The weekend arrives with the inevitability of a storm. I collect Sierra early, ostensibly to rehearse our fabricated history, though the drive is spent mostly in companionable silence punctuated by nervous laughter. Midway through, my parents call: the evening has evolved from a quiet dinner into an outdoor barbecue. Bring swimsuits and a change of clothes.

  I relay the change to Sierra, bracing for retreat. To my astonishment, she agrees without hesitation—though we must detour so she can purchase a swimsuit. She conceals her selection beneath her clothing, offering only a cryptic smile when I inquire.

  We arrive at my parents’ house to an atmosphere thick with expectation. Kelly is already there, poised and watchful. The initial awkwardness is palpable: my parents, delighted by the surprise “girlfriend,” pepper us with questions about how we met, how long we have been together, why I kept her secret. Kelly’s inquiries are sharper, laced with skepticism. She probes for inconsistencies, searching for cracks in the performance.

  Sierra navigates the interrogation with effortless grace. She answers swiftly, weaving our partial truths into a seamless narrative. More remarkably, she wins my parents over almost immediately—her humor, her genuine interest in their stories, her easy warmth. I watch Kelly’s composure fray with each approving nod from my mother, each laugh from my father. The frustration is subtle but unmistakable.

  Then comes the pool. Kelly emerges first in a small pink bikini that clings to her golden-tanned curves. She looks precisely as I remember: confident, deliberately provocative. My gaze lingers longer than intended; old habits die hard.

  Sierra follows moments later. Her dark-red bikini mirrors Kelly’s style but fits her differently—petite, lithe, the body of a dancer honed by grace rather than display. Her skin is paler, almost luminous against the fabric; her tattoos trace elegant paths across ribs and thigh. Smaller breasts, narrower hips—none of it diminishes the effect. I am transfixed. The sight steals breath, stirs something deeper than simple appreciation.

  Kelly notices. Her passive-aggressive commentary begins almost immediately: veiled barbs about Sierra’s ink, thinly disguised jabs at her “alternative” aesthetic. Sierra absorbs the onslaught with practiced calm, though I catch the tightening of her jaw, the brief flash of irritation she quickly masks for my parents’ sake.

  The evening spirals toward its breaking point in the dining room. Kelly, emboldened by wine and resentment, launches a final, cutting remark—blaming me for her infidelity, implying my neglect drove her into Jason’s arms. The words land like a slap.

  Sierra’s response is instantaneous and physical. She rises, strides forward, and delivers a sharp, open-handed strike across Kelly’s cheek. The crack echoes. My parents freeze. Kelly recoils, stunned.

  Chaos ensues—raised voices, Sierra’s trembling fury, Kelly’s indignant retreat. In the aftermath, Sierra perches on the edge of the dining table, breathing hard, eyes blazing. I step between them, hands raised, attempting to de-escalate. She reaches out, seizes my shirt collar, and pulls me into a fierce, unexpected kiss.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  The world narrows to the heat of her mouth, the press of her body, the taste of adrenaline and resolve. When we break apart, Kelly is gone—stormed out moments earlier. Sierra kisses me again, softer, deliberate. This time the gesture belongs to us alone.

  Over an hour later, after dropping her at her apartment, I sit in my car in the parking lot, engine off, unable to leave. I text her.

  Me: Sierra, are you still awake?

  Sierra Acosta: I’m awake. Did you make it home already?

  Me: Would it be strange if I am still parked outside your apartment?

  I glance upward. A shade lifts; her silhouette appears briefly at the window, peering down.

  Me: I was hoping we could discuss what happened tonight.

  Sierra Acosta: Hold on. Let me get dressed. I’m coming down.

  Me: Could you stay upstairs for now? I would prefer to talk like this.

  Her shadow pauses. She resumes texting.

  Sierra Acosta: I’m sorry for hitting her. I do not know what came over me. I cannot believe she blamed you for her cheating.

  Sierra Acosta: Actually—no. I am not sorry.

  Me: I am not upset about that.

  Me: In fact, I found it… compelling. The way you defended me. If you had not been there, I would have said nothing. I would have absorbed it.

  Sierra Acosta: If she loved you the way she claimed, she would not have cheated.

  Me: She had a point, in a way. I was consumed by school and work. I failed to notice how neglected she felt.

  Sierra Acosta: Then she should have spoken to you. Not sought the nearest available distraction.

  Sierra Acosta: God, she infuriates me.

  I smile at her protectiveness—the reversal of roles still thrills me.

  Me: Easy. That redheaded temper is showing again.

  Sierra Acosta: Grrr. Sorry.

  Me: It is one of the things I find most compelling about you.

  Sierra Acosta: lol

  Me: But what I truly wished to discuss was what happened afterward.

  Me: When you were seated on the table and I tried to calm you.

  Sierra Acosta: My emotions overtook me again.

  Me: There is nothing to apologize for. Do you realize how desperately I wanted that to happen?

  She returns to the window, lifting the shade. Our eyes meet through the glass as she types.

  Sierra Acosta: I feared I had ruined everything. You went silent for a moment. It frightened me.

  Me: I was in shock. You quite literally stole my breath when you pulled me in.

  She smiles down at me, then texts again.

  Sierra Acosta: The first kiss was for her benefit. She walked in behind you. I wanted to wound her differently that time.

  Me: And the second? After she left?

  Sierra Acosta: That one was for me :)

  We hold each other’s gaze, smiles mirroring. The moment feels achingly real—yet I know her stance on relationships. I must ask.

  Me: So what does this mean for us?

  She reads the message, hesitates, then types.

  Sierra Acosta: What do you mean?

  Me: I believe you know. That kiss—I would like there to be more of them. In the future.

  Sierra Acosta: Alex, what are you saying? Tell me exactly what you want.

  I draw a steadying breath.

  Me: I would like to take you out. Properly. I would like you to be my girlfriend.

  Sierra Acosta: I thought I already was :)

  Sierra Acosta: Unless you lied to your parents and your ex.

  I stare upward, uncertain whether she is teasing. Her expression is unreadable—serious, expectant.

  Me: lol Is this genuine? I thought you did not want another relationship.

  She laughs softly, steps away from the window. A moment later her next message arrives just as the apartment door opens below.

  Sierra Acosta: Alex, stop texting me and come inside.