POV: Miss B

  She kissed him first. That’s the detail she replays when she is trying to be fair.

  Music was loud. Floor sticky. Bodies too close.

  He leaned down to hear her, and she leaned up because she wanted to.

  There was no hesitation. It was natural heat.

  Someone wolf-whistled when they disappeared upstairs. She remembers laughing.

  That matters.

  She was laughing.

  In the bedroom, the door didn’t lock properly. It clicked, but didn’t catch. He pushed it shut anyway.

  She noticed that. She does not know why she noticed that.

  He asked if she was okay. She said yes.

  He asked again. She said yes again, softer.

  She meant it both times. That part is true.

  What she did not know how to say was: I want this now, but I don’t want to feel small tomorrow.

  There is no clean vocabulary for that in a dark room.

  He was confident. Not aggressive. Not violent. Just sure.

  Sure of her body. Sure, of his hands. Sure, of the narrative.

  She tried to match that certainty.

  After, he lay on his back staring at the ceiling like he had won something alluring.

  She lay on her side, staring at him like she had given something special.

  Neither of them said that out loud.

  The next morning, she texted first: “Last night was fun.”

  Because it had been.

  Because she did not want to be the girl who spiraled.

  Because she refuses to be the stereotype of the bisexual girl who “gets attached.”

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  He replied thirty minutes later: “Yeah. Casual though, right?”

  Casual. It lands differently in the daylight.

  At brunch, someone mentions they saw them go upstairs. Someone else says, “Knew it!”

  He grins. She smiles.

  He tells the story like a highlight reel. He says she was bold. He says she surprised him. He says it like a compliment.

  She feels narrated. That night, she watches his private story.

  A black screen with white text: Some people catch feelings too fast.

  She stares at it until it disappears. Her chest feels tight, but not broken.

  Just… repositioned.

  Miss C messages her: “Is that about you?”

  She types: “No lol.” Deletes it.

  Types again: “He’s not that important.” Sends it.

  The problem is not what happened in the room. The problem is what happened after.

  He moves differently now. Like, he has leverage. Like he knows something about her that the rest of the room doesn’t.

  He touches her lower back in public like a petty joke. He tells people, “Relax, we both wanted it.”

  And that is true. They both said yes. But when she tries to bring up how weird the joke felt, he tilts his head.

  “You’re not regretting it, are you?” The way he says regret feels like an accusation. She swallows whatever she was about to say. Because she does not regret it. She regrets how small she feels in the retelling. There is a difference.

  By week three, she hears that he described her as “intense.”

  By week four, she hears that he said she “knew exactly what she was doing.”

  By week five, someone asks her if ‘they’re dating.’

  He laughs before she can answer: “God no!”

  God no? That one echoes, and it stings as it lingers. Repeating his tone endlessly within her.

  She scrolls back through their texts one night. She rereads her own enthusiasm. Her own flirting. Her own consent. There it is in black and white. Solid proof. More than enough evidence.

  She tries to locate the moment it shifted from mutual to unbalanced, but she can’t.

  There is no single sentence. Just tone. Only posture. And the slow realization that he controls the story now.

  She posts a quote on her page: Consent is not the same thing as comfort.

  She doesn’t tag him. She doesn’t name him. But she knows he will see it.

  He views it within three minutes.

  The next day, someone says he’s been showing screenshots. “Just in case.” Just in case of what? She never accused him of anything. She never said it wasn’t consensual. She never said no. But now she feels like she has to defend something she hasn’t even articulated.

  That’s the filthy mud. It’s the bloody war.

  Not assault, nor innocence. Not even a clear villain. Just power sliding from one person to the other in ways no one teaches you to name properly.

  That night, she types a message she does not send: “You didn’t hurt me. You just made me feel disposable.” She deletes it.

  Because being ‘disposable’ is not a crime. And neither of them broke a law.

  They both said yes.

  She just didn’t realize that yes could be repackaged into something she wouldn’t recognize later.