Mikha tugs at the collar of the polo one last time, her reflection staring back at her from the full-length mirror inside the closet. Khaki pants. Baby blue long sleeve polo. Both items feel foreign against her skin, softer than the leather and black cotton she usually wears. She runs a hand down the front of the shirt, smoothing a wrinkle that isn't there.

She looks like someone else. Someone who owns a garden. Someone who drinks coffee with actual cream instead of straight black. Someone who comes home at reasonable hours and doesn't have a glass-walled cage in her own house.

Aiah bought these clothes two days ago during their shopping run. Mikha had stood in the fitting room doorway, arms crossed, watching Aiah hold up different shirts against her chest like she was measuring paint samples. Aiah's forehead had wrinkled in concentration, the way it does when she's reading a quarterly report, and she'd said, "I think this will suit you." Then, quieter, almost to herself: "Baby blue is my favorite color."

Mikha had bought the shirt without arguing. She doesn't think about why.

She's still staring at her reflection when Aiah's voice carries through the house, clear and light, bouncing off the wood floors and settling somewhere in Mikha's chest.

"Mikha! We should go."

Mikha doesn't answer immediately. She exhales slowly, rolling her shoulders back, trying to loosen the tension coiling there. She tells herself the tightness in her throat is just the collar being new. It has nothing to do with the way her heart has been pounding all afternoon, ever since she caught a glimpse of the dress hanging on Aiah's closet door.

She walks out of the closet. Through the bathroom. The bedroom door swings open under her palm.

Then she sees Aiah.

The world goes quiet. Mikha's feet stop moving without her permission, planted in the middle of the living area, her hands hanging useless at her sides.

Aiah is wearing a halter v-neck silver mini dress that catches the light in ripples, like liquid metal poured over her body. The hem stops high on her thighs, showing off legs that seem to go on forever. Her hair is tied in a neat ponytail that swings when she turns, exposing the curve of her neck, the elegant line of her shoulders, the smooth expanse of her bare back.

Mikha has already seen the dress. She watched Aiah put it on earlier, standing in their bedroom doorway like a kicked puppy while Aiah adjusted the straps. She told herself she was prepared.

She was wrong.

Every time she catches a glimpse of Aiah in that dress, her heart slams against her ribs like it's trying to escape. Aiah looks painfully beautiful. Dangerous. The kind of beautiful that gets people killed.

Mikha's gaze runs down Aiah's body, slow and deliberate, memorizing every inch. She catalogues the sharp collarbones, the gentle curve of Aiah's waist, the way the silver fabric hugs her hips like it was sewn onto her skin. Her fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch, to trace the outline of the v-neck where it dips dangerously low, showing the beginning of cleavage.

Aiah's lips curve into a soft smile. She walks closer, her heels clicking against the floor, each step deliberate. Mikha's eyes track the sway of her hips, the confident roll of her shoulders, the way she holds herself like she owns every room she enters.

And she does. Aiah Arceta owns rooms. She owns boardrooms and dining halls and every goddamn space she deigns to stand in. She stands in front of Mikha now, warm and solid and achingly close, and reaches up to rub her hands along Mikha's collarbone.

Mikha holds her breath.

"The polo suits you," Aiah says, her voice low and sweet. Her fingers trace the fabric of the collar, smoothing it down. "You look lovely tonight."

Lovely. The word hits Mikha somewhere in her throat, and she swallows hard. She stares at Aiah's face, tries to focus on the dark brown eyes, the soft curve of her jaw, the tiny smile playing on her lips.

She tries very hard not to look at the cleavage right in front of her face. It's right there. The v-neck cuts deep, and Mikha has a perfect view of soft skin, smooth and warm, leading down to shadows she's already imagined touching more times than she'll admit.

Mikha's hands find Aiah's waist almost on their own. Her fingers settle on the curve, gripping gently, pulling Aiah closer until there's barely a breath of space between them. She rubs her thumbs in slow circles against Aiah's sides, feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric.

Aiah's eyes flutter. Just a little. Mikha notices.

She leans in, her lips brushing Aiah's ear, her breath warm against the shell of it. "You look painfully beautiful."

Aiah lets out a small, breathy laugh. It's not the controlled, polite chuckle she uses at business dinners. It's genuine, surprised, like Mikha caught her off guard. Her arms come up, looping around Mikha's neck, pulling them into a hug.

Mikha's hands slide from Aiah's waist to her bare back. Her palms press flat against warm skin, and she swears she can feel Aiah's heartbeat thrumming through her like a second pulse. She rubs softly, tracing the line of Aiah's spine with her fingertips, cataloguing the dip and curve of each vertebra.

Aiah pulls back, but doesn't step away. Her elbows rest on Mikha's collarbone, casual and intimate, like they've done this a thousand times. Her face is close. Too close. Her lips curve into a smile that makes Mikha's knees feel weak.

"Have fun tonight," Aiah says. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. "Don't let Stacey drag you into drama."

Mikha smiles. It feels genuine, which unnerves her. "I'll try."

They lean in at the same time. It's not planned. It's not choreographed. It's just an inevitability, like gravity pulling two bodies together.

The kiss is soft. Gentle. Sweet in a way that makes Mikha's chest ache. Aiah's lips are warm and pliant, and Mikha can taste the faint sweetness of the lip gloss she must have put on earlier. It's cherry. Or maybe strawberry. Something that reminds Mikha of summer.

Then Mikha bites Aiah's bottom lip. Gently. Just a small tug, a silent request. Aiah's mouth opens wider, a soft sound escaping her throat, and their tongues meet in a gentle battle. It's not aggressive. It's exploratory, each of them learning the rhythm of the other, the push and pull, the give and take.

Mikha's hands slide down Aiah's bare back, tracing the curve of her spine, the dip at the base of it, until they reach the swell of Aiah's ass through the thin fabric of the dress. She palms one cheek, squeezing gently, feeling the warm fullness of it.

Aiah moans against her lips.

The sound goes straight to Mikha's core, heating her blood, sharpening her focus. She squeezes again, harder this time, and Aiah presses closer, her hips arching forward involuntarily. The hem of the dress rides up slightly with the movement, exposing more of Aiah's thighs.

They keep kissing. Mikha's hands roam, palming and squeezing Aiah's ass, tracing the shape of it through the silver fabric. The hem inches higher with every movement, creeping up Aiah's thighs, baring more skin. Mikha is painfully aware of how warm and smooth Aiah feels under her palms, the subtle give of flesh that makes her want to keep touching forever.

Then her fingers slip. Just a little. Just enough for her fingertips to brush against the sensitive skin of Aiah's underbutt, the soft curve where her ass meets her thighs.

Mikha jerks back like she's been burned.

"Fuck," she curses quietly, breathing hard. Her chest heaves. Her hands are shaking slightly, and she clenches them into fists to make them stop.

Aiah's head falls forward, leaning against Mikha's neck. Her breath comes in ragged pants, warm and damp against Mikha's skin. Her hands clutch at Mikha's shoulders, fingers digging in, and Mikha can feel the slight tremble running through her body.

They stand there for a long moment, tangled together, trying to catch their breath. Mikha can feel her own heartbeat racing, can feel the heat pooling low in her belly, the growing hardness pressing against the seam of her khaki pants.

She needs to stop. She needs to get control of herself. But Aiah is warm and soft against her, and the scent of her perfume—something floral and clean, like jasmine—is making it hard to think.

Mikha exhales slowly. She forces her hands to move, reaching down to adjust the hem of Aiah's dress, pulling it back into place over her thighs. The fabric slips back down to mid-thigh, covering the skin that Mikha's fingers still ache to touch.

"We should go," Mikha says. Her voice comes out rough, lower than she intended. "Or else I'll be the reason we don't attend Stacey's birthday at all."

Aiah lets out a soft chuckle against her neck. The vibration of it does things to Mikha that she does not want to analyze. She pulls back slowly, a rueful smile on her lips, her cheeks flushed a delicate pink.

"That bad?" Aiah asks.

"Don't test me."

Aiah laughs again, lighter this time, and steps back. She smooths down her dress, adjusts the straps over her shoulders, and turns toward the main door. Her ponytail swings behind her, brushing against her bare back.

Mikha's eyes follow her. She can't help it. Her gaze traces the lines of Aiah's bare shoulders, the elegant curve of her spine dipping into the V of the dress, the swell of her ass as it sways gently with each step.

She's not sure if she'll ever get enough of Aiah's lips. Or Aiah's ass. The way it feels under her hands—soft and full, just the right amount of give to make her want to grip harder, to pull Aiah closer, to claim her in a way she has no right to.

Aiah reaches the door and glances back, catching Mikha staring. A slow smile spreads across her face, warm and knowing.

"Coming?"

Mikha clears her throat and follows, trying to school her expression into something neutral. She fails.

The driveway is quiet as they step outside. The evening air is cool, carrying the scent of damp grass and the distant hum of the city. Mikha's white G63 sits gleaming under the porch light, sleek and powerful, and she unlocks it remotely as they approach.

Aiah starts to walk toward the passenger door, but Mikha gets there first. She opens it, gesturing with a nod. A quiet, old-fashioned gesture she's never bothered with before. But tonight feels different. Tonight feels like the prelude to something she can't name.

Aiah raises an eyebrow but slides into the passenger seat without comment. Mikha closes the door after her—maybe a little more carefully than strictly necessary—and walks around the front of the car, letting her gaze trace the shape of Aiah's silhouette through the windshield before climbing into the driver's seat.

The engine rumbles to life. Mikha pulls out of the driveway, steering them toward the main road. The city lights bloom ahead, washing the sky in orange and gold.

In the passenger seat, Aiah reaches over and places her hand on Mikha's thigh. Just a light touch. An anchor.

Mikha doesn't flinch. But her grip on the steering wheel tightens.

"Stacey will notice the polo," Aiah says conversationally, her thumb brushing idly against the fabric of Mikha's khaki pants. "She'll probably say something about you finally having fashion sense."

"Stacey can say whatever she wants." Mikha's voice is flat, but there's a hint of humor underneath. "I'm not changing for her."

Aiah hums. "You changed for me."

Mikha doesn't answer immediately. She keeps her eyes on the road, watching the lights blur past. The silence stretches, comfortable but charged.

"The color suits me," she finally says. It's a non-answer. It's an admission.

Aiah smiles. Mikha can feel it even without looking. Can feel the weight of that smile settling into the space between them.

"It does," Aiah agrees. Her fingers trace slow circles on Mikha's thigh. "It really does."

The club looms ahead, its facade flashing with neon lights. Mikha pulls into the parking lot, finding a spot near the entrance. She kills the engine and sits for a moment, her hands still on the wheel, her heart pounding harder than it should for a simple birthday party.

She's walking into a room full of people who watch her. Aiah's friends. Stacey. Maloi. They'll be watching Mikha tonight, taking her temperature, measuring whether she's changed enough to be acceptable. And Mikha, the daughter who ruined every dinner party, the heiress who couldn't be tamed, is wearing a baby blue polo shirt because Aiah bought it for her.

She should hate this. She should feel trapped, cornered, like she's losing herself in someone else's story.

But all she can feel is Aiah's hand on her thigh, warm and steady, and the strange, aching want to deserve it.

That's the thought that scares her most.

Mikha releases the seatbelt and steps out into the night, ready to play her part. But when Aiah takes her hand as they walk toward the entrance, she doesn't pull away.

She doesn't want to.