They handed us the receipt. Lina stuffed it in her purse without looking and grinned at me like we were fifteen again and had just shoplifted lipstick.
"I swear," she said, pushing the door open, "you wear that blouse like it owes you something."
I smiled faintly, stepping into the sunlight. It clung to my skin in all the right places—and all the wrong ones.
We walked to the car. Quiet, warm wind. Pavement humming. I settled into the passenger seat and closed my eyes for a second while she adjusted the AC.
But she didn't drive.
"Hey," she said suddenly. "Mind if we stop by that bookstore real quick?"
I glanced over. "Since when do you read anything that isn't on a phone screen?"
She smirked. "Since I found out they reopened the adult romance section."
I blinked.
She was already turning the wheel. "What? You think I get all my ideas from porn?"
I looked out the window. "I try not to think about where you get your ideas."
She laughed. "You're such a prude sometimes."
Ten minutes later, she parked on a quiet corner. The sign above the door read Brass Quill Books. It looked harmless. Old. Dusted with nostalgia.
"Be right back," she said, already sliding out.
I waited in the car. The engine idled softly. My fingers traced the curve of my knee. I could still feel the blouse shifting against my chest with every breath.
And the echo of her words from earlier lingered like perfume in a sealed room.
I'd fuck your brains out.
She meant it as a joke.
But I couldn't un-hear it.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Lina returned, brown paper bag in hand, face flushed with amusement. She got in the driver's seat and didn't even try to hide her grin.
"Found a good one?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, it's filthy. Can't wait to read it tonight."
She tossed the bag into the back seat and started the engine.
And I stared out the window, wondering what she'd do when she read it.
What noises she'd make.
And whether I'd be close enough to hear them.
We didn't speak much after that.
Lina hummed along to a playlist. I stared out the window, one hand brushing the hem of the silk blouse where it sat against my thigh, the other curled under my jaw. I tried to slow my thoughts, quiet my body.
It didn't work.
By the time she pulled into the driveway, the sun was still high, casting sharp light across the front yard. The house looked washed in warmth—quiet, still, untouched by the tension slowly gathering in my chest.
I stepped out slowly, the air cooler now, the breeze sharper against my legs. The silk fluttered slightly at my waist.
Lina grabbed her paper bag from the back seat. "Alright, time to rot my brain."
I chuckled. "Just don't read it out loud."
"Why not?" she grinned. "You might learn something."
She pushed open the door first.
I followed.
David was on the couch.
Feet propped up, one arm slung behind his head, a soda can balanced on his knee. The TV was playing something low—some nature documentary, lions in slow motion. He looked over when we entered.
His gaze caught mine.
And it stayed.
Just long enough.
The way a person might glance at someone familiar—then do a second take without realizing they had.
His eyes dropped. Briefly. Traced the blouse.
And in that moment, I knew he saw it.
Saw me.
He blinked, lifted his can slightly. "Hey."
Lina tossed her keys in the bowl by the door. "Hey, babe."
She dropped the bookstore bag on the counter and padded over to him, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his cheek. He smirked and gave her thigh a squeeze.
I stood in the doorway. Watching.
The blouse whispered around my ribs as I breathed in.
David looked up at me again. "You guys go on a fashion crusade?"
"Something like that," I murmured.
His eyes lingered again.
Not long. Not inappropriate.
But it was there.
Just a flicker of heat. A shift in the room's gravity.
I walked past them toward the stairs, slow, composed. I could feel his gaze still in the room behind me.
Following the movement of silk.
I didn't turn around.
But I didn't need to.
I'd seen it.
And so had he.
I didn't speak as I passed them.
Didn't glance at David again. I just walked up the stairs with steady steps, even as the weight pressed down harder with every one.
The moment my door closed behind me, I exhaled like I'd been holding something in too long.
The silence hit different here.
Thicker. Closer.
I didn't undress. Didn't touch the blouse. I sat on the edge of the bed like someone waiting to be sentenced. My fingers grazed the silk at my chest. The place his eyes had lingered.
Just briefly.
But they had.
I looked down at my hands.
They used to be so graceful. Pale and narrow, the fingers long and elegant. I remembered a man once kissed every one of them—years ago—like they were holy. Like I was.
No one did that anymore.
No one kissed me now.
No one wanted me now.
And if they did, they wanted less.
Less age. Less history. Less gravity.
They wanted girls like Lina.
Smiling. Bending. New.
And I was silk stretched over bones that had already bent too many times.
I didn't cry.
But it hovered. Tight in the throat. A pressure behind my eyes.
I pressed the back of my wrist to my mouth, breathing in shallow.
What was worse?
That I wanted someone I couldn't have?
Or that I wanted to be wanted at all?
I didn't know anymore.
I just knew that every time David looked at Lina the way men look at women—and never looked at me that way—it burned.
I stood, slowly, arms wrapped around myself like that would keep me together. The mirror on the far wall caught my reflection again.
Blouse perfect. Hair pinned. Face calm.
But I knew the truth.
This wasn't elegance.
It was desperation in silk.
And he'll never touch you.
Because why would he?
He's hers.
He's young.
And you're—
"Alex!"
Lina's voice rang from downstairs.
"Come eat! We're ordering pizza and beer!"
I blinked.
Reality slid back in like cold water against heat.
I cleared my throat, straightened my spine, and wiped under my eyes even though nothing had fallen.
"Coming," I called back, voice steady.
I glanced at the mirror one last time.
Then walked out the door.
Still wrapped in silk.
Still pretending I was whole.