Keep Going

I wake in the mid-morning light, head pounding and mouth dry. My arm is draped across Kira's bare chest, her skin warm under my forearm, the curve of her body curled just slightly toward mine. She's still out cold, lashes fanned over her cheekbones, lips parted in sleep. Her hair is a golden mess across the pillow.

I peel myself away gently, careful not to wake her, and swing my legs off the bed. My head spins the second I stand—last night hitting me like a second wave of drunken vertigo. My phone buzzes from the nightstand, but I ignore it for now. First: coffee.

Kira's apartment is quiet, the smell of last night's perfume and whiskey still hanging faintly in the air. I move through it barefoot, still in my clothes from the night before, skin sticky from sweat and smoke. I flick on the kitchen light and go through the easy, habitual motions—water, beans, press. The hiss of the machine is almost meditative.

When the coffee finishes, I pour myself a black cup, cradling it in both hands, and head out to the balcony. The morning air is humid, soft with city quiet. I pull a fresh joint from my pocket, light it, and take the first inhale like a sacrament.

No show today. No press. No responsibilities. Just this—this smoke, this coffee, this ache in my bones.

I finally check my phone.

Thousands of notifications. My screen is a sea of red badges and tags and hearts. I scroll through the flood. A text from Elena from late last night:

Glad you danced with me. It was good to see you. Hard, but good.

And then Stefani. Just one message.

You looked happy.

Short. Simple. Cutting in that way only she knows how to be.

It's strange how everything with them—always—moves from zero to a hundred. One minute it's silence, the next it's some unspoken intimacy that derails everything inside me.

I swipe over to Instagram.

My name's been tagged in dozens of posts. I start scrolling. Me and Ali, my arm wrapped around her shoulder, both of us mid-laugh. Me spinning Elena, her hair flying behind her like a ribbon. Kira curled on my lap, her face buried in my chest, her smile electric. Me and Stefani on the dance floor, her feet barely off the ground as I lift her into the air, joy written all over her face.

I blink, a breath catching in my throat. Even I don't know how to make sense of it.

And still—I repost them all. No captions. Just letting them live. Letting people see what they want to see.

It's all me. Every moment. Every contradiction. Every complication.

Kira's footsteps pad across the hardwood behind me. She steps out onto the balcony, squinting into the sunlight. Her t-shirt is oversized, falling off one shoulder, and she's rubbing sleep from her eyes.

"Morning," she rasps, her voice still thick from sleep. "You okay?"

I turn to look at her, joint between my fingers, coffee in my other hand.

"I think I am," I say honestly. "Sad the show's over. Anxious about what's next. But... calm right now."

She grins, leaning against the railing beside me. "Maybe it's the weed."

I smirk. "Maybe it's the way you held me last night."

"Maybe," she says, voice dipping into something teasing.

We stand in silence for a moment, just the soft hum of the city waking up around us. Then she shifts, serious now. "Can we talk about the elephant in the room?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"I don't want anything complicated," she says gently. "No grand confessions. I care about you, a lot. Like... really care. But what happened last night—" She pauses. "It wasn't something I need to turn into anything bigger."

"I know," I say. "I don't want it to be serious either. I'm not in that place. I don't have space in me for more heartbreak right now."

She exhales in relief. "Good. I mean—not good. You know what I mean. I just don't want to lose this."

"You won't," I say. "We're solid. And if you ever want to... keep doing that," I gesture back toward the bedroom with a grin, "I'm not gonna stop you."

She laughs, low and playful. "I'd like that."

The joint burns low in my hand, the coffee cools in the cup, and the morning stretches long and open in front of us.

Kira's playful grin lingers between us, the morning air thick with something unspoken. My fingers twitch around my coffee cup, the joint long forgotten in the ashtray beside me. There's a shift in the atmosphere—something charged, something *hungry*. 

She leans against the railing, the oversized shirt slipping further down her shoulder, exposing the delicate curve of her collarbone. My gaze lingers there, tracing the dip of her skin, the faint flush from sleep still warming her. 

"You're staring," she murmurs, but there's no protest in her voice. Only amusement. Only *invitation*. 

I set the coffee down, slow and deliberate. "Yeah," I admit. "I am." 

Her breath hitches—just slightly—when I step into her space, my body crowding hers against the railing. The city sprawls below us, but all I see is *her*. The way her lips part, the way her pulse jumps in her throat. 

My hand slides up her side, fingers skimming the hem of her shirt before slipping beneath it. Her skin is warm, soft, and she shivers under my touch. 

"Lena," she breathes, and the way she says my name—like a plea, like a prayer—sends a sharp thrill through me. 

I don't answer. Not with words. Instead, I grip her hip, turning her so her back presses against my chest. My other hand finds her throat, fingers curling just enough to make her gasp. 

"Quiet," I murmur against her ear, my voice low, commanding. "We wouldn't want the whole city to hear you, would we?" 

She whimpers, her body arching into me, and I can feel the heat of her even through the thin fabric of her shirt. My free hand drifts lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her shorts, and she's soaked, so ready for me it makes my own breath stutter. 

"Fuck," I growl, pressing my lips to the side of her neck as my fingers slide through her slick folds. "You're already this wet for me?" 

She nods frantically, her hands gripping the railing like she needs something to hold onto. I don't give her time to adjust—I push two fingers inside her without warning, and she jerks against me, a choked moan escaping her lips. 

"I said quiet," I remind her, tightening my grip on her throat just enough to make her whine. She clenches around my fingers, her body trembling as I set a ruthless pace, curling my fingers just right to drag another broken sound from her. 

I can feel her getting closer, her hips rocking back against my hand, her breath coming in ragged little gasps. But I don't let her finish—not yet. I slow my movements, teasing her, drawing it out until she's whimpering in frustration. 

"Please," she manages, her voice wrecked. 

I smirk against her skin. "Please what?" 

"Please—Lena—" 

That's all I need. I withdraw my fingers, ignoring her groan of protest, and drop to my knees behind her. She turns, wide-eyed, but I don't give her time to think. I yank her shorts down just enough to expose her, then drag her back against my mouth in one rough motion. 

She gasps, her thighs tensing around my head as my tongue laps at her, slow and deliberate. I can taste her, sweet and desperate, and I hum against her, the vibration making her knees buckle. 

"Oh my God—-" Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging hard, but I don't stop. I lick into her, deep and filthy, my hands gripping her hips to keep her from squirming away. She's panting now, her moans barely stifled, her body trembling on the edge. 

I let her hover there, teasing her with slow, maddening strokes before finally—sucking her clit between my lips. 

She comes with a strangled cry, her thighs clamping around me as she shakes apart. I don't let up, drawing out her orgasm until she's limp, her hands braced against the railing just to stay upright. 

When I finally pull back, she's a mess—breathless, flushed, her lips bitten red from trying to stay quiet. I rise slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, and smirk at the dazed look in her eyes. 

"Good girl," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. 

She shivers, turning to face me fully, her gaze dark with want. "You're insane" she breathes.