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Victoria groaned quietly, pressing her forehead into the space between Cassie’s shoulder blades, her face twisted into the most dramatic little scowl she could manage. Anyone else might have found it intimidating. On her, it just looked cute. Irritated, impatient, needy in a way that made her sound smaller than she actually was.
“Can we just go already?” she mumbled.
Cassie laughed under her breath, low and warm, the sound vibrating through Victoria’s cheek. She reached back without looking, fingers finding Victoria’s hand easily, tugging her forward so she had to step around her and into her line of sight. Victoria’s gaze immediately snagged on the beer pong table in front of them, plastic cups half full, people shouting over each other like this was the peak of human entertainment.
That did it. That fully did it.
Her jaw tightened as she watched some nurse guy she barely recognized miss an easy throw and still get cheered for it. Frank was there too, of course, leaning against the counter like he belonged, grinning like this was the best part of his week. Victoria scoffed quietly. Of course he was having a good time.
Cassie squeezed her hand once before letting go, already drifting toward the table, and the absence hit Victoria instantly. A tiny, barely-there whine slipped out of her before she could stop it. She hated how obvious she was sometimes. If she had to be stuck here, the least she wanted was to be within Cassie’s orbit, close enough to feel her warmth, to breathe her in, to remind herself that this was temporary.
She watched Cassie lean over the table, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose her forearms, fingers wrapping around the little ping-pong ball with lazy confidence. It shouldn’t have been attractive. It absolutely was. Cassie looked stupidly good tonight in her worn-in sweater and carpenter jeans, like she’d put no thought into it at all and still managed to pull Victoria’s attention back every single time.
Victoria crossed her arms, shifting her weight, already counting the minutes in her head. She wanted to leave this party. She wanted quiet. She wanted Cassie’s attention fully on her instead of scattered across cups and people and music that was way too loud.
She could appreciate the effort, she really could. Trinity always thought things through, always made sure everyone felt included, even inviting people like Frank for the sake of group harmony. It was sweet, in theory. In practice, Victoria had been here at least an hour longer than she’d planned, and all she could think about was how much she wanted to be anywhere else.
Preferably somewhere smaller. Warmer. Somewhere like Cassie's bed, with Cassie fucking her. She needs to get laid. Right now.
Victoria hovers for a full thirty seconds before she realizes she is, in fact, hovering. She adjusts by leaning instead, one hip against the counter, arms folded like that makes her look patient and not like someone waiting to be rescued from a hostage situation.
Cassie is immediately surrounded. Of course she is. Someone asks her where she got the sweater. Someone else hands her a drink she did not ask for. Frank says something loud and stupid and Cassie laughs anyway, easy and open, like she belongs here. Like she always belongs everywhere.
Victoria narrows her eyes.
She watches Cassie talk with her hands, watch the way people angle their bodies toward her without even noticing they are doing it. Cassie listens like it matters. Like she has time. Victoria hates that about her. Loves it. Hates that she loves it.
She checks the time on her phone. Only five minutes have passed. This is hell.
Victoria sighs dramatically and weaves through the crowd, planting herself directly in front of Cassie and staring up at her with an expression that is pure accusation.
Cassie blinks. Then smiles. The smile softens when she registers the look. “What’s wrong, baby?”
Victoria does not answer. She simply reaches out and hooks two fingers into Cassie’s sweater pocket, tugging once. A warning tug. A 'mine' tug.
“I’m bored,” she says finally. “And these people are over thirty playing beer pong.”
“That’s generous,” Cassie says. “I think I'm one of the oldest.”
“I hate it here,” Victoria adds, quieter, like a confession.
Cassie hums, thoughtful, then places her hands on Victoria’s hips like it is the most natural thing in the world. Like they are alone. Like there is not a kitchen full of noise and spilled beer and bad music.
“We can leave soon,” she says. “I promised Parker I’d stay for one more game.”
Victoria squints. “You promised her that before or after she let you throw the ball.”
Cassie grins. Guilty.
Victoria exhales, forehead dropping briefly against Cassie’s chest. She stays there a second too long, breathing her in, grounding herself. Cassie smells like soap and something warm and familiar and it does not help her attitude at all.
“Fine,” Victoria says, muffled. “But I’m not socializing.”
Cassie kisses the top of her head. “Deal.”
Victoria straightens, satisfied, and immediately steals Cassie’s mocktail. She escapes the group that’s crowded around the kitchen island, all men and butches talking too loudly over each other, and migrates toward the couch like it’s a safe haven. Her people. The girls and token gay are sprawled out with drinks balanced on thighs and knees, glitter catching the low light. Heather notices her immediately and calls her name like she’s been waiting for her.
“There you are,” Heather says, grinning, and reaches out to squeeze Victoria’s nose. “You look grumpy.”
Victoria scoffs but smiles anyway, letting herself sink down onto Dennis’ lap with a dramatic sigh, legs folding in neatly like she belongs there. “I’m not grumpy.”
The group collectively hums in disbelief.
“Cassie’s being a bad girlfriend,” Victoria adds, pouting just a little, mostly for effect.
That gets her exactly what she wants. A chorus of ooohs ripples through the group, exaggerated and gleeful. Dennis whistles. Victoria rolls her eyes, laughing despite herself, and tips her head back to glance across the room again. Her gaze lands, traitorously, on the beer pong table. Cassie’s there, sleeves pushed up, focused in that way that makes Victoria feel both fond and deeply inconvenienced.
“Don’t I look pretty?” Victoria asks suddenly, turning back to the couch, flipping her hair over one shoulder and batting her eyelashes like she’s auditioning for something ridiculous.
Samira pokes her thigh with two fingers, deadpan. “Girl, I’d eat you up.”
Victoria snorts, dissolving into laughter, shoulders relaxing for the first time all night. She leans back against Dennis, accepting the attention like it’s her due, but her eyes keep drifting back across the room. Cassie laughs loudly at something, throws an arm around someone’s shoulder, entirely too comfortable for someone who is supposed to be aware she has a needy girlfriend on a couch.
“Yeah. I think so too — apparently not good enough for Cass,” Victoria sighs, the words slipping out before she can soften them. She flicks her hair off her shoulder with a dramatic flourish that earns an appreciative whistle from someone nearby, but her gaze never quite leaves the kitchen island.
Across the room, Trinity lets out a quiet groan, chin propped on her hand. “Parker looks so good,” she mutters, sounding genuinely tortured. Whatever beer pong match had been happening earlier has fully devolved into something else now — Parker and Cassie are standing shoulder to shoulder, sleeves pushed up, laughing as someone clears space on the counter so they can… arm wrestle.
Arm wrestle.
Victoria stares at them in disbelief. Of course. Of course, they have somehow transformed a perfectly harmless party into a competitive display of ridiculous butch strength. The crowd around them is eating it up. Someone’s chanting. Someone else is filming. Cassie is grinning in that focused, slightly manic way she does when she’s about to commit very seriously to something deeply stupid.
Victoria feels her irritation flare again — half jealousy, half fondness, entirely unhelpful.
This is what Cassie prefers to be doing right now? Showing off her forearms and struggling to win an arm wrestle with an equally as childish doctor? Meanwhile Victoria has spent an hour and a half in glittery eyeshadow and the tightest skirt known to humankind, radiating “please take me home immediately” energy to absolutely no effect.
The eye candy, unfortunately, is excellent. Cassie steps up to the counter opposite Parker and rolls her shoulders back, loose and cocky, and Trinity makes a little wounded sound next to her. “Oh my god,” she breathes, leaning forward as if proximity might help. “They’re unreal.”
Victoria glances sideways at her and notices the faint blush painting Trinity’s cheeks, the restless way her knee bounces. Right. Trinity has it even worse — if she wants anything to happen with Parker tonight, she has to wait until the house clears out and Dennis finally goes to bed. Delayed gratification. Brutal.
Their eyes meet at the same time and they both burst into quiet laughter — two femmes, stranded at the party, painfully aware that their butches are across the room acting like competitive toddlers with excellent arms.
“I fucking hate them,” Trinity mutters under her breath, sinking deeper into the couch. “And we’re supposed to be the younger ones?”
Victoria snorts. “Right? Maybe they just don’t get invited to parties anymore, so they’re trying to experience the full college package retroactively.”
“Beer pong and arm wrestling,” Trinity says, waving a hand toward the kitchen like it physically pains her. “What is this? A frat party hosted by divorced uncles?”
Victoria laughs, pressing her lips together to keep it quiet. Trinity shakes her head.
“I’ve been to a couple actual frat parties back in college,” she goes on. “Terrible if you’re gay. Wrong vibe, wrong energy. Since high school I mostly hung out with theatre kids—”
“I can tell,” Dennis cuts in dryly.
Trinity smacks the back of his head with the softest aggression imaginable. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Dennis pulls a wounded face and rubs the spot. “Truth hurts Trin.”
“Shut up,” she says, but there’s affection in it.
Victoria grins, stretching out a little, feeling her frustration loosen — not gone, just warmer around the edges.
Across the room, Cassie and Parker are still locked in their ridiculous little showdown, sleeves shoved up, biceps flexed like this is the Olympics of Butch Masculinity. Trinity groans, the sound halfway between despair and genuine admiration. Two femmes. Two deeply repressed sighs. Two girlfriends who would, at this very moment, happily commit a small crime if it meant dragging their respective butches out of this house and straight into bed.
“God, they’re idiots,” she murmurs.
Victoria nods, watching Cassie’s jaw tighten, the faint crease between her brows. She looks ridiculous. She looks perfect.
When Dana and Mel drift back in from the balcony, the party feels denser somehow, like the air has thickened into perfume and heat and the slow crawl of bass through the floorboards. They carry with them the faint smell of cigarette smoke and cold night air, a contrast to the sweet-sticky warmth of the living room, where Trinity and Victoria are half-collapsed into the couch like queens defending their territory.
Heather is perched beside them, delicately but not nervously with her ankles crossed and hands folded in her lap in a way that suggests she knows exactly how good she looks and is simply choosing to be merciful about it.
Dana pauses for a heartbeat — not because she is hesitant, but because she has one of those moments where she feels the absurdity of the situation settle into her bones. She is older, steadier, the kind of woman who has survived bad haircuts and worse breakups and emerged with a tailored coat and a quiet elegance. And yet here she is. Staring at her girlfriend like a teenager who’s just realized that God, actually, beauty is a curse.
Mel bumps her shoulder on the way past and mutters something dry about déjà vu — another butch, another femme, another night of pretending not to care that the room is full of people who would sell their souls for five minutes alone with their respective disasters.
Heather looks up at Dana with a soft, conspiratorial smile, and Dana moves toward her with the kind of confidence that never tries too hard; she just arrives, and the space rearranges itself politely around her. She rests a hand on the back of the couch, close enough to touch, close enough to claim without being possessive, and leans down slightly, voice low, warm, and threaded with a tenderness that only ever shows itself when she speaks to Heather.
“Do you want to go home?” she asks and it’s not really a question. It’s a promise dressed up as one, a gentle invitation wrapped in a tone that already knows the answer. The undertone hums beneath the words like a second melody: they could leave, they could step out of this swirling mess of alcohol and glitter and half-resolved tension and the night would become theirs.
Heather’s eyelashes flutter, not theatrically, but thoughtfully and before she can reply, Trinity makes a strangled sound somewhere between a scoff and a prayer. She sits forward, throwing her hands up with the exasperation of someone who has just watched the same tragic play unfold across three different relationships.
“Oh my God,” Trinity says, with the tired authority of a woman who has been emotionally inconvenienced all evening. “See? See? If they wanted to, they would. Every time. Every single time.”
Victoria echoes her sentiment with a noise that sounds like it’s been dragged out of her soul, pinching the bridge of her nose like this is the final straw in a long chain of cosmic humiliations. “Unbelievable,” she mutters, glaring half-heartedly at the ceiling, as if the universe personally arranged this moment to spite her. “Our butches are out here looking like… like that —” she gestures somewhere in the direction of Parker and Cassie by association, “— and what do we get? Emotional restraint.”
Mel snorts and nearly chokes on her drink, leaning against the arm of the couch with the air of someone who fully agrees but refuses to admit it out loud. “If they wanted to,” she says under her breath, like it’s a curse and a benediction all at once, “they’d have gone home an hour ago.”
Dana raises an eyebrow, not even bothering to look at them as she waits for Heather’s answer — patient, but with that quiet impatience of someone who already knows what she wants and is simply giving the world a moment to catch up. Heather tilts her head, lips curving into a small, knowing smile, and for a second the room feels like it narrows to the space between the two of them: the softness of Heather’s gaze, the solid steadiness of Dana’s presence, the subtle electricity of a decision waiting to be spoken.
The answer is obvious and Dana gives a polite, almost apologetic nod to the room, which somehow feels worse, and then they’re gone. Just like that. No drama. No hesitation. Only certainty, moving through a doorway.
The door closes. The room exhales. Trinity makes a strangled sound into a decorative cushion.
“I can't do this” Trinity mutters, half-groan, half-whisper. “Why is everyone suddenly capable of basic initiative except my girlfriend.”
Victoria tips her head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling like it personally wronged her. “At this point,” she says dryly, “I think they're bullying us.”
The party thins further as the hours dissolve, laughter drifting in lazy ribbons through the apartment. Mel eventually reappears at Samira’s side — warm, loose, smiling the kind of smile that only shows up after shared cigarettes and quiet balcony jokes. There is a softness between them that isn’t loud but takes up space anyway, like gravity. Mel rests her hand at the small of Samira’s back, murmurs something that makes her laugh under her breath and when they start gathering their things, it doesn’t feel like an exit so much as an inevitability.
Trinity watches them too, resigned now, chin propped dramatically in her hand. “Great,” she says. “Amazing. Stunning. Another one. Another shining example of decisive behavior.”
Victoria makes a helpless gesture toward the door where Mel and Samira disappear. “If they wanted to—”
“They would,” Trinity snaps, then slumps again.
The room is quieter than it’s been all night. The music hums. The lights feel too warm. There are only a few people left now, scattered shapes in armchairs, voices lowered to soft, conspiratorial tones. The absence of everyone who has slipped away — hand-in-hand, purposeful, wanted — lingers like a joke told at their expense.
The pittlings migrate to the balcony when the room starts to feel too warm, when the music thickens and the laughter rises and the scent of cheap vodka and perfume starts to cling to the back of Victoria’s throat. Dennis slides the glass door open with his shoulder, muttering something dramatic about needing “fresh, homosexual air,” and Trinity snorts as she follows him out.
The night is cold in the way city nights are cold, a wet chill that tucks itself into collars and sleeves. The railing is cold under Victoria’s palms when she leans against it. The sky above is bruised navy, soft street-lamp orange spilling over the tops of the trees. Somewhere below, someone laughs too loud and a dog barks back. Pittsburgh nights make her happy.
Dennis lights a cigarette and holds it between his teeth like he’s in a bad noir film. Trinity swipes it from him the second he exhales.
“You don’t even smoke,” he protests weakly.
“I do tonight,” she says, already laughing as the smoke makes her cough. “I deserve it. I’m sexually oppressed.”
Victoria wheezes, clutching her chest “Same. We are martyrs.”
Dennis nearly doubles over. “You two are ridiculous. You’re at a house party. You are surrounded by drinks and snacks and queer people and vibes. You’re having a gay little time."
“Dennis.” Trinity stares at him flatly. “The love of my life is inside pretending to be a lumberjack in an arm-wrestling competition.”
“And mine,” Victoria adds, eyebrows knitting with theatrical misery, “is teaching Parker how to shotgun a beer. But she's using a can of ginger ale."
Dennis blinks. “She… she doesn’t even like ginger ale.”
“I know,” Victoria whispers, eyes soft with tragic devotion. “She’s doing it for sport.”
They dissolve into laughter again. The good kind. The kind that shakes your shoulders until you’re breathless. Trinity leans against Dennis’ side, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, while Victoria tilts her head back and breathes in the night, trying to use the cold to cool whatever is simmering under her ribs.
Through the glass door, she can see the living room again. Cassie is at the kitchen island now, sleeves pushed up, hair mussed, laughing at something Parker says. Someone slaps her back like she’s a rugby player who just scored a point. Cassie grins, wide and carefree and Victoria’s chest pulls tight.
It isn’t possessiveness in the sharp, ugly sense. It’s more like longing wrapped in irritation. Like watching a fire burn that she’d really like to sit beside, but instead she’s stuck out here staring at it through glass. She looks away so she doesn’t start pouting.
Trinity nudges her gently. “She keeps searching for you too. You're getting fucked tonight.”
Victoria sighs. “I know. I just… want her attention. Or her hand on my thigh. Or to be home already.”
Dennis grins. “It still surprises me when you're openly needy”
She scrunches her nose. “I’m always needy.”
They laugh again, softer this time, the kind that settles into their bones instead of rattling them. Dennis tells a stupid story about a disastrous New Year’s Eve party, Trinity reenacts a dramatic monologue from a college production she swears she hated and for a while the three of them are nothing but warm hands, inside jokes, delicate clouds of breath floating in the cold.
Every now and then Victoria peeks back inside. Cassie throws her head back when she laughs. Cassie claps Parker on the shoulder. Cassie chats with someone near the fridge.
Every time, Victoria feels her heart tug. A little thread, wound tighter and tighter.
She smiles anyway. Laughs when Dennis reenacts Parker trying to open a bottle with his teeth. Bumps shoulders with Trinity when she starts complaining again about being “morally betrayed by the universe.” The three of them stand pressed together against the chilly railing, the city buzzing softly beneath them, the glow from the living room painting the balcony floor in squares of gold. It is funny. It is stupid. It is warm.
They fall back into laughter again, easy and stupid and human. Someone inside shouts about losing a round of cards. Trinity starts telling a story about a disastrous rehearsal and Dennis imitates Parker’s serious voice, and for a moment it feels like the three of them are floating slightly outside the party — separate, content, conspiratorial.
Then the balcony door slides open.
Cold air rushes in behind Cassie.
She scans the group, eyes landing on Victoria like a magnet. Her voice is softer than usual, almost sheepish but there’s a spark in it. A restless energy that wasn’t there earlier.
“There you are.”
Victoria turns, eyebrows raised. “Hi?”
Cassie steps closer, hands in her pockets, trying for casual and failing spectacularly. She looks warm and flushed from inside, eyes a little too bright.
“You wanna head out?” she asks, like it’s nothing. “I’m… kinda done with everyone.”
Dennis chokes on his drink. Trinity immediately looks at Victoria with a face that says: oh, now she wants to go home.
Victoria blinks, stunned.
Now? Now, when she’s finally relaxed? Now, when she finally stopped thinking about it? She lets the shock sit for a beat. Then she grins — slow, satisfied, wicked.
“Oh,” she says lightly. “Now you wanna leave?”
Cassie shifts her weight, mouth tightening just a little. “Yeah. I mean. If you want.”
Trinity hides her smile in her cup and Dennis physically turns away to avoid laughing. Victoria rolls her tongue against her cheek, eyes sparkling.
“I’m having fun,” she says, voice airy, almost teasing. “Give me a minute.”
Cassie freezes. "A minute?"
Victoria shrugs, leaning back on the railing again, casual as anything. “Yeah. Hang out. Talk. Exist socially.”
Trinity bites back a grin. “Crazy concept." Cassie stares at her like she’s been personally betrayed. She looks back at Trinity like she expects moral support. She, in turn, raises her hands.
“Hey. Don’t look at me. I’ve been suffering for five hours.”
Cassie huffs out a frustrated, affectionate sound and steps closer anyway, leaning down so only Victoria hears.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she mutters, low and almost whiny.
Victoria bites her lip to hide a grin. “Yeah? How does it feel?”
Cassie narrows her eyes and Dennis and Trinity both burst out laughing.
Victoria tilts her head toward the door. “One minute,” she repeats softly, gentle but firm. “Go wait inside.”
“Vic—”
“One.” She holds up a manicured finger.
Cassie presses her lips together, fighting a smile she doesn’t want to admit is there. She drags a hand down her face, then points at her.
“A minute. Sixty seconds.”
“Sixty seconds,” Victoria nods.
Cassie sighs dramatically and turns toward the door, muttering something under her breath about karma and lesbians and never playing beer pong again.
The door slides shut behind her and there’s a second of silence. Then Trinity bursts out laughing so hard she wheezes.
Victoria tips her head back and laughs with her, glowing, light and mischievous and warm, already halfway to standing up anyway. Because of course she’s going to follow her.