flickered to the club: Jacob’s hand on Charli’s elbow, the way fear can turn your body into a stranger.

She shoved that image hard away and replaced it with this one: Stan pulling her dress down her shoulders, trailing open-mouthed kisses on her chest, adoring, hers.

“Hey,” He said softly, catching her flinch without naming it.

His hands slid to her waist, thumbs inside the elastic line of her underwear. A place that said, I see you. Do you want me to stay or stop?

It split her with gratitude and impatience.

“Don’t stop,” She said, and when his hand moved back, when he sealed his mouth to her nipple and sucked slow, she rolled her hips into him.

She wanted him gentle and rough, thoughtful and selfish. She wanted to be the reason he slipped and the anchor he reached for when he did. Contradiction was his second language and she was fluent.

He shifted closer, the line of him fitting between her knees, hands sliding to cup the undersides of her thighs and lift, like he couldn’t help framing her. She braced her heels against his lower back, felt the elastic give of his shirt, the smooth heat of his skin beneath it.

She pushed his sweats down while he kissed his way up, (breast, collarbone, the hollow above it) then stood into her, and the contact of his cock against her slit made both of them curse softly.

“Quiet,” She teased, rolling her hips as he lined up, “We have neighbors with morals,”

He pushed in, hissing through his teeth like he’d just sunk into relief, “Say it again,”

“What?”

“What you need,”

She held his face in both hands, thumbs at his cheekbones, and told him the truth because he made it safe to.

“I need you to take care of me without thinking that means fixing me. I need you in it with me. And I need you to...” She inhaled, shameless now, “Fuck me slow first. Then fuck me hard,”

He groaned, “Jesus, Nichole,”

She kissed him and let it break, sloppy and smiling, then set her heels against his back and dragged him into the angle she wanted.

He caught on, like always. Learned her rhythm in three seconds and devoted his life to repeating it.

Each thrust and drag made her gasp with relief so pure it embarrassed her. Relief turned into heat.

“Good boy,” She said against his mouth and his answering sound was greedy and grateful all at once.

He buried his face in her neck and filled his lungs with her.

“You feel–” He started, then swore, then laughed at himself, shaky, “I’m so gone for you, Nich,”

“Yeah,” She whispered, rocking with him, pulling him deeper, the metal box whining under their rhythm, “Me too,”

The honesty made something implode sweetly in her chest. She pressed her lips to his temple.

He lifted his head to look at her, genuinely startled like he hadn’t earned it a hundred times.

The tenderness in his face when she gave him that Me too nearly undid her more than the friction did.

He kissed her like he could anchor himself to her and when he broke for air his hand slid up to palm her breast. She was already lost in the heat of that palm, the weight, the way his thumb rolled over her nipple. She arched so fast her head bumped the wall.

He winced like it happened to him, kissed her forehead like it could fix her.

“You okay?”

“Don’t stop,” She said, laughing breathless, and he didn’t, hips moving faster, mouth everywhere he could reach, whispering her name like he was trying on every way it could sound.

He followed the twitch of her hips with ridiculous focus, pupils blown, voice shredding, “Tell me when,”

“You’ll know,” She said, and then, because he always asked for the truth and she’d started telling it tonight, “I– Too soon, too fast. Don’t apologize,”

His laugh was wrecked and proud, “I would never,”

“Liar,” She said, smiling right before the next roll of his hips knocked the smile into a sound, high and needy.

She snapped her mouth shut, embarrassed by herself.

He smirked against her jaw, breathless, “Keep doing that,”

“Fuck you,” She whispered, and pulled him in harder, “Don’t stop,”

Stan grinned, feeling like he’d won something, then ducked and sank his teeth into the curve of her neck. Not violent, not soft.A low, possessive press that made her curse through her teeth and jerk against him.

He hissed, hips jolting, rhythm broken and she chased it. Rolled her hips back into the stagger, her ankles locking behind his ass and her thighs clenching like a trap. She knew exactly how to pull him deeper. Exactly what that did to him.

His response wasn’t a word. It was a noise, low and fucked, his eyes fluttering shut as he bottomed out, forehead slick where it met her shoulder.

“You’re gonna kill me,” He gasped, voice shredded.

“Good,” She rasped, voice gone hoarse with lust and something darker, something indulgent. She arched under him, tilting her hips to grind slow and deep, just to feel him react. She needed this. Needed to make it messy and undeniable.

His breath hit the valley between her breasts, that helpless exhale that scattered hot over her skin like proof he’d never recover. Her dress was a disaster, twisted, damp, shoved under her tits like a casualty. His mouth hovered, then kissed, then dragged his tongue between them like he was tasting her. She groaned.

“Up,” She ordered, tugging at his hair, “Look at me.”

The second their eyes locked, it was heat, history, and something reckless. His were blown wide, glassy with need, lips parted like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to moan or beg. He looked like a man trying to memorize a moment he knew he couldn’t survive.

She let him look. Let him see the slick flush of her skin, the heat behind her lashes. Let him see how fucked he had her. That was the riskiest thing she’d ever done.

Then she pulled him until her mouth crashed with his. His tongue moved deep and hungry.

She wanted to keep him open like this forever. Wild, flushed, honest.

His hands found her jaw, then her throat, thumbs under her chin as he rocked forward again, so slow and so deep that it made her eyes squeeze shut. The stretch, the pressure, the grind of him inside her stole the air from her lungs.

All she could do was breathe. Moan. Feel.

“Fuck– Nichole–” He groaned against her skin like it cost him something, “I love you,”

It shattered through her. Not the words, but how he said them. Like he was breaking apart and handing her the pieces.

She laughed broken and glorious, “Say it again,”

“I love you,” He gasped, fucking her harder again, grip tightening at her hips like he had to hold her together, “Nich, I– Fuck,”

Her hips snapped up into his, meeting every thrust, matching him beat for beat until the rhythm got loud, until the metal box beneath them creaked in protest and she didn’t care who could hear.

“Again,” She said breathless, through a smile that could wreck any man lucky enough to see it.

His voice cracked, “You’re gonna get us arrested,”

“Worth it,” She said, right before he hit the spot that made her wail.

He clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, hers, his, theirs, tangled into one rolling breath. She laughed against his palm, body shaking with it, and he felt it echo through his ribs like aftershocks.

He pressed his forehead to hers, chasing the high, letting the rhythm break apart on purpose. Sloppier, deeper, filthier.

She whispered, “Don’t stop,”

He didn’t.

He braced his knees wide, driving into her like he was carving his name into her body and he’d never stop.

She could barely breathe. Could barely think. Her body was a mess, thighs twitching, stomach tight, toes curling.

He kept whispering in her ear, those soft, dirty nonsense sounds she loved, hot and helpless: Fuck, yeah, don’t move, you feel so good, I got you, I got you, I got you.

She came hard and sudden, hips locking, head tossed back with a shameless cry. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t sweet. It was real and so goddamn needed she could’ve cried. Instead her nails dug into his shoulder, anchoring herself, riding out the wave of bliss in tremors.

He broke with her, hips jerking erratic, low groan punching out of him like his body couldn’t hold it anymore. He buried himself deep and stayed there, shuddering, mouth open against her skin, as his cock pulsed and pumped spurt after sticky spurt.

Stan breathed against her neck, not moving, still inside her, arms caging her.

She was the first to move, tracing lazy patterns across his bare shoulder, catching her breath and letting the aftershocks pass, small, shivery tremors.

“That was so dumb,” She whispered, grinning into his hair.

“You’re welcome,” He said, thick and pussy-drunk.

She rolled her eyes, tugged his shirt back into place, and felt the quiet stretch between them, peaceful and inevitable. She pressed her mouth to his cheek.

“You owe me more pancakes tomorrow,” She said, and wiggled her hips just to be mean.

He groaned, still half-hard, still wrapped around her, “I’ll make you anything you want,”

She grinned, propped her chin on his shoulder, and looked out over the town: Tiny, dumb, theirs.

“Good,” She said, “Because I want everything,”

He kissed her temple, warm and sticky, and didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t try to fix her. Just stayed, and that was everything she actually needed.

Morning hit 403 like a hangover. The blinds did nothing to keep out the sun, the TV was frozen on a postgame talking head who looked concussed, and the place reeked of cold pizza, sweaty dude, and a cat that had judged them and stuck around anyway.

Kyle woke to Cartman snoring into a throw pillow. The sound stopped, stuttered, and then Eric’s eyes popped open.

They stared at each other. Mutual murder in the eyes. Same thought: Don’t make this weird.

Cartman cleared his throat and rolled onto an elbow, “Good lines last night,”

Kyle rubbed his eyes, “You didn’t make it worse,”

“I just hate guys with more money than sense,” Cartman said, almost smirking.

“Understood,” He swallowed his pride and let it scrape on the way down, “Still. Thanks,”

A beat. It almost breathed like truce.

Cartman cracked first, “Your hair looks like a poodle got electrocuted,”

“And you look like a boil with feet,”

On the floor, Kenny was spread out on a throw blanket, mouth open around. Kingston was passed out on his stomach. Tolkien had passed out on the couch. From the bedroom, Stan’s sleep-breathing drifted through the door: peaceful, oblivious, doomed.

Kyle realized that the hallway outside was loud in that specific morning-after way. The girls’ voices, doors, laughter. It hit Kyle like a tide he wasn’t ready for and also needed like oxygen.

His heart was pounding before he even got to his feet. He didn’t care about shoes, or the state of his hair, he just had to see her. It was chemical. Animal. The need to know Charli was okay buzzed under his skin, mean and insistent. He nearly tripped over Kenny’s leg and only managed to avoid face-planting into the coffee table by the grace of bad balance and worse adrenaline.

He tore open the door to 403 and was halfway into the hallway before his brain caught up to his body. That’s when he nearly crashed into Martine.

She was standing barefoot by the door, silk robe tied tight, hair still perfect because of course it was. Her eyes went sharp the second she saw Kyle.

“Kingston’s missing,” Martine said flatly, voice already halfway to accusation.

Kyle, half-wired, almost barked out Charli’s name instead. He caught himself, forced his mouth into words that weren’t I need to see her.

“He’s in 403. Passed out on Kenny,”

Martine’s jaw worked. She opened her mouth to deliver something scathing, maybe a lecture, maybe just a well-placed threat.

Kyle cut her off, voice defensive and tired, “If you’re gonna lecture me, I’m not sorry. I’d do it again. I’d do worse,”

For a second, Martine just stared at him, still and unreadable. She was always in control, always the one holding the plan, the key, the last word. But her mouth twisted, and her eyes finally let the fear slip out.

She stepped in and hugged him.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t long. But it was real.

She squeezed tight, like she was wringing out all the hours she’d spent bracing for disaster. Kyle went rigid out of reflex, then let it happen. He realized this wasn’t about him. This was Martine finally letting go of the panic she’d been white-knuckling for months. Because Kyle hadn’t burned the house down. He’d protected Charli the way Martine never trusted him to. It made him feel seen. Accountable. Worth something.

She pressed her lips to his ear, her whisper harsh and hot, “She’s everything I’ve got left. Don’t fuck it up,”

He nodded, jaw tight, letting her feel it.

Martine let him go and straightened, smoothing her robe like nothing had happened.

“She’s in 402. She’s okay,” Martine’s eyes flicked to the door, “She missed you last night. But she didn’t want you to see her like that,”

Kyle’s chest caved in a little at the edges. Like that meant shattered, scared, humiliated. He swallowed it down, nerves and pride and guilt all in one thick knot.

“She’s fine,” Martine said, a little softer, “Go be the version of you she likes,”

Kyle almost laughed. All he could think was She missed me. That single sentence spun up everything hungry and hopeful and stupid inside him.

He tried to slow himself, tried to act like he wasn’t about to sprint into the apartment like a wild animal.

Like he didn’t need her more than sleep or food or any of the dumb, easy comforts of the world.

He took a breath, wiped his palms on his jeans, and rapped his knuckles on the door to 402.

Once, twice.

No answer.

His pulse was sprinting. He tried the handle, half-expecting resistance, but it turned under his hand.

Before he could call out, a burst of muffled yelling. Small, aggressive. Not pain, or fear. Something angry, something furious, moving and alive.

He stepped inside fast, adrenaline still singing in his veins. The air was humid, sharp with hair product and clean laundry and something hers he could never name.

The yelling was her scream-singing. Jack Off Jill, Charli’s taste for angry girl rock bleeding through the apartment.

Kyle followed the sound. Bedroom door open.

There she was.

Charli was in his basketball jersey, with BROFLOVSKI stamped across her back, nothing else but black panties and a chunky pair of headphones, dancing on the bed like nobody was watching. She had her back to the door, hair wild with her natural curls bouncing, arms overhead, hips moving with a kind of reckless, wounded abandon.

He froze, one foot inside the room, brain catching up to the sight, the sound, the surge of want that hit him so hard he nearly staggered.

She spun and saw him at the edge of the bed, eyes going wide. Headphones askew, mouth open, vocalist singing Angels Fucking bleeding static out the cans.

“Tichen?” It was half-moan, half-accusation.

He just stared, the heat crawling up his neck, the memory of last night roaring up. Jacob’s face, the rifle strap biting his shoulder, the taste of rage, fear and old guilt.

His voice came out thick, raw, “I saw Jacob,”

The words hit her like a slap. She dropped the headphones, scrambled off the bed, stumbling as if the floor had gone sharp. Panic crackled through her.

“He lies. He twists things– He always does, Kyle. He hurt me, he–” Her hands trembled as she tried to get the words out, eyes too wide, chest tight, voice splintering, “Don’t believe him. Please. Tichen, it’s me,”

She braced for it. For him to tell her how fucked up she was. For it to end the same way it always did, because Jacob would win. He always fucking won.

Kyle closed the distance in two strides, pulled her into his arms so hard she gasped. He kissed her, desperate and grounding and a little rough, like a man that had come home from a war nobody else survived.

His hands tangled in her hair, thumbs stroking her jaw, anchoring her. She felt so small in his arms, shaking, breathing like she couldn’t get enough air. He kissed her again, softer now, forehead pressed to hers, breath mingling.

“He’s gone. He’s never coming back. I swear to God, Charli. He’s never coming back,”

For a moment, she just held onto him like the room might tilt away. She was trembling, tears hot on his collarbone. He couldn’t tell if they were relief or something else. He didn’t care.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, voice trembling between laugh and sob, “What did you do? How illegal was it?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. Anyway,” He ducked his head, mouth brushing her ear, “I picked up something from my mom after. For you,”

She blinked, the panic receding, replaced by a flicker of suspicion.

Kyle fished into his jacket, pulse still thudding from the kiss, the chaos, the gravity of her pressed against him in just his jersey and black panties. His fingers found the photo, edges soft, the paper warmer from riding shotgun all night against his heart.

He held it up between them. Two women in a dive bar, arms slung around each other, both wearing the kind of fake tan and raccoon eyeliner that screamed Jersey Shore. There were at least five shot glasses on the table, a basket of fries, and a messy unfiltered kind of joy. Sarah was laughing so hard she was almost falling out of frame, and Sheila (hair huge, nails red, eyes wicked) looked like she’d just dared the world to take them on.

He watched Charli’s expression shift as shock, ache, wonder, grief all tangled together. He saw the way she studied her mother’s face, searching for something she’d lost or maybe never got to see. Her throat bobbed when she swallowed.

“I don’t deserve this,” She whispered, voice shredded at the edges.

“Yeah, you fucking do,” He said, voice harder than he meant, but true in every muscle, “You’re exactly like her. Wild, stubborn, too smart for your own good. You’re everything she was, only meaner,”

She went quiet, clutching the photo, like she might burn a hole straight through the paper just holding it. For a second he almost said fuck the rest of the day, fuck the world, stay here, let me fuck you back into your body until you believe you’re safe again. He could smell her skin, taste the sweat just under her collarbone, feel the tension trembling in her thighs. He wanted to ruin her for every nightmare that had ever lived in her head.

Instead, he let her go.

Charli didn’t move right away. She just lingered, fingers curling tight around the memory, then finally drifted out of the bedroom. She stopped by the kitchen and pinned the photo on the fridge with a bow-shaped magnet. She smoothed the edge, straightened the corners, like if she could just get it perfect maybe her mom would be proud of her too.

She doubled back, flashing him a grin, but it trembled at the edges, “I have to finish getting ready. Hot Girl Hotline’s waiting. If I’m late, Martine’s gonna text the group chat in all caps and Nichole’ll have a stroke,”

He watched her step into the bathroom, the smell of lavender body wash already bleeding into the hall.

He drifted after her, leaned in the doorway, watching her wrestle her hair into something that looked less like aftermath.

She caught him staring in the mirror, “You still gonna be here when I get back?”

He leaned against the frame, arms folded, voice soft but certain, “Try and get rid of me,”

She rolled her eyes, lips curving, and vanished behind a cloud of steam. Kyle glanced back towards the kitchen and felt the world tilt a little closer to right.

The PCCC student studio still smelled like foam and cold coffee, cables braided like bad decisions under the desk.

Charli’s hair was still a little damp at the ends, flat-ironed fast and imperfect, ribbon bow clipped at one temple like a threat. She’d yanked on a teal dress and lip gloss in the mirror until she looked less like aftermath and more like a girl who had a show.

Martine lounged at the second mic. Nichole was a silhouette behind the glass, headset on, nails tapping, and eyes everywhere.

Line 5’s voice crackled in with that brave, shaky brightness people wear when they’re about to ask for permission to hurt less.

“How do you... Not go back? When someone knows you. I keep thinking maybe if I’m perfect...”

Charli smiled, sharp and deadly, “You’re not a cooler. No one gets to open you and take what they want because they ‘know where everything is,’”

Caller hesitated, “But I’m alone,”

That word punched straight through Charli’s heart. Alone was an old room she’d lived in too long.

“I spent most of my life alone,” She said steadily, “Not because I wanted to be, because others made it that way. Isolation is the cheapest magic trick in the book. If you’re cut off, you can’t get a second opinion, and the only voice you hear is the one telling you you’re the problem. That’s how it works,”

Her throat tightened.

She swallowed it down and kept her tone light, like she was reading horoscopes written in gasoline, “But the thing about isolation? It breaks. You find a crack. You crawl through it. Sometimes the people you trust will hurt you. Yeah, that’s real. But sometimes the people you love will fight for you. Hard,”

She thought of Martine storming into the hospital. Nichole’s hand steady at her back. Stan’s stupid gentle voice on the phone from three states away. Kyle, back when they were just kids, sleeping with her in a freezing attic so she wouldn’t be alone.

She let herself breathe into it.

“I have friends now,” She said, and it came out small and huge at once.

“I have Martine. I have Nichole. I have Stan. I have my...” Her mouth wanted to say his name and she let herself smile instead, “my boyfriend,”

The word felt ridiculous and perfect. Boyfriend. Juvenile and heavy. She pictured him hearing it. Kyle wherever he was, going very, very still like someone had told him the entire ocean belonged to him.

She glanced at Martine, who didn’t smirk, just watched, like she’d been waiting for this exact sentence to land. Nichole flashed a quick thumbs-up and started a soft bed track under Charli’s voice, something low and pulsing that made honesty feel less like a public strip-tease.

“Find your people. The ones who come back. The ones who stay. That’s how you build something real,” She let the words sit a second, let them warm, “Hard times won’t stop. They just stop being a sentence. You go through them together. That’s the difference,”

Nichole gave the wind-down gesture, two fingers spinning, and Charli pivoted, “Also, block him. Change your locks. And if he shows up at your door, tell him to go play fetch on the interstate,”

Martine finally smiled, lazy and lethal, “This has been Hot Girl Hotline. We are contractually obligated to remind you that you’re hot and he is not,”

“Deeply not,” Charli said, and hit the ad button. The ON AIR light blinked off.

Charli’s hands shook once. She pressed them flat to the desk until they remembered what stillness felt like.

“Boyfriend,” Martine testing the word

Charli rolled her eyes, cheeks hot.

Nichole’s voice came tinny through the talkback, warm with pride, “We’re clear in sixty. You okay?”

Charli nodded, swallowed, looked down at the tiny smudge of lip gloss she’d left on the mic grille like a signature. The photo on her phone background flashed when a text popped up.

12:58 PM 💬 Kyle: Here.

Her pulse tripped. She stood too fast.

The photograph tugged at her brain. Her mother laughing, Sheila’s grin, the photo on her fridge. She wanted to see him. She wanted his hands. She wanted the metronome between his ribs where she’d learned to sleep.

Nichole’s count hit zero. Charli pushed through the door, past the tangle of cables, out into the bright hallway that smelled like old posters and printer ozone.

He was there against the far wall, hands in his pockets like he’d been born trying not to touch her first. His eyes found her and softened and went feral all at once.

“You’re here,” Charli said, pretending her voice didn’t shake.

“I’m here,” Kyle said, pretending he wasn’t already moving.

A few weeks later, Nichole stared at her reflection. The bathroom was too bright, the mirror too honest. She looked perfect.

Her skin was butter-soft, hair coiled into a lazy puff, gold hoops glinting in the hard overhead light. Young. Beautiful. Almost unbothered, except for the soft blue sweatshirt she’d yanked on to feel like she wasn’t shivering.

Her heartbeat thumped in the hollow of her throat, loud as her own voice on radio playback.

Stan was in the living room, somewhere out of sight, yelling at the Broncos like the game could hear him.

“No, you dumbass! That’s holding! That’s– What the fuck?”

He sounded alive, too big for the apartment, all stupid boy warmth and raw affection. He always did this, made her want to climb back into the sheets just to chase that gravity again, that little ache for more.

Her hands braced the sink. She looked the same as ever, maybe softer, maybe older. Definitely a little scared.

She thought about Stan.

How he made her laugh until her ribs hurt, how he still looked at her like she was magic, how he forgot to answer texts when he spiraled, how sometimes he vanished into silence, how he always came back.

The boy who’d drawn her love out slow, hesitant, like a song he was too sheepish to finish.

The test was on the sink. Positive. Two pink lines. One little piece of plastic and her whole future hiccuped. She was careful. She was always careful. She’d counted days, made jokes about Stan’s pullout game.

The room was still, too heavy with the truth.

She pressed a palm to her belly, unsure if she was even allowed to feel proud or panicked yet. The joke almost left her lips, Hey, at least the universe thinks I’d be a hot mom.

She could still hear him in the living room, “That’s right! Show ‘em how it’s done! Wait, shit! Was that a flag? Babe? You’re missing it!”

She could almost smile. Of course he’d want her opinion. Of course he’d want her. He was her best thing and her worst temptation. She could hear his socked feet padding closer, that bashful grin in his voice, the little tremor when he’d reach for her without thinking.

She didn’t want to hide. She was scared, and she was alive, and she was in love with the idiot in the next room yelling at the TV like it mattered more than anything else.

She glanced at the pregnancy test one more time. The world was changing, and for the first time she didn’t want to run.

She turned the tap, splashed water on her face, braced herself.

“Hey, Nich?” Stan’s voice, right outsid, “You okay in there?”

Nichole looked at herself, mouth curling up in a private, unsteady smile. She let the towel blot her cheeks. The test sat on the sink, undeniable.

She whispered, “Yeah. I’m okay,”