Friend-Zoned

Vicki's on her hands and knees wiping baseboards when the doorbell rings. Door swings open and Haley plus Anna stroll in, straight to the couch like they own it. They can't shut up about the place—he's gotta admit, it finally looks sharp after months of hammers and sawdust. Old times flood back; three of them swapping birthday shots back in college until the cops showed up once. They never got to throw Vicki her actual party this year, so the pair is itching to make it right on the spot, when Vicki's phone buzzes—half-assed apology as she steps out. Alone, Haley leans into Anna: "Fuck, I'd still kill for her ass." Anna raises an eyebrow—same exact vibe, no lies. A split-second later they're sizing each other up like two jocks called for last dibs on a running back. Snippy lines about who gets to bend her first. Right when they’re ready to draw cards, Vicki swings back in and clocks the tension between them. She plops down right in the middle, cool as brass. "Out with it." The real tea pours: two sets of secret wet dreams dating back to sorority sleepovers. Vicki just smirks, says she’s nursed the same dirty thoughts for both, birthday tied up in neon packaging. She scoots a hair closer, daring them to go hands-on. Haley slides fingers straight under the hem of her skirt like she’s trying to prove class. Anna plants kisses along that jaw-line—teeth just shy of nip. Vicki’s breath turns ragged, thighs parting without another cue, and it devolves into a slippery blur of tongues, spit-slick tits, fingers pumping inside her while she groans loud enough to rattle the new drywall. She gets what she asked for: double the legs in her bed tonight, zero friend-zone conversations in the morning.