The bus ride home was a blur of streetlights and silence. Jessie sat near the back, the folder flat against her thighs, her window cracked just enough to let the evening air wash over her face. She could still feel it—the ghost of Victor's hands spreading sunscreen across her shoulders, the slow drag of his palms down her spine, the way her body had leaned into the touch before her mind had caught up.

The memory settled low in her belly, warm and unfamiliar. She pressed her knees together and stared at the passing strip malls, the neon signs flickering to life one by one.

When the bus stopped at her corner, she stood on legs that felt steadier than they had any right to be. The walk to the apartment was short—two blocks past a dry cleaner, a Mexican restaurant spilling mariachi music onto the sidewalk, a convenience store with a flickering blue sign. She counted her steps the way she used to count her breaths before a final exam. One. Two. Three. The rhythm kept her grounded.

The apartment door was unlocked.

Jessie pushed it open and found Stacey on the couch, barefoot, her brown bob tucked behind one ear, a container of pad thai balanced on her knees. The coffee table was a disaster zone of white cartons, plastic forks, and a bottle of something red that was definitely not soda.

Stacey looked up. Her sharp brown eyes swept over Jessie in one practiced motion—the folder pressed to her chest, the bare legs, the flushed skin, the hair still carrying the faint salt-scent of the lake.

'So,' Stacey said, pulling the lid off a fresh container of noodles, 'you were gone a long time for a boat tour.'

Jessie kicked off her sandals by the door. They landed with two soft thuds. She crossed the living room slowly, the carpet soft under her bare feet, and lowered herself onto the opposite end of the couch. The cushion dipped. The folder slid from her grip onto the table, landing next to a half-empty bottle of wine.

'It was a nice boat,' she said.

Stacey held out a fork. Jessie took it. The plastic was warm from Stacey's hand.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Jessie stabbed at a noodle, twirled it, watched it slide off the tines. The fork felt heavy in her hand, heavier than it should have. She set it down.

'Jess.'

The word was soft, but it carried the weight of a question Stacey had been holding all day. Jessie looked up. Stacey's fork was resting on the rim of her container, her full attention aimed at Jessie like a spotlight.

'What happened out there?'

The question hung in the air between them. Jessie felt the shape of the afternoon pressing against her ribs—Victor's hands, the champagne, the way she'd let the suit strap fall. Her skin remembered the heat of his palm, the slow circles he'd drawn along her spine, the way her breath had caught and held like a trapped thing.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Stacey's eyes narrowed. She set her container down on the coffee table with a soft plastic click, the sound deliberate, final. She folded her arms. The movement pulled her fitted T-shirt tight across her shoulders, and Jessie saw the tension in her jaw, the way she was holding herself still so she wouldn't shake Jessie for an answer.

'The boat tour,' Stacey repeated. 'The one you didn't tell me about until the night before. The one with the twice-divorced millionaire who wrote his private number on a napkin.'

'I told you—'

'You told me you had a meeting.' Stacey's voice was flat. 'You didn't tell me it was on a yacht. You didn't tell me you were bringing a swimsuit.'

Jessie's throat tightened. She picked up the fork again, stabbed another noodle, watched it dangle. 'It was business.'

'Bullshit.'

The word landed like a slap. Jessie flinched, and Stacey saw it—saw the truth written in the way Jessie's shoulders curved inward, in the way she wouldn't meet her eyes.

'Jess. Look at me.'

Jessie looked. Stacey's face was open, unguarded, the fierce loyalty that had carried them through four years of college burning in her eyes. She looked scared. Not angry—scared.

'What did he do to you out there?'

Jessie's heart kicked against her ribs. 'Nothing.' The word came out too fast, too high. 'He didn't—Stacey, he was a gentleman. He showed me the boat. We talked about the trial. He—' She stopped. The lie caught in her throat, tasted like ash.

Stacey waited. The silence stretched, filled with the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a television from the apartment next door, the soft tick of the wall clock Jessie had bought at a thrift store their first week in town.

'He touched me,' Jessie said. The words came out small, barely a whisper. 'My back. He put sunscreen on my back.'

Stacey's jaw tightened. She didn't move, didn't blink. 'Where else?'

'Nowhere. Just my back. And my—my shoulders.' Jessie's hand drifted to her collarbone, the memory of his thumb tracing the strap of her suit. 'He asked permission first. He asked, and I said yes.'

The admission sat between them like a physical thing. Jessie felt her face heat, felt the flush creeping up her neck, and she couldn't tell if it was shame or something else, something warmer, something that curled in her stomach when she thought about the way Victor had looked at her.

Stacey was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached for the wine bottle, unscrewed the cap, and poured a generous amount into a plastic cup. She held it out to Jessie.

'Drink.'

Jessie took it. The wine was cheap and sweet, and she drank half of it in one long swallow. The warmth spread through her chest, loosening something she hadn't realized was clenched.

Stacey poured herself a cup, took a sip, and set it down. 'Tell me the rest.'

'There's nothing else.'

'Bullshit,' Stacey said again, but softer this time. 'You've got that look. The one you get when you've done something you're not sure you should have done but you'd do it again.'

Jessie's fingers tightened around the cup. The plastic flexed, and a thin line of wine sloshed over the rim onto her thumb. She licked it off without thinking, and Stacey's eyes tracked the movement.

'He made me feel—' Jessie stopped. Searched for the right word. 'Seen.'

Stacey's expression flickered. Something complicated passed across her face, too fast to read. 'Seen,' she repeated, and the word tasted different coming from her mouth—skeptical, wary.

'He looked at me like I mattered.' Jessie's voice was steadier now, the wine warming the edges. 'Like I was the only person in the room. And when he touched me, it wasn't—it wasn't grasping. It was... slow. Like he had all the time in the world.'

Stacey picked up a spring roll, examined it, set it back down. 'And that's what you want?'

The question caught Jessie off guard. She opened her mouth to say no, to deflect, to make it smaller than it was—but the word stuck. She thought about the way Victor's hands had felt on her skin. The way her body had responded without her permission. The way she'd pulled back, but only because she hadn't been ready to find out what came next.

'I don't know,' she said. 'Maybe.'

Stacey's eyes went wide. She covered it quickly, reaching for her wine, but Jessie saw it—the surprise, the worry, the dawning realization that her best friend was not the same girl who'd stepped off the bus from Georgia two months ago.

'Jess, you've never even—'

'I know.'

'You've never kissed anyone.'

'I know.'

'And you're thinking about letting a twice-divorced millionaire—'

'Stacey.' Jessie set the cup down. The wine sloshed, a dark stain spreading across the cardboard coaster. 'I know what I haven't done. I know what I am. But I also know what I felt out there, and it was real. It was mine.'

Stacey stared at her. The silence was different now—heavy, waiting, like the moment before a storm breaks.

'Are you going to see him again?'

Jessie thought about Victor's number in her purse. The way he'd said next time like it was already written. The way she'd nodded, her mouth dry, her heart hammering against her ribs like a bird trying to escape.

'Yes.'

The word hung in the air between them, undeniable.

Stacey picked up her spring roll and bit into it, chewed slowly, swallowed. When she spoke, her voice was quiet. 'Then I need you to promise me something.'

'What?'

'You tell me everything.' Stacey's eyes met hers, steady and fierce. 'Not the sanitized version. Not the "he was a gentleman" version. Everything. What he says. What he does. What he asks of you. I need to know you're safe.'

Jessie's throat tightened. 'I am safe.'

'Are you?' Stacey leaned forward, the spring roll forgotten. 'You went out on a boat alone with a man twice your age and you let him put his hands on you. That's not safe, Jess. That's a choice. And I'm not saying it was the wrong choice, but I need to know you're making it with your eyes open.'

Jessie looked down at her hands. The wine was still on her thumb, a thin red smear. She wiped it on her shorts and looked back up.

'I promised you a pineapple code,' she said. 'Emergency. If I need you, you'll know. But I can't promise to tell you everything, Stacey. Some of this—' She gestured vaguely at herself, at the heat still lingering under her skin, at the shape of what she was becoming. 'Some of this I don't have words for yet.'

Stacey held her gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded, slow and reluctant, like she was agreeing to something she didn't like but couldn't stop.

'Okay.' She picked up her fork again, twirled a noodle, pointed it at Jessie. 'But when you find the words, I'm here. And if he hurts you—'

'You'll kill him with your bare hands. I know.'

'Damn right.'

Jessie laughed. It came out softer than she expected, a little breathless, a little relieved. The tension in the room eased, the sharp edge of the conversation dulling into something familiar, something safe.

Stacey reached for another spring roll, dipped it in sauce, and bit into it with theatrical satisfaction. 'So. Victor Castellano. What's he look like with his shirt off?'

Jessie choked on her wine. 'Stacey!'

'What? I'm curious. You said he put sunscreen on your back. That implies a certain amount of exposed skin. I'm just trying to paint a picture.'

'He's—' Jessie stopped. Thought about the slope of his shoulders, the silver at his temples, the way his eyes had gone dark when she'd pulled the strap of her suit down. 'He's handsome. In an older way. Distinguished.'

'Distinguished.' Stacey snorted. 'That's code for "he's got money and good bone structure."'

'Maybe.' Jessie smiled despite herself. 'He's also patient. He didn't push. He asked, and when I said no, he stopped.'

Stacey's expression flickered again, something softer this time. 'That's good. That's really good, Jess.'

'I know.'

They ate in silence for a while, the scrape of forks against plastic, the occasional clink of a bottle against a cup. The television next door switched from a drama to a laugh track. The clock ticked. The apartment felt smaller than it had this morning, the walls pressing in just a little.

Jessie finished her noodles and set the empty container on the table. She looked at the folder—Victor's information, the signed trial agreement, the napkin with his private number. It sat there like a promise, like a door she had already decided to walk through.

'Stacey?'

'Yeah?'

'I think I'm going to call him.'

Stacey's hand paused over the wine bottle. She looked at Jessie, really looked at her—the flush still warming her cheeks, the new steadiness in her shoulders, the way she was holding herself like someone who had chosen something.

'Okay,' Stacey said. 'Just... be careful.'

'I will.'

'And Jess?'

'Yeah?'

'When you call him—' Stacey grinned, sharp and knowing. 'Wear something that makes you feel like you're the one in charge.'

Jessie felt the advice settle into her chest, warm and solid. She thought about Victor's hands on her back, the way she'd pulled back at the edge of something deeper. Next time, she'd promised herself. Next time, she'd reach.