My water glass.
The stretch is real. The angle is not accidental.
A small sound escapes me—the soft grunt of effort— like I’m doing something far more athletic than reaching for water.
My chest pushes forward.
The angle improves.
One one-thousand. Two one-thousand.
I settle back into frame. Take a sip. Unbothered.
He can’t tell how hot I’m feeling now.
"What did you just do." His voice has dropped half a register.
"Got my water."
"Jane."
"Hydration is important."
The silence that follows has actual weight. Physical density. I can feel it through the screen.
"You did that on purpose."
All innocence. "The water was right there."
"I need a second."
I need a second.He saidI need a second.
I did that. With a water glass and a push-up bra and basic physics.
"Are you going to tell me what's happening?" he asks.
I consider playing innocent for another thirty seconds. But I've earned this honesty. I've been earning it for three days of sandwich betrayals and laundromat ambushes and voice messages that made my body stage a revolt.
"You may have broken a dam," I say. "And I'm experiencing consequences. Ongoing. Inconvenient. Entirely your doing."
"Consequences?"
"Physiological. Constant. You did this."
The real smile appears.
Slow. Slightly stunned.
The one that took me a day to earn on the island and still makes my chest contract every single time.
"Tell me," he says.
I am in so much trouble.
"You first."
"Show me."
