The cab moved through the neon wash of the Strip, the city sliding past the windows in smears of red and gold. Jessie’s lips still tingled, the ghost of Stacey’s warmth still pressed against her mouth, and she couldn’t seem to catch a full breath. Her hand was still in Stacey’s, their fingers laced together, and she felt the slight tremble running through her friend’s arm.

Stacey stared at her, her brown eyes dark in the shifting light, her face caught somewhere between shock and something Jessie couldn’t name. The space between them felt like a held breath, a wire pulled tight, and neither of them spoke as the cab lurched through traffic and turned off the Strip onto a quieter street.

Jessie’s heart hammered against her ribs. She didn’t know what she had just done, didn’t know what it meant, but she knew she wasn’t sorry. The kiss had felt inevitable, like the last note of a song she’d been humming all night without realizing it.

“Jessie.” Stacey’s voice came out rough, barely above a whisper. “We have to talk about this. All of it.”

Jessie bit her lower lip, the old habit rising, and dropped her gaze to where their hands were joined. “I know.” Her voice was small, soft, the Georgia drawl thickening the way it always did when she was flustered. “I know we do.”

The cab pulled up in front of their apartment building, the driver’s voice flat as he announced the fare. Stacey pulled out her wallet, her movements jerky, and Jessie watched her hands shake as she handed over a bill. Neither of them waited for change. They slid out of the back seat into the cool desert night, the door thudding shut behind them, and walked to the entrance in silence.

The elevator ride was worse. The space was small, the walls mirrored, and Jessie could see both of them reflected back—two girls in party dresses, one with a smudge of lipstick at the corner of her mouth, the other with her hair mussed and her eyes too bright. Jessie reached out and took Stacey’s hand again, and Stacey let her, her fingers cold and tight.

The apartment was dark when they stepped inside, the only light the pale glow from the window that faced the Strip. Jessie’s high heels were at the door where she’d left them that morning. The pineapple magnet was still on the fridge. Everything was the same, but nothing was the same.

Stacey didn’t let go of her hand. She led Jessie through the living room, past the couch where they’d eaten noodles and argued about Victor Castellano, and into the bedroom they shared. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the distant hum of the city.

“We can’t just pretend this didn’t happen.” Stacey’s voice was steadier now, but her eyes were still wide, still searching Jessie’s face for something. “The kiss. Steve. Mark. Victor. Everything. You’re changing, Jessie, and I don’t know who you’re becoming.”

Jessie sat down on the edge of Stacey’s bed, the mattress soft beneath her. She looked up at her friend, her blue eyes wide and innocent, and let her lower lip tremble just a little. “I don’t know either,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—I don’t want to hurt you.”

Stacey sat down beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. “I’m not trying to hurt you either. But this—what we did in the cab—it’s sinful, Jessie. You know that. We both know that.”

Jessie nodded, her gaze dropping to her lap. Her hands were folded there, her fingers twisting together. She let the silence stretch, let the weight of Stacey’s words settle, and then she looked up, her cheeks flushing pink. “You’re right. We’re not thinking straight. Neither of us is.”

She paused, and the blush deepened, spreading down her neck. She bit her lip, looked away, and then looked back, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Maybe we should… get it out of our systems.”

Stacey stared at her. “What?”

Jessie’s flush was real now, the heat crawling up her cheeks. She couldn’t believe she was saying this, but the words came out anyway, soft and hesitant, as if she was embarrassed to even speak them. “I mean—we’re both wound up. All this tension. The fighting, the secrets, and now… this.” She gestured between them. “We can’t think clearly when we’re all worked up.”

She looked down at her hands again, her voice barely audible. “Maybe we should… touch ourselves. Together. Just to get the edge off. So we can talk without—without all this…”

Stacey’s breath caught. Her tan skin went a shade darker, a flush rising along her collarbone. “Jessie. You’re serious.”

Jessie nodded, not meeting her eyes. “It’s just… I’ve never done that. I mean, alone, yes, but not—not with someone else watching. But I trust you. And maybe if we do it together, it’ll feel less… secret. Less sinful. Like we’re just girls, figuring things out.”

She risked a glance up, her eyes wide and earnest, and saw Stacey’s conflict written across her face—the same war between what she’d been taught and what she felt, between the church girl she’d been and the woman she was becoming.

“Just this once,” Jessie whispered. “Just to clear our heads. Then we can talk. I promise.”

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, and Jessie held her breath. For a long moment, she thought Stacey would say no, would stand up and leave the room, would tell her she was out of her mind. But instead, Stacey’s hand found hers, their fingers lacing together again.

“Okay.” Stacey’s voice was barely a sound. “Okay.”

They moved without words, like a choreography they’d rehearsed in another life. Jessie kicked off her shoes, the thud of them hitting the floor loud in the quiet room. Stacey reached back and unzipped her dress, letting it slide down her shoulders, revealing the smooth tan skin of her back, the curve of her spine. She was wearing a bra, a simple black one, and she didn’t take it off, just lay back on the bed in her underwear, her brown eyes fixed on Jessie’s.

Jessie’s hands trembled as she lifted the hem of her silk dress, the black dress Steve had given her, and pulled it over her head. Underneath, she wore nothing, the fabric sliding off her body like water, leaving her pale and bare in the dim light. She saw Stacey’s eyes widen, saw her gaze travel down Jessie’s slender frame, taking in her small breasts, the soft curve of her hips, the pale triangle of hair between her thighs.

Jessie’s blush deepened, but she didn’t cover herself. She lay down beside Stacey on the twin bed, their bodies close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from her friend’s skin, could smell the faint perfume she wore, could hear the quick, shallow rhythm of her breathing.

For a long moment, they just lay there, side by side, staring at the ceiling. Then Jessie reached down, her fingers brushing her own thigh, and let them trail upward, through the soft hair, to the wet heat waiting there.

She heard Stacey’s breath hitch, and she turned her head to watch. Stacey’s eyes were on her hand, on the slow, tentative movement of Jessie’s fingers through her own folds. Jessie let out a soft sound, her eyes fluttering closed, and then she opened them again, watching Stacey watch her.

“You too,” Jessie whispered. “I want to watch you.”

Stacey’s hand moved. It was a slow, deliberate movement, her fingers sliding down her belly, slipping beneath the waistband of her underwear. She bit her lower lip, her eyes never leaving Jessie’s, and then she began to touch herself, her fingers moving in slow circles, her hips lifting just slightly off the mattress.

The room filled with the sound of their breathing, the soft, wet sounds of their fingers moving through slick heat. Jessie’s hand was trembling, her touch tentative, but as she watched Stacey’s face—the way her lips parted, the flush spreading across her chest—she found herself moving faster, deeper, her fingers sliding inside herself, her thumb pressing against the tight bundle of nerves at the top.

She moaned, a low, helpless sound, and Stacey’s eyes met hers. Their free hands found each other, fingers interlacing, holding tight. Jessie’s body was singing, a heat building low in her belly, spreading through her thighs, making her whole body arch toward the ceiling.

Stacey’s hand moved in steady, practiced strokes, and Jessie could see the wetness glistening on her fingers, could smell the musk of her arousal filling the small space between them. She reached out, her hand trembling, and let her fingers brush Stacey’s hip, feeling the damp warmth of her skin, the tremble that ran through her at the contact.

They were so close now, their bodies inches apart, their hands moving in rhythm, their gazes locked. Jessie felt the pressure building, the wave rising inside her, and she didn’t try to hold it back. She let her fingers work faster, harder, her hips bucking against her own hand, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Stacey,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m—I’m going to—”

“Me too,” Stacey breathed, and Jessie saw her eyes roll back, saw her hand clench against her own cunt, saw the shudder that ran through her body.

Jessie let go. The wave crashed through her, a white-hot surge that made her cry out, that made her squeeze Stacey’s hand until her knuckles went white. Her body convulsed, her hips pressing into her own fingers, the heat spreading through her like honey, thick and sweet and unstoppable. She heard herself moan, heard Stacey’s answering gasp, and for a long, suspended moment, they were both falling, both trembling, both lost in the same bright burst of pleasure.

Then it passed, leaving Jessie limp and trembling, her hand still resting between her thighs, her fingers slick with her own release. She let out a long, shuddering breath, her eyes heavy, her body sinking into the mattress like she was melting into it.

She turned her head to look at Stacey, who was still breathing hard, her cheeks flushed, her hand slowly stilling beneath her waistband. Stacey met her gaze, and for a moment, there was something unreadable in her eyes—wonder, maybe, or fear, or both.

Jessie smiled, a soft, sleepy smile, and felt the exhaustion wash over her like a wave. The day had been so long. The party, the fight, the kiss. The release. All the tension had drained out of her, leaving nothing but a warm, heavy peace.

She felt Stacey’s fingers slip free of her own body, felt her hand reach for Jessie’s and hold it loosely. Jessie wanted to say something, to tell her it was okay, that they’d talk in the morning, that everything would be different. But the words wouldn’t come. Her eyes were closing, the darkness soft and inviting, and she felt herself falling into it, into the warm quiet of sleep.

Her hand went slack in Stacey’s. Her breathing evened out, slow and deep. She was gone.

Stacey lay still, her heart still hammering, her body still humming from the aftershocks. She watched Jessie sleep, watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the soft flutter of her eyelids, the way her lips parted just slightly, innocent and peaceful, like a child.

She looked like an angel. That was the word that came to Stacey’s mind, unbidden and inescapable. Jessie lay there, pale and perfect, her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her body bare and beautiful, and Stacey felt something twist in her chest—something between tenderness and terror, love and loss.

She thought about the kiss. The way Jessie’s mouth had found hers in the dark of the cab, the way she hadn’t pulled away. She thought about the way Jessie had touched herself, had watched her, had moaned her name.

She thought about sin and salvation, about everything she’d been taught and everything she’d just done.

And then she stopped thinking. She slid closer, her body fitting against Jessie’s back, her arm draping over her waist, her face pressing into the soft blonde hair at the nape of her neck. Jessie murmured something in her sleep, a soft, wordless sound, and Stacey felt her relax, felt her settle deeper into the embrace.

She closed her eyes. The city hummed outside, distant and indifferent. The sheets were tangled around their legs. And Stacey let herself fall asleep, still holding Jessie, still not knowing what any of it meant.