2:17 AM blinked from the alarm clock. Leah knew every water stain on David's ceiling by now—the one near the light fixture looked like a lopsided Texas. He shifted above her, his breath hot and uneven against her neck. She focused on the fridge humming in the kitchen just to distract from how her lower back was starting to cramp from holding this position too long.
"Leah, " David gasped, his grip tightening on her wrist. That tone. Her stomach flipped.
*Not yet*, she thought, chewing her cheek. *Come on—*
His whole body shuddered as he collapsed onto her with a satisfied groan. The warmth between her legs turned tacky. Leah stared at the ceiling, breathing out slowly through her nose.
"That was..." David murmured into her collarbone, his thumb lazily rubbing her shoulder.
"Yeah, " Leah said, flashing the practiced smile she'd perfected in her bathroom mirror. She flexed her toes against the rumpled sheets.
David rolled onto his side, pulling her against him. "You good?"
Leah nodded, pressing her forehead to his chest so he couldn't see her face. His heartbeat thumped under her ear—steady, content. She counted the seconds until his breathing evened out into sleep.
In the dark, she carefully untangled herself and grabbed her phone. The screen lit up the clothes piled on the floor—his expensive dress pants, her blouse still creased from the workday. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard: *why does—* before she erased it. The empty search bar glared back at her.
Leah set the phone down and studied the slope of David's shoulder in the dim light. A siren wailed somewhere distant—three blocks away, maybe four. She wondered if it was speeding toward the river or racing from it.
*Nice*, she told herself. *He's nice.* The word draped over her like an oversized hoodie—cozy but never quite right. David never forgot birthdays, chuckled at her dry jokes, once spent a whole weekend nursing her through food poisoning with homemade ginger tea. But his hands moved with the same measured precision he used to alphabetize his vinyl collection—exact, rehearsed. Even now, his arm curled around her waist with the same tidy ownership as his color-coded gym schedule.
Leah exhaled through her nose, shifting slightly. The wetness between her thighs had cooled to a sticky film. She touched herself absently, fingers tracing the mess he'd left. It wasn't disgust—just this dull, restless emptiness. Her clit pulsed under her fingertips, but she barely felt it. The angle was off. The pressure was wrong. Everything was—
David let out a loud snore and rolled onto his back. Leah froze, her hand still between her legs. His arm flopped onto the pillow near her head, fingers twitching like he was chasing something in his dream. She slowly pulled her hand back, wiping her fingers on the sheets. The whole thing just left her more frustrated. She stared up at the ceiling, counting cracks like they were sheep.
She could've turned on the bedside lamp—it would've given the room a cozy glow. But instead, she imagined it: how the light would catch David's bare shoulder, how it might settle in the dip of her throat as she touched herself properly. Her fingers twitched against her thigh. *Again, * she thought, *just—* But David sighed, sinking deeper into the mattress. Leah let out a slow breath through her nose. The clock blinked 2:23.
She closed her eyes. In her head, a stranger's hands—rough, strong—pinned her wrists down. No face, just heat and weight and the sure feeling of being *wanted*. She arched into the fantasy, but David's aftershave clung to the pillow. That stupid bergamot and cedar smell. It ruined everything. Her thighs clenched. Nothing left but darkness behind her eyelids and that familiar ache.
Then, out of nowhere: the redhead from the coffee shop last Tuesday. Hair slipping out of its braid, paint-stained fingers drumming the counter while she waited for her drink. Leah had pretended to read some boring book, memorizing the way sunlight hit the freckles on the woman's collarbone. *Stop it, * Leah told herself now, rolling onto her side. The sheets felt rough against her skin. *I'm not—* But her fingers were already moving again, wetter this time.
In the fantasy, the woman's breath warmed Leah's inner thigh. Not like David's careful kisses, but hungry—tongue flat against her, tasting her. *"Ça va?"* the woman murmured, lips brushing Leah's clit. That fake accent curled around the words. Leah bit her own wrist to keep quiet. She imagined rough hands holding her hips down, teeth where David was always too gentle. The heat built low in her stomach, sharp and urgent. *"Regarde-moi, "* the woman ordered—and Leah came so hard she saw stars, legs shaking against her own fingers.
After, shame hit like a punch. Leah curled onto her side, knees pulled up. David's snores filled the room. She wiped her hand on the sheet again, quick and rough. *Stop, * she thought. *Stop thinking about—* But the memory flashed back: the barista catching her staring, that smirk as she slowly licked foam off her thumb. Leah pressed her face into the pillow. Her heart was still pounding in her throat.
Sleep came in bits and pieces. First, the feeling of falling—then suddenly, warm fingers tangled with hers. The barista stood close, sunlight making her messy red braid glow. "Julie, " she said softly, like they'd known each other forever. Leah's mouth went dry. Julie's thumb traced the bones of Leah's wrist. "You watch people, " she said, green eyes crinkling. "Like you're trying to memorize them."
The dream melted into reality—one second Julie's mouth was on hers, tasting like strong coffee with a hint of honey, the next Leah was gasping awake. Her fingers still tingled from the memory of Julie's soft hair tangled between them. No hesitation in that dream, just Julie kissing her deep, all tongue and teeth and the smell of fresh dirt on her skin. Then the coffee shop counter dug into Leah's back, the espresso machine steaming beside them—until the sound twisted into David's stupid humidifier across their bedroom.
Leah lay frozen. The sheets stuck to her thighs, smelling like sex and David's fancy shampoo. Morning light cut through the blinds, painting stripes on his bare shoulder as he stretched. When his sleep-warm hand brushed her waist, she jerked away before she could stop herself.
Her palm itched. Without thinking, she reached down, fingers skimming the heat between David's legs. He was already half-hard, because of course he was. He let out this sleepy groan, hips pushing into her grip. "Morning, " he mumbled, voice rough.
Leah didn't answer. She slid down the bed, sheets dragging against her skin as she went. He still smelled like last night—sweat and that lemony body wash he used. Her mouth found him before her brain caught up, the first lick making her stomach twist. *Just get it over with.*
David's fingers curled in her hair, not pulling, just holding. "Jesus, Leah, " he choked out, hips lifting. She took him deeper, focusing on the rhythm—in, out, the way his breath stuttered when she sucked hard. His grip tightened, angling her head just how he liked. She made this small noise against him, involuntary.
*Say something*, she begged silently, tongue tracing the thick vein. *Anything.* But David just groaned, thumb brushing her ear like she was some breakable thing. His other hand patted her shoulder, that stupid *good girl* pressure. It made her jaw ache worse than the stretch.
She pulled off fast, lips wet. David blinked down at her, chest heaving. "What's—"
Leah's forehead pressed against the sharp curve of David's hip as she breathed him in—that mix of sleep-warm skin and musk, undercut with the sharp taste of her own spit still on him. She could feel her own pulse pounding between her thighs. *Say it*, she begged silently. *Just once—* But his fingers were already twisting in her hair, guiding her back down.
The first shot hit the back of her throat without warning. Hot. Salty. Worse than she remembered. She gagged on reflex, fingers digging into his thighs hard enough to leave marks. Above her, David let out a sharp breath, his hips jerking forward. The second spurt coated her tongue, thick like heavy cream. She swallowed roughly, throat working around him. The sound he made was almost holy.
As soon as he softened, she rolled away, pressing her lips together. The taste stuck—musky, with that weird chemical aftertaste from last night's cheap wine. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, pretending to yawn. David reached for her, tracing circles on her shoulder blade. "That was..." His thumb dragged down her spine. "Wow."
She nodded, staring at the alarm clock—6:04 AM. No kiss. There never was, not after this. David acted like her mouth was suddenly contaminated, like kissing her now would break some unspoken rule. Once, drunk on Manischewitz, she'd joked about it. He'd wrinkled his nose. "Leah, come on." Now she swallowed against the bitterness rising in her throat—couldn't tell if it was him or just the usual resentment.
The mattress groaned as David swung his legs over the side, stretching with the same careful precision he used to fold laundry. Leah watched the muscles move under his skin, the morning light catching the gray hairs starting to speckle his calves. He paused at the foot of the bed, scratching his stomach absently. "Coffee?"
She knew he wouldn't wait for an answer—he never did. Sure enough, David was already halfway to the bathroom before she could open her mouth. The shower hissed on. Leah counted the seconds until steam crept under the door. Twelve. Always twelve.
Through the half-open door, she watched him step under the water, his shape blurring behind the foggy glass. His shower routine was as predictable as his foreplay: shampoo first (twenty seconds of scalp massage), then soap (left arm, right arm, torso in slow clockwise circles). She didn't need to look to know his towel hung on the third hook—never the second—or that the water was exactly 102 degrees. Early on, she'd teased him about it. *"It's called efficiency, "* he'd said, squeezing her shoulder like she'd just said something cute but clueless.
Her feet hit the cold hardwood, toes curling. Her blouse lay crumpled where David had tossed it last night—sleeves inside out, buttons hanging by threads. Leah smoothed it over her thigh, picking at the loose thread near the collar. *Nice*, she thought again, the word souring in her chest. Nice blouse. Nice boyfriend. Nice fucking life.
The mirror over David's dresser showed her reflection as she buttoned up—dark circles under her eyes, pieces of hair falling loose from her messy bun. She looked exactly like someone who'd spent the night having polite, forgettable sex. The third button wouldn't line up right, just enough to piss her off. Leah sighed, fiddled with it three times, then gave up.
"David, " she called, pressing her hand against the steamed-up bathroom door. The shower was still going. She could picture him in there—soaping up like he was washing a car, water running down his shoulders in perfect little streams. "I'm heading back to my place."
Silence. Long enough for her to count the ugly beige tiles on the floor—twelve across, fourteen down, all cracked near the edges. Then his voice, half-drowned by the shower: "Yeah, cool. Text me when you wanna come over again." Like he was confirming a dentist appointment. A drop of water landed on her bare foot from the leaky doorframe. She wiggled her toes, watching it soak into the wood.
The hallway smelled like old wood and somebody else's breakfast—garlic and burnt toast. Leah shoved her foot into her boot three times before it finally went on. *Coffee*, she thought, staring at the peeling wallpaper. *Just need coffee*. But her stupid pulse jumped when she caught her flushed face in the elevator mirror. The ancient thing groaned its way down, each jolt syncing up with the memory of Julie wiping foam off that chipped mug yesterday.
Outside, February air cut right through her thin blouse. Leah hunched her shoulders, letting the cold snap her awake. Three blocks down, the coffee shop's *OPEN* sign buzzed and flickered like it was daring her. She'd walked in every day for months, always noticing Julie—that cute redhead behind the counter. Never talking to her except to mumble her coffee order. *Too obvious*, whispered the part of her that couldn't stop staring at the way Julie's apron strings framed her hips.
She hesitated at the crosswalk, scuffing her boot on the icy pavement. *It's just coffee*, she told herself, watching the light turn red. But her pulse was doing that thing again—the same traitorous beat as last night, imagining Julie's teeth on her collarbone. A delivery van honked; Leah jerked, realizing she'd been staring at the coffee shop's fogged-up window through a whole light cycle. Inside, Julie's silhouette moved behind the counter, her braid swinging as she laughed at something. The sound got eaten by a garbage truck, but Leah's shoulders still tensed—like Julie might somehow feel her staring from across the street.
The doorbell jingled like an alarm when she walked in. Twelve steps to the counter—past the bulletin board with its sad flyers for lost pets, past some old guy stirring honey into his tea, past the smell of burnt sugar and coffee grounds. Leah picked at a loose thread on her sleeve, winding it tight around her finger until the tip turned white. *Act normal*, she ordered herself. *Just get your damn coffee and—* Then Julie looked up from wiping the milk steamer, green eyes scanning the line before landing on hers. Not the polite smile she gave the guy in front of Leah—something warmer, like she knew exactly why Leah was here. Like she'd been waiting.
Leah's heart skipped. The thread she'd been fidgeting with snapped between her fingers. *It's just customer service*, she told herself, digging her thumbnail into her palm. *Baristas are paid to be nice*. But Julie's eyes had dipped to her lips a second too long before darting away with fake innocence. Leah's neck burned. She stared at the chalkboard menu like she hadn't ordered the same damn oat milk latte every morning for six months. The guy ahead of her asked for extra foam. Julie nodded, but her chipped blue nails kept tapping the counter—tap-tap-taptaptap—like she was texting someone under the table. Leah's stomach flipped imagining those hands gripping her waist, pressing her against the espresso machine with the same easy strength Julie used to pack coffee grounds.
"Hey." Julie's voice snapped her out of it—lower than usual, grinning. Leah blinked. The line was gone. Julie leaned forward, elbows on the counter, her shirt dipping just enough to show the freckles scattered across her chest. The espresso machine screamed. "Your usual?" Julie's smirk widened, showing off her slightly crooked tooth. Steam curled between them. "Or feeling adventurous?" Her finger traced the edge of Leah's favorite mug—the one with the chip only she ever got.
Leah opened her mouth. Nothing came out. A weird noise escaped—half-laugh, half-choke. Her tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. Julie waited, eyebrows raised. The café lights caught in her lashes, throwing shadows across her face. Five seconds passed. Six. Leah watched Julie's throat move when she swallowed. "Yeah, " she finally croaked. "Please." Her voice cracked like a teenager's.
Julie winked—slow, like she was dragging a finger down Leah's spine. She turned away, hips swaying, apron strings swinging. "Double oat latte, " she called over her shoulder, sounding way too pleased with herself. The espresso machine hissed. "Extra cinnamon." Leah's hands twitched. She hadn't asked for that. Julie glanced back, catching her reaction. "Try it, " she said, grating fresh cinnamon with a smirk. The smell hit Leah—warm, sweet, too close to how Julie's neck probably smelled. Leah's collar suddenly felt tight.
The machine screamed again. Julie worked fast—tamping, pouring—but kept half-facing Leah. "So, " she said, milk pitcher hissing, "you hover here every day but never actually talk to me." Foam spiraled into the cup. "Do I bite?" Leah fixated on the freckle behind Julie's ear—small, shaped like a missed period in a sentence. She swallowed hard.
"I'm—" Leah fidgeted with the loose thread on her sleeve, her heart pounding so hard she swore Julie could hear it over the coffee grinder. "Sorry. I like you. I just..." The words died in her throat. *God, this is embarrassing.* Across the counter, Julie hesitated for half a second before turning away, drink in hand. Her eyes raked over Leah like she was sizing her up—slow, deliberate, like she knew exactly what she was doing.
Julie leaned in closer, and Leah caught a whiff of vanilla from her skin. "Taking my break soon, " she murmured, her breath warm against Leah's ear. "Wanna join me?" She nudged the coffee cup forward, her pinky grazing Leah's wrist—maybe on purpose, maybe not. "Or are you in a hurry?" She wiped a drip from the saucer with her thumb, the motion smooth and practiced, the kind of move Leah had imagined her using in way more interesting situations.
Leah's legs nearly gave out. She gripped the counter to steady herself, the thread on her cuff unraveling further under her nervous fingers. "Yeah, " she blurted, too loud. The old guy at the next table glanced up from his newspaper. Leah felt her face flush. "Sounds... nice, " she mumbled, her voice cracking like a teenager's.
Julie smirked—slow, knowing—as she tucked a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. The movement made the muscles in her neck flex. "Five minutes, " she said, tapping Leah's untouched latte with a chipped blue nail. "Don't bail on me, *chérie*." The word curled between them, warm as the steam rising from the cup. Leah watched her walk toward the backroom, apron strings swinging with each step. The door clicked shut behind her.
Leah practically bolted to the window seat, banging her knee against the table in the process. Coffee sloshed as she set the cup down. Outside, a pigeon pecked at a stale bagel—methodical, unhurried, like the way Julie had eyed her earlier. *She probably calls everyone 'chérie, '* Leah thought, just as the pigeon shit on the sidewalk. She traced the rim of the mug—still warm from Julie's hands—and jerked her fingers back like it burned. The cinnamon smell was suddenly overwhelming. *It's just good customer service. Baristas flirt for tips.* She counted sugar packets (twelve, missing one), floor tiles (thirty-six, three cracked), but couldn't shake the memory of Julie's gaze dropping to her lips when her glasses fogged up.
The backroom door creaked open. Leah froze as Julie stepped out—no apron now, just a tight black tank top that showed off freckled shoulders and toned arms. She carried two mugs effortlessly, making Leah's grip on her own cup tighten. "Mind if I crash your table?" Julie's voice was different without the espresso machine's buzz—lower, rougher, like worn-in denim. Before Leah could stammer a reply (she might’ve made a noise, God help her), Julie slid into the chair next to her instead of across. Their knees touched. Leah’s legs shook.
Julie plunked the second mug down—steaming chai, Leah noticed without really thinking about it—and held out a hand covered in dried paint flecks. "Guess we should do this properly." Her thumb brushed Leah's palm as they shook hands, staying just a second too long to be casual. "I'm Julie. And..." She leaned in until Leah could smell vanilla clinging to her skin. "I know your name's Leah." The way she said it—slow, like she was tasting the name—made Leah's stomach flip. She'd heard her name a million times, but never like that, never with that edge that made her toes curl inside her boots.
Julie didn't wait for an answer. "So, " she said, blowing on her tea, "what does Leah Cohen do when she's not checking out baristas?" It should've felt nosy, but Julie's fingers were still resting against Leah's wrist, warm and insistent. Leah mumbled something about editing medical journals, about her tiny apartment with romance novels piled by the bed. Julie listened like she was memorizing every word—nodding at weird moments, cutting in with sharp questions ("You underline the good parts, don't you? Bet you press too hard, like you're trying to tattoo the words on your skin"). Leah ended up admitting shit she'd never told her ex: how she secretly hated Times New Roman, how she'd once cried over a missing comma in a love letter she chickened out on sending.
The steam from their drinks curled around Julie's face as she leaned closer. "And?" Her knee pressed harder against Leah's. "What scares you more—spiders, or admitting you want something?" The bluntness hit Leah like a punch. She fumbled her cup, burning her thumb. Julie caught her wrist, brought the hurt finger to her mouth without looking away. The scrape of teeth over the burn shot straight to Leah's spine. "See?" Julie's breath was hot on her skin. "Not so hard to take what you want." Behind them, the barista slammed the espresso machine down hard—a reminder this moment wasn't gonna last.
Julie's thumb traced the wild pulse in Leah's wrist. "I've been watching you, " she said, voice low. "The way you bite your lip when you read, how you always sit where the sun hits your neck." Leah's breath caught. Julie grinned—not the polite café smile, but something sharper. "You think I don't notice you staring when I bend down for milk?" The backroom clock chimed. Julie let out a sharp breath. "Break's over." She stood up fast, chair screeching. Leah's stomach lurched. Then Julie bent down, lips brushing Leah's ear: "Tell me to ask you out, Leah. Just once. I'll do the rest."
Leah's mouth opened but nothing came out. The words stuck in her throat—*say it, just say it*—but she choked. Julie watched her struggle, patient as hell. Then, with a sigh that wasn't mad but tired, she took Leah's limp hand. The pen tickled her palm as Julie wrote, pressing hard enough that the numbers stayed ghost-white when she pulled away.
"Text me, " Julie said, pressing the napkin with her number into Leah's hand and folding her fingers over it. "I'll tell you where to meet after my shift." Her thumb lingered on Leah's knuckles a second too long. "Consider this me asking you out." Close enough to smell cinnamon gum on her breath, Julie added, "Hope you text."
Then she was gone—apron strings flying, ponytail bouncing—before Leah could even say "okay." The chair scraped loud against the floor as Julie hurried back to work. Across the café, the espresso machine hissed. Leah sat there, hand clenched too tight around the napkin. If she squeezed any harder, the ink would smudge. She pictured it staining her palm blue, like one of those fake tattoos kids press onto their skin.
Next thing she knew, she was outside. Cold air hit her face hard. Leah blinked, dazed, like when you walk out of a dark movie theater into bright sunlight. Her phone was already in her hand—no memory of pulling it out. The blank screen stared back. *Tell me when and where*, she typed, then deleted. Sounded pushy. *I'd like that*—nope, lame. A cab honked. Leah fumbled, almost dropping her phone. Finally, she sent: *Whenever you're free works.* No overthinking.
Julie's reply came before the cab door even shut: **Meet me at The Rough Riders bar at 6.** Then, right after: **Wear something dangerous.** Leah stared. Dangerous? Her wardrobe was all clearance-rack cardigans and khakis. The cab lurched forward. She read the texts again, gripping her phone. No "maybe" or "if you feel like it." Just straight-up instructions.
Back home, Leah shoved her sticky apartment door open with her hip. That dress—the white sundress with little blue flowers, shoved in the back since that weird Hamptons trip years ago. She yanked it out from under a pile of blazers, wrinkling her nose at the faint mothball smell. A coffee stain near the hem, but whatever.
The boots were a problem. She dug through the closet floor until she found the old cowboy boots from her brief "maybe I like country boys" phase (thanks, Chip the rodeo clown). They pinched her toes instantly—she remembered now why she'd stopped wearing them. For a second, she pictured some guy’s hands on her hips at a honky-tonk, Chip pouting by the bull ride. The dress straps kept slipping. She turned sideways in the mirror. Lower cut than she’d remembered.
"I think this will work, " Leah muttered to her bathroom mirror. The mirror didn't talk back. Nine hours loomed ahead like an empty desert road. She could bake something—but flour always made her sneeze. Could rearrange the spices—except David had already put them in alphabetical order last Tuesday. The ticking clock got louder. Leah dug her fingers into her thighs, leather pants squeaking. What if Julie actually tasted like cinnamon? What if she kissed like she made coffee—slow, burning, leaving Leah's lips tingling afterward? Her stomach did a stupid little flip. The dress wrinkled where she'd been gripping it. And Julie's hands—Christ, those hands. Artist's fingers, steady and knowing. Leah could practically feel them sliding up her ribs, popping open this dress as easily as Julie handled coffee equipment.
Then full-blown panic hit. What if she dropped her drink? Splashed whiskey right across Julie's white tank top, fabric turning see-through—no, worse, what if Julie saw her do it? Smirked at her shaking hands? Leah's breathing went shallow. Three steps across the room, pivot—her boots clicked loud as a spooked horse. Phone buzzed: **Bring bail money. I know a mechanical bull.** Leah blinked. Had Julie—? Nah. Just weird timing. Screen went dark. She counted ceiling cracks (eleven, all spreading from the light fixture). Sex. The word bounced around her skull. Would Julie want that tonight? Push her against some bar wall, murmur French nonsense against her neck while Leah melted? Her legs gave out. She landed hard on the bed, springs complaining. Sex with David had been... fine. Routine. Julie wouldn't be routine. Julie'd notice every tremor, memorize every gasp.
5:17 PM. Cab in thirteen minutes. Leah pawed through her purse: cherry ChapStick (still sealed), mints (three left), tampon (expired two years ago). Sweat made the dress stick to her lower back. She'd switched deodorants twice—first that hospital-strength crap, then the flowery one David whined about. Now her pits itched from the chemical warfare. A car horn blared outside. Leah jumped, elbow knocking over her water glass. It rolled under the dresser, miraculously unbroken. She left it there. Another buzz: **PS. You're overthinking.** Leah's chest tightened. How the hell—? That damn pigeon on the fire escape. Maybe Julie was spying through it.
Headlights flooded the hallway as Leah stepped out. One minute early. The cabbie—guy with a walrus mustache—barely looked up from his crossword. Vinyl seats stuck to her thighs as she slid in. The cab reeked of Pine-Sol and maybe old nachos. Leah white-knuckled the armrest as they jerked into traffic. The city flashed by—corner stores, rusty fire escapes, some couple screaming about parking. Her phone stayed dark. The meter crept upward. At red lights, she counted sidewalk cracks. At intersections, she memorized plate numbers. When the cab finally rolled up to that neon horse sign—"ROUGH RIDERS" in glowing letters—her stomach plummeted like she'd missed the last stair.
The bar doors weighed a ton. Leah's boots stuck slightly to the beer-sticky floor—decades of spilled drinks baked into the wood. The mechanical bull sat idle in the corner, its plastic sides scuffed to hell. Neon signs painted everyone in shifting blues and pinks. No Julie. Leah's hand twitched toward her phone—then froze at warm breath on her neck. "Took you long enough." Julie's voice wrapped around her like cigarette smoke. Leah turned to find her propped against the jukebox, one boot heel hooked on the base. That stupid cowboy shirt fit just right, unbuttoned enough to show collarbones dotted with the exact freckles Leah had daydreamed about. And—Jesus—the blue thread matched her dress perfectly.
Julie didn't wait for an answer—just pulled Leah into a hug so tight it lifted her onto her toes. The suddenness knocked the air out of her, and Julie's belt buckle dug into her stomach. Leah's nose brushed against Julie's neck. Vanilla. A hint of sweat. Her brain short-circuited for a second. When Julie finally let go, she kept one hand on Leah's elbow, fingers tracing slow circles on that sensitive patch of skin just above her wrist. "Glad you showed up, " Julie said, her thumb moving in a rhythm that felt way too deliberate. Leah's pulse was loud in her ears. She opened her mouth—to apologize for being late? For wearing this stupid outfit?—but Julie was already guiding her toward the bar, grip firm like she was steering a nervous horse.
The bartender slid two whiskeys their way before Julie even opened her mouth. Leah blinked. Julie grinned. "Thursday regular, " she explained, nudging one glass toward Leah. The ice clinked like wind chimes. Leah gripped her drink, staring hard at the condensation on the glass instead of the way Julie's eyes lingered on her collarbones. "You look good, " Julie said abruptly, downing her whiskey in one go. Leah choked on her sip. "And relax, " Julie added, plucking a lime wedge from the garnish tray and pressing it to Leah's lips. "We're here to have fun, remember?" The tartness burst on her tongue—a distraction from Julie's knee nudging between hers under the bar.
When the bartender came back, Julie tossed a twenty on the counter without looking. "My invite, my tab, " she said, cutting off Leah's fumbling for her wallet. Her thumb brushed Leah's wrist as she took back the empty glass. Leah stared at the wet ring her drink left on the bar. The silence stretched—not awkward, but heavy, like the air before a storm. "I've never..." Leah swallowed. "Done this with a woman before." The words tumbled out, half-mumbled into her whiskey. "No clue what I'm doing."
Julie didn't even blink. She dragged a fingertip around the rim of her glass—slow circles that made Leah's throat go tight. "I know, " she said, simple as that. No teasing, no fake surprise. Just two words that clicked something into place. "Nothing to stress about." Leah let out a sharp breath through her nose. Behind them, the jukebox switched songs—Patsy Cline's *Crazy* crackling through the speakers.
Julie leaned in, elbows on the sticky bar. The movement made her shirt gape a little—just enough for Leah to catch a glimpse of lace. "I know how to fix those nerves, " Julie murmured, tapping her empty glass. "Couple more drinks, then we dance." Leah's fingers clenched around her glass. Dancing meant bodies pressed close, meant Julie's hands on her hips—meant people staring. Like she could read her mind, Julie's knee bumped hers again. "Girls dance together all the time, " she said with a shrug that didn't hide her smirk. "No one'll care. Besides..." Her voice dropped, whiskey-rough. "Dancing's fun. We'll work up a sweat."
Leah let out a sharp breath—half nerves, half excitement. The whiskey burned going down, settling warm in her stomach. That song—her mom used to hum it while making bread. Patsy Cline’s voice wrapped around them like cigarette smoke. Leah stared at the melting ice in her glass, suddenly noticing how Julie smelled—like vanilla, leather, and something fresh. Cut grass? She couldn’t pin it down. Before she could chicken out, Leah knocked back the rest of her drink. The whiskey went down wrong; she coughed hard while Julie laughed and whacked her between the shoulders. "Easy there, " Julie teased, her hand lingering near Leah’s bra strap. "Okay, " Leah croaked, wiping her teary eyes. "One more... then you’re taking me dancing." She twisted the wet napkin in her hands. "But you’ll have to show me how. I don’t know the steps."
Julie’s grin wasn’t polite—it was all teeth. She waved the bartender over, holding up two fingers. The next round came in thick mason glasses, the whiskey swirling with ice. Julie clinked hers against Leah’s with a sharp *tink*. "Bottoms up, " she said, draining hers in three gulps. Leah managed hers without choking this time. The warmth spread through her, loosening the tightness in her shoulders. Julie’s fingers slid between hers, thumb brushing her knuckles. "Come on, " she murmured, pulling Leah toward the dance floor. Leah’s boots stuck a little on the sticky wood, but Julie’s grip kept her from stumbling.
The jukebox kicked up a fast fiddle tune. Around them, boots stomped in rhythm. Julie led Leah to the edge where they could watch. "Copy me, " she said, stepping back—right foot behind, cross, spin—like she’d been dancing in boots since diapers. Leah tried to follow but moved like a stiff puppet. She tripped, crashing into Julie’s shoulder. "Easy, " Julie laughed, hands steadying her waist. The heat from Julie’s palms soaked through Leah’s dress. "Stop thinking, " Julie said, guiding Leah’s hips into the beat. Leah bit her lip, watching how Julie’s body moved—easy, like the music was part of her.
The whiskey buzzed in Leah’s veins now, dulling the awkwardness. When Julie spun her out, she didn’t trip as much. When Julie pulled her back in, they ended up closer—chests touching, Julie’s breath warm on her skin. The air smelled like beer and sweat and leather. Under the neon lights, Julie’s freckles stood out, lips moving as she counted steps under her breath. Leah caught the rhythm—right, left, stomp—and suddenly she was laughing, giddy with the movement. Julie squeezed her hand. "Told you, " she said, spinning her again. The room turned into a blur of noise and motion, and for once, Leah wasn’t overthinking it. She was just there, alive and moving.
Three songs later, Leah was drenched. Her dress stuck to her lower back, sweat making it cling like plastic wrap. Beside her, Julie’s shirt was dark with sweat at the collar, her red hair plastered to her neck in messy strands. They slumped against the bar, breathing hard. Julie lifted two fingers at the bartender before nudging Leah’s knee with hers. "Told you you'd get it, " she said, grinning. The contact sent a weird little shock up Leah’s thigh—like static, but warmer. Leah wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, suddenly hyper-aware of her pulse everywhere—her throat, her wrists, even between her legs. "Seriously, " she blurted, nodding at the mechanical bull, "why the hell pick a country bar in New York?"
Julie’s smile slipped for half a second—just enough to notice. She spun her empty glass, ice cubes clinking like loose change. "Guess I’ve got a country soul, " she said, voice too light. Her grip tightened on the glass. "Actually..." She paused as the bartender slid fresh drinks toward them. Julie didn’t touch hers. "I’m buying a farm. In Texas. Moving in a few weeks."
Leah’s stomach dropped like she’d missed a step. The whiskey turned sour in her mouth. "You’re—" Her fingers twisted the damp hem of her dress. "Why ask me out if you’re leaving?" It came out sharper than she meant, edged with something raw. Around them, the bar noise faded—just the hiss of the soda gun and Patsy Cline’s voice scratchy through the speakers.
Julie traced a wet ring on the bar, shoulders hunching slightly. "Not my brightest move, " she admitted. A quick, wry smile flashed and disappeared. She looked up—her green eyes almost glowing under the neon. "I’ve noticed you for months, " she said, quiet. "Figured if you got to know me, maybe you'd... visit." Julie exhaled through her nose, suddenly fixated on a chip in her nail polish. "Sounds stupid out loud."
Leah’s grip tightened on her glass. Condensation dripped down her wrist like it was sweating too. "Not mad, " she muttered. Lie. "Just... disappointed." She studied Julie’s profile—the stubborn set of her jaw, the freckles clustered on her cheekbones. "I kinda let myself believe in this." She waved vaguely at the dance floor, the drinks, Julie’s hand so close to hers.
Julie leaned in, crowding Leah against the bar. Her pupils swallowed the green in her eyes. "Doesn’t have to be make-believe, " she said. The whiskey on her breath mixed with mint—like she’d been chewing leaves. "We’ve got two weeks to figure shit out." Her thumb brushed Leah’s knuckle, sending sparks up her arm.
Two weeks. Fourteen days to untangle a year with David. Leah’s stomach twisted. She pictured his lazy morning grin, the way he always set the coffee maker the night before—little habits that suddenly felt like relics. The thought hit her like ice water: she couldn’t kiss him tomorrow knowing Julie tasted like this—wild and alive.
The jukebox stuttered into some sad old love song Leah didn't know. Julie didn't ask if she recognized it—just reached out and grabbed her hand like she owned it. "Dance with me." Not asking. Leah's fingers tangled with hers without thinking, letting Julie pull her toward the dance floor where couples swayed under the dim lights.
Julie yanked her close enough to see every freckle across her nose. Her hands landed heavy on Leah's hips—no hesitation, just claiming her space. The music got louder as Julie started moving them, pressed together from knee to collarbone. Leah sucked in a sharp breath when Julie rested their foreheads together, their whiskey-warm breath mixing. Everything else faded except where they touched: Julie's thumbs drawing lazy patterns on Leah's dress, the heat of her stomach pressing closer with every step, the stupid realization that Leah could feel Julie's heartbeat where their chests met.
"I know this is insane, " Julie muttered, her voice barely there under the whine of steel guitar. Her fingers dug into Leah's lower back, pulling her even tighter until Leah felt the shake in Julie's arms. "Come to Texas with me." Leah choked—half-laugh, half-gasp—but Julie didn't let her move an inch. "Don't wanna stop this." The raw truth in it made Leah's skin prickle. She should say no. Should joke it off, blame her job, point out how ridiculous it was to throw everything away for two weeks of drunk flirting. Instead, the word crawled up her throat—quiet as breathing, inevitable as gravity: "Okay."
Julie kissed her before the word finished leaving her mouth. Tasted like cheap bourbon and sweat—nervous energy pretending to be smooth, shaky hands cradling Leah's face too gently. Leah sank into it, grabbing fistfuls of Julie's shirt, dragging her closer until the bar lights smeared behind her eyelids. The music roared—someone whooped, glasses clinked—but Leah stopped giving a damn the second Julie nipped at her lip, hands sliding down to grip her hips hard enough to bruise.
"Take me home, " Leah panted against Julie's mouth, the words out before her brain caught up. Julie went still mid-kiss, breath hitching. She leaned back just far enough to stare—eyes darting between Leah's blown pupils, her flushed skin, the way she couldn't catch her breath.
"You sure?" Julie's voice came out wrecked, her thumb freezing on Leah's hipbone. The neon lit up the gold in her eyes, turning them liquid. Leah could smell the whiskey on her breath mixing with something sharper—like wild herbs and lightning. Behind them, the mechanical bull kicked on again, its grinding drowned out by the hammering of Leah's pulse.
Leah clenched Julie's shirt in her fists, the cotton damp under her sweaty palms. She felt Julie's breath hitch against her mouth—a tiny crack in her cool-girl act. "Yeah, " Leah muttered, surprised her voice didn't shake. "Let's bail." The words felt risky, like stealing candy as a kid. She leaned in until Julie's belt buckle pressed into her gut. "I need you to fuck me." No fancy phrasing, just the ugly truth. Julie froze. "I gotta know if this is real."
Julie fumbled with her phone, punching the wrong passcode twice before getting it right. The screen lit up her flushed cheeks as she ordered the Uber, thumbs stumbling over the keyboard. Leah watched her throat move when she swallowed hard before shoving the phone away. The air between them got thick with shit neither of them was saying. The bartender slid their bill over like he'd been waiting for this moment. Julie tossed down a wad of cash—way too much, judging by the dude's raised eyebrows—and grabbed Leah's hand, fingers lacing together too tight.
Outside, the bar's neon sign turned Julie's face pink. Leah saw her jaw flex once, twice, before she blew out a sharp breath through her nose. The February chill stuck to them like wet clothes, the air smelling like gas and coming rain. Julie's thumb started rubbing circles on Leah's knuckles—comfort or nerves, who knew. The cab showed up right on time, brakes squealing like a dying animal. Julie held the door, her hand hovering near Leah's back but not touching. The seats reeked of pine trees and old smokes. Leah watched streetlights flash through the foggy window, each one lighting up Julie's twitching fingers on her thigh.
Julie's building was a shitty red brick thing wedged between a corner store and a laundromat. The cab light died when Julie slammed the door, leaving them under a busted orange streetlamp. Leah watched Julie dig through her purse with shaky hands—ChapStick hit the pavement, some receipt blew away. She muttered curses in French, sharp and pissed. When she finally grabbed her keys, they rattled like loose change. Leah caught her wrist without thinking, shoving the keys into her palm. Julie sucked in a breath—their fingers tangled together around the keyring—before she spun toward the stairs. The smell of Julie's shampoo—like rosemary and lemon—hung where Leah's nose almost touched her shoulder.
The hallway was dark and tight, the hardwood floors worn down from years of people walking over them. Julie didn't bother with the lights. Her keys clattered onto the entryway table as she kicked the door closed behind her. Leah barely noticed the mix of turpentine and coffee in the air before Julie was right there—hands cupping Leah's face, kissing her hard enough to make her dizzy. It was messy and desperate, Julie's teeth nipping at Leah's lip as she pushed them blindly down the hall. Leah's fingers fumbled with Julie's buttons, too eager to get them undone. One popped off—hit the floor with a tiny ping. Julie didn't give a shit. She wriggled out of the shirt one-handed while the other stayed pressed against Leah's back, steering her toward what had to be the bedroom. The shirt hung at Julie's elbows for a second before she finally yanked it off and tossed it aside. Freckled shoulders. A black lace bra Leah wanted to taste.
Julie's room wasn't much—just a bed crammed against rough brick walls and a drafting table buried under sketchbooks. Moonlight cut through the thin curtains, painting Julie's bare skin in pale blue as she pushed Leah down onto the mattress. Leah's legs hit the edge, sending her sprawling back onto her elbows with a sharp inhale. Julie settled between her thighs, hands sliding up slow under Leah's dress, fingers grazing the tops of her socks before finding bare skin. When Julie's touch reached the lace trim of Leah's panties, Leah shivered hard. Julie paused there, thumbs brushing the delicate edge just above her hips. "These are nice, " Julie said, voice husky from whiskey. "Too nice for where they're headed." Leah barely caught her meaning before Julie hooked two fingers into the waistband and peeled them down in one quick tug. The lace dragged against her thighs—hot, almost rough—before Julie flicked them aside without looking.
The cold air hit Leah's skin first, then Julie's stare—hot and heavy, like a hand sliding between her thighs. Julie's dark eyes locked onto her, pupils swallowing the color whole, never blinking as she took in Leah's slick folds. Leah almost closed her legs, almost covered herself—but Julie let out this rough, hungry sound that curled straight into her gut. "Look at you, " Julie murmured, fingers spreading her wider. "Dripping just from dancing?" Leah whimpered, hips jerking—Julie pressed a firm palm against her stomach. "Stay." Soft words, hard meaning.
Julie blew warm air over Leah's clit before dragging her tongue through her wetness, slow and deliberate. Leah arched off the bed with a gasp, hands clutching the sheets. Julie hummed against her, the vibration shooting up Leah's spine like a live wire. She did it again—slower, teasing—loving how Leah's thighs shook around her. "Julie—" Leah choked out. Julie answered by sucking her clit lightly while her fingers traced Leah's entrance—not pushing in, just circling, slick with Leah's own wetness.
Leah bucked hard; Julie held her down with an arm across her hips, the pressure making her pulse race. Every breath filled Julie with Leah's scent—musky, sweet, thick in the air. She flicked her tongue faster, drinking in the taste, loving the way Leah's breathing stuttered with every swipe. Just as Leah's thighs started trembling, Julie pulled back—earning a frustrated whine—then slid two fingers inside instead. Leah arched off the bed with a cry, back bowing as Julie curled her fingers just right.
"Please—" Leah gasped, her nails digging into Julie's shoulder hard enough to leave marks. "Show me how—fuck—how to make you feel this." Julie froze, her fingers buried deep inside Leah, watching her face twist with desperate want. She pulled out slow, those slick fingers dragging across Leah's bottom lip. Leah's tongue flicked out before she could stop herself—tasting herself—and that hungry little move sent a raw, animal heat straight through Julie's core.
"Turn around, " Julie ordered, voice low, rolling them both sideways in one smooth move. The bed creaked under them as Julie got them lined up—faces buried between each other's thighs, legs tangled tight. The first hot breath Leah let out against Julie's wetness made Julie's stomach clench hard. "Easy, " Julie warned, already breathless. She showed her how—one slow, dragging lick up Leah's slit—and Leah whimpered against Julie's skin before copying the move, shaky but perfect.
Julie's hips bucked when Leah's tongue found her clit—just a testing flick, but damn. She paid her back by licking a slow, filthy stripe through Leah's dripping folds, loving how Leah's moan buzzed against her. Leah's fingers bit into Julie's thighs as she found the rhythm—those nervous little licks turning bolder every time Julie gasped. Neither of them let up—just wet sounds, panting breaths, and the bed groaning under them as they pressed closer.
Leah let out a soft whimper as Julie's fingers slid inside her—two fingers pushing deep while her tongue traced slow circles around Leah's clit. The combination made Leah's thoughts scramble; she lost the rhythm, her own tongue moving messily against Julie in uneven, needy strokes. Julie groaned against her, hips rolling to press harder against Leah's mouth. Leah could taste the change—Julie getting wetter, her scent richer—and knowing she was the reason for it sent a shudder through her. Her legs shook as Julie's fingers curled inside her just right, sending a sharp burst of pleasure behind her eyelids.
Julie gasped when Leah sucked her clit between her lips—not perfect, but eager, and Julie’s thighs clamped tight around Leah’s head in response. Leah moaned against her, the vibration pulling a broken cry from Julie’s throat. They moved together, messy and desperate—Julie rocking into Leah’s mouth while Leah arched against Julie’s tongue—until neither of them could hold back anymore. Leah felt her climax building fast, her hips jerking against Julie’s face. She tried to warn her, mumbling “J-Julie, ” but Julie didn’t stop, sealing her lips tight around Leah’s clit and sucking hard just as her fingers twisted deep inside.
Leah came with a choked sob, thighs trembling around Julie’s head. Julie didn’t let up, licking and teasing until Leah whimpered from oversensitivity—but Julie was too far gone herself, her own pleasure winding tighter with every twitch of Leah’s body. When Leah’s fingers suddenly dug into Julie’s hips, yanking her closer, Julie lost it. Her orgasm hit hard—mouth pressed slack against Leah’s thigh, fingers clenching where they gripped Leah’s ass.
After, they lay in a mess of sheets, skin still damp with sweat. The moon had moved, streaking pale light across their legs where they stayed pressed together. Julie let out a shaky breath, turning Leah onto her side—her hands lingering, one tracing Leah’s hip, the other pushing sweaty hair off her forehead. Leah leaned into the touch without thinking, body loose and warm, feeling something too soft for just sex.
Julie curled around her from behind, chest hot against Leah’s back. An arm slid under Leah’s neck, fingers spread wide over her ribs like Julie was marking territory. Leah could feel Julie’s pulse tapping fast against her spine—way too quick for how calm she sounded when she mumbled, “So... was it good?” Leah’s breath caught. The question hung there, loaded in a way she didn’t want to deal with. She just pushed back into Julie instead, muttering, “Better.” The word felt weird in her mouth—too honest—but Julie hummed against her shoulder like she approved.
Somewhere outside, a siren wailed a few streets over, the sound muffled. Julie’s thumb drew slow circles on Leah’s ribs, light enough to raise goosebumps. Leah stared at how their legs tangled—Julie’s knee hooked over hers, skin warm against skin. Lips brushed the back of her neck. No one had ever held her like this—not David with his careful space, not anyone else with their grabby desperation. When Leah shifted, Julie’s arm tightened just a little, her nose nudging Leah’s hairline. “Sleep, ” Julie murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.
End of part 1