The walk to Casey's office felt longer than it should have, my legs still loose and warm from the morning's workout, the folder tucked under my arm like it held something dangerous. Which it did, I supposed. It held me—all of me, the way Em had seen me, the way no one else had ever looked at me before.

The track office sat at the end of a cinderblock hallway that smelled like floor wax and old sweat. I'd been here once, for the paperwork after tryouts, but it had been quick and official, Casey's voice brisk and professional. Now the door was closed, a sliver of light showing underneath, and I could hear voices inside.

I knocked. The voices stopped.

The door opened and a girl I didn't recognize stood there, tall and pale with a shock of red hair and green eyes that took me in with open curiosity. She was maybe twenty-one, wearing a track team polo that looked new, the collar still stiff.

"Can I help you?" Her accent was Irish, soft around the edges.

"I'm Macy King. I'm looking for Coach Hill."

"She's not here." The girl stepped back, holding the door wider. "I'm Autumn, her intern. She's at a meeting with the athletic director. Should be back in an hour or so."

I stepped inside without meaning to, drawn by the smell of the office—leather and sweat and stale coffee, the same smell that clung to Casey's polo when she stood close. The desk lamp threw a low yellow pool across the scuffed wood, and a jersey hung limp on the wall, some runner's name I didn't recognize faded on the back.

"You can leave a note," Autumn said, settling back into the chair behind the desk. She had a book open, a textbook by the look of it, and a pen tucked behind her ear. "Or I can tell her you stopped by."

I stood there with the folder in my hands, my heart doing something strange in my chest. This was it. This was the moment I'd been building toward all week, and Casey wasn't even here.

Maybe that was better. Maybe that was the only way I could actually do it.

"I have something for her," I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt. "Something she asked for."

Autumn's eyebrows lifted. "She asked for it?"

"Yes." The lie felt thin, but I pushed through it. "Can I leave it on her desk?"

Autumn looked at me for a long moment, and I could see her trying to place me—freshman, new on the team, the girl with the mark on her neck that I'd tried to cover with my collar. Her gaze flicked to the folder, then back to my face.

"Sure," she said finally. "Go ahead."

I walked to the desk, my sneakers silent on the worn carpet. The surface was cluttered in a way that felt intimate—a coffee mug with lipstick on the rim, a stack of practice schedules, a pen with the school logo, a photograph face-down that I didn't turn over. I set the folder in the center of the empty space, right where she'd see it when she sat down.

The folder was plain manila, the kind you could buy anywhere. Inside was Em's drawing—the one she'd made of me in the art studio, the one that had watched me while I touched myself under her command. I'd found it in my bag the morning after, slipped there without a word, and I'd carried it around for three days before I decided what to do with it.

I'd written on the inside cover, in my careful freshman handwriting: You said I wasn't ready. I wanted you to see what you're waiting for.

"You want me to tell her anything else?" Autumn asked, and there was something in her voice—not quite teasing, not quite curious. Something knowing.

"Just tell her I came by." I turned from the desk. "She'll understand."

Autumn nodded slowly, and I could feel her watching me as I walked to the door. I was halfway through it when she spoke again.

"Macy."

I stopped, turned. "Yeah?"

"I've seen the way she looks at you." Autumn's voice was low now, private. "At practice. When she thinks no one's watching."

My throat went tight. "I don't know what you mean."

"Sure you don't." She smiled, and it wasn't unkind. "I'll make sure she gets it."

I walked out into the hallway, and the door clicked shut behind me. I stood there for a moment, my heart hammering, the smell of the office still in my nose. I'd done it. I'd actually done it.

And now Autumn had the folder, and I knew—I knew with a certainty that made my skin prickle—that she would look at it the moment I was gone.

I didn't go far. I turned down the corridor and pressed myself against the wall, out of sight of the office door, and I waited.

It took less than a minute.

The door opened, and Autumn stepped out, the folder in her hand. She looked both ways down the hall, then ducked back inside. The door closed again.

I leaned against the wall, my breath coming shallow. I could picture her at the desk, opening the folder, pulling out the drawing. I could picture her eyes going wide at the sight of me—naked, legs spread, my fingers between my thighs, my head thrown back in a way that showed every inch of the pleasure Em had drawn me in. It wasn't a subtle drawing. Em had made sure of that.

I should have felt ashamed. I should have felt exposed, violated, angry at myself for leaving something so private in the hands of a stranger.

Instead I felt hot. Aching. That restless hunger stirring in my belly, the one that never went away, the one that had led me here.

I wanted her to look. I wanted Autumn to see me like that, to know what I was, what I was offering. And I wanted Casey to come back and find it, to open that folder and see me spread open for her, waiting.

The door opened again. Autumn stepped out, and I saw her tuck the folder back onto the desk before she closed the door behind her. She walked down the hall in the opposite direction, her stride quick, and I watched her go.

She'd looked. I knew she'd looked. And she'd put it back, careful, like she'd never touched it.

I stayed against the wall until my heart slowed, until the heat in my belly settled into something I could walk with. Then I pushed off and headed back toward the dorm, my legs unsteady beneath me.

Lupe was in the room when I got there, lying on her bunk with a physics textbook propped on her chest. She looked up when I came in, and her dark eyes found mine immediately.

"You did it," she said. It wasn't a question.

"How did you know?"

"You have that look." She set the book aside. "The one you get when you've done something you know you shouldn't have and you're not sorry about it."

I sat down on the edge of my bunk, my hands folded in my lap. "She wasn't there. Her intern was."

"And you left it anyway."

"Yeah." I looked up at her. "I left it anyway."

Lupe was quiet for a moment, and I could see her thinking, could see the question forming on her lips before she asked it. "What was in it?"

"The drawing. The one Em made of me."

Her eyebrows rose. "The naked one?"

"Yeah."

"Macy." She said my name like it was a warning and a blessing at the same time. "You gave your coach a picture of you naked."

"I gave her something she wanted." I met her eyes. "Something she's been waiting for. She said I wasn't ready. I wanted to show her I am."

Lupe swung her legs over the side of her bunk and dropped down to the floor, landing soft on her bare feet. She came to sit beside me, close enough that her thigh pressed against mine, warm through both our shorts.

"And the intern?" she asked. "She saw it?"

"I think so. I think that's why I left it with her."

Lupe shook her head slowly, but there was a smile tugging at her mouth. "You're something else, you know that?"

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true." She reached out and took my hand, her fingers threading through mine. "You're not scared?"

"Of what?"

"Of what happens when she sees it. When she knows for sure."

I thought about it. I thought about Casey's blue eyes finding that drawing, about her hands on the folder, about what she might do when she saw me spread open on that page.

"I'm not scared," I said, and I meant it. "I'm hungry."

Lupe's breath caught, and I felt her hand tighten on mine. "Macy."

"I know what I want now." I turned to face her fully. "I've known for a while. I just didn't want to admit it."

"And what is it you want?"

I looked at her—at her dark eyes, her full lips, the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder. I thought about Casey, about the mark she'd left on my skin, about the way she'd looked at me in the parking lot like she wanted to devour me.

"I want to stop pretending," I said. "I want to stop hiding. I want to be seen—really seen—and not look away."

Lupe was quiet, and then she lifted my hand and pressed her lips to my knuckles, soft and warm. "Then let me see you," she said. "Right now. Not tomorrow, not when you're ready. Now."

My heart stuttered. "You said not yet. You said you wanted me to be sure."

"I wanted you to know what you wanted." She released my hand and reached for the hem of her shirt. "And now you do."

She pulled the shirt over her head, and I watched her—watched the smooth brown skin of her stomach appear, the curve of her breasts under her bra, the way her hair fell loose around her shoulders. She was beautiful, and she was looking at me like I was the only thing in the room.

"Show me," she said. "Show me what you want."

And for the first time, I didn't hesitate.

I reached for her, my hands finding her waist, pulling her close. She came willingly, her knees bracketing my hips as she settled into my lap, her arms looping around my neck. I could feel her heat through her shorts, could smell the faint sweetness of her skin, and I wanted—God, I wanted.

"This," I said, my voice rough. "This is what I want."

She kissed me then, deep and slow, and I let myself sink into it. Her mouth was soft, insistent, and I opened for her, my tongue finding hers, tasting her for the first time. She tasted like mint and something darker, something that made my thighs clench.

We stayed like that for a long moment, her in my lap, my hands on her back, her fingers buried in my short hair. The world outside the room—the track, the office, the drawing waiting for Casey—faded to nothing.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark. "That's a start," she said. "But I want more."

"I know." I slid my hands down her back, over the curve of her ass, and squeezed. "I want more too."

She laughed, low and warm. "Then take it."

I did.

Her bra came off with a single practiced motion, and I watched her breasts spill free—full and dark, her nipples already tight. She took my hands and pressed them to her chest, and I felt the weight of her, the warmth, the way her breath caught when my thumbs found her nipples.

"Like that," she breathed. "Just like that."

I rolled her nipples between my fingers, watching her eyes flutter shut, watching her lips part. She was so open like this, so unguarded, and I wanted to crawl inside that openness and live there. I wanted to be the reason she looked like this.

"Macy." My name on her lips, soft and broken. "Please."

I didn't need to be asked twice. I pulled her closer and took her nipple in my mouth, and she gasped, her fingers digging into my shoulders. She tasted like soap and sweat and something warmer underneath, something that was just her. I sucked gently, then harder, and she arched into me, a low moan falling from her lips.

"God," she whispered. "You learn fast."

I pulled back just long enough to look at her. "I've been wanting this for weeks. I've been thinking about it every night, lying in my bunk, listening to you breathe."

Her eyes went dark. "Show me."

So I did. I laid her back on my bunk, the thin mattress dipping under both our weight, and I took my time. I kissed down her neck, over her collarbone, between her breasts. I traced the curve of her ribs with my tongue, felt her shiver beneath me. Her skin was smooth and warm, and I wanted to taste every inch of it.

When I reached the waistband of her shorts, she lifted her hips, helping me slide them off. She wasn't wearing anything underneath, and I stopped, staring at her—at the dark triangle of hair between her thighs, at the way her legs fell open without hesitation.

"Look at you," I said, and my voice didn't sound like mine. It sounded lower, rougher, hungrier. "You're so fucking beautiful."

She reached down and took my hand, guiding it between her thighs. She was already wet—I could feel it, slick and hot against my fingers—and she pressed my palm against her, a soft sound escaping her throat.

"Touch me," she said. "Please, Macy. Touch me."

I didn't need to be told twice. I slid my fingers through her folds, finding her clit, and she bucked against my hand. I circled her slowly, watching her face, watching the way her mouth fell open, the way her eyes lost focus.

"That's it," she breathed. "Just like that."

I lowered my mouth to her, and she cried out, her hand fisting in my hair. She tasted like salt and honey, like something I'd been starving for without knowing it. I licked her slowly, then faster, finding a rhythm that made her hips roll against my face. She was close—I could feel it in the way her thighs tightened around my head, in the way her breath came in short, sharp gasps.

"Macy, I'm going to—"

I didn't stop. I kept going, kept licking, kept pushing her toward the edge, and when she came, she came hard, her body arching off the mattress, her cry muffled by her own hand. I stayed with her through it, drinking her down, and when she finally went limp, I crawled up her body and kissed her, letting her taste herself on my lips.

"That," she said, her voice hoarse. "That was—"

"I know." I kissed her again, softer this time. "I know."

She pulled me down against her, her arms wrapping around me, and we lay there tangled together, both of us breathing hard. Her hand found mine and held it, and I felt something settle in my chest—something that felt like peace, like finally, like a door I'd been pushing against for weeks swinging open.

"You're not scared anymore," she said. It wasn't a question.

"No." I turned my head to look at her. "I'm not."

She smiled, slow and warm. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go."

I should have said something. I should have told her how I felt, how she made me feel, how the world had shifted under my feet and I was still learning to walk on it. But the words wouldn't come, so I just held her tighter, my face buried in her neck, breathing her in.

Somewhere across campus, in an office that smelled like leather and stale coffee, a folder sat on a desk. Inside it, a drawing of me waited—naked, wanton, all my secrets on the page. Casey would see it soon. She'd know what I was, what I was offering, what I was ready to become.

And for the first time, that thought didn't terrify me.

It made me hungry.