“London.” Dahlia stepped toward them again. “No. This isn’t just about today. Don’t tell me how I feel. Okay?”
She brushed the back of her hand against their cheek, and it reverberated down to London’s fingertips. She bit her lip, looking like she wanted to say more. London wanted to trust her, more than anything else they’d ever wanted. They wanted to give in.
Dahlia stepped back and took off her shirt.
“God, Dahlia.” London curled their fingernails into their palms. “You keep doing that.”
She was wearing a necklace, a thin chain attached to a solid gold bar. London blinked at it, resting above her lavender bra. It heaved slightly, in rhythm with her breathing. She was staring at them with determination now. God, she was gorgeous.
“Wait,” London said again, but their blood was thrumming so loudly in their ears they could hardly hear themself. They desperately thought of the notes on their phone. They had made a list, on Sunday night when they couldn’t sleep, of things they didn’t know about her. It had felt like a particularly sad exercise at the time, but it seemed important now. They didn’t want whatever was going to happen to be impulsive and fleeting. They wanted to be grounded in her.
“Dahlia. What’s your favorite movie?”
“What?” She frowned.
“Your favorite movie. What is it?”
Dahlia shook her head and moved toward them again. She put her hands on London’s hips. Pressed fingers into the soft, lumpy skin there they hated, before she leaned in and nipped at their neck. Jesus, her teeth. London felt their skin heating, becoming hypersensitive.
“I hate those kinds of questions. I can never think of a favorite anything. Too much pressure,” she said.
“Except for Rice Krispies treats.”
She laughed, her breath floating over their ear. “Yes. Never any question on that.”
London swallowed. They attempted one last valiant effort.
“Okay. Favorite song.”
Dahlia groaned, and the noise was too much for London. Their arms returned to the small of her back like they belonged there. Their thumbs rubbed circles on her now-bare sides, her skin so smooth under their calloused hands, and they felt her shiver, even as she opened her mouth to protest.
“That question is even worse, and you know it. It depends! Genre? Time period? Mood?”
London tilted their face, sank their nose into her hair. They did know it. They were being ridiculous. She was answering the question exactly as they would.
But as she talked, her body was loosening, the real Dahlia returning in her voice, and London settled along with it. This wasn’t just scared, vulnerable Dahlia, but the one who talked too much, who made London laugh, who didn’t hide when she was annoyed with them.
“But,” she added, her body giving a slight jerk as London’s fingertips made their way around to her stomach, “if we are being purely objective, Fleetwood Mac’s ‘The Chain’ is probably the best song ever written.”
London paused. “Hm,” they mumbled into her hair.
“Is that not a cool answer? I should probably note that my dad raised me on a pretty steady stream of seventies rock and seventies rock alone, so I don’t really know if—”
“No,” London interrupted, pulling back to look at her face. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”
Dahlia rolled her eyes and shoved London lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up.”
“You shut up,” London said, smiling now. They pulled her closer again. They rolled a thumb over her nipple, through the sheer fabric of her bra, and she made a whimpering sound, her head falling forward.
London felt her hands slide under their T-shirt, inch up their back, touching skin no one else had touched in years.
“Is this okay?” she asked quietly. “Is there anywhere I can’t touch you?”
London’s eyes floated closed. “No. You can touch me anywhere. But, Dahlia . . .”
London searched for self-control one last time. They knew her first kiss hadn’t been out of pity for them, that this, tonight, wasn’t out of pity for herself. They knew that. That this was simply what Dahlia wanted.
But London also knew that if this happened, they would be all in. They wouldn’t be able to be casual about it. They wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to her—tomorrow, whenever they got kicked off the show, ever.
