Opposites Attract

Charlotte slammed her fist against the door and cursed. Ten minutes. Twenty. Scarlett kept her waiting like she owed her. When Scarlett finally shuffled up the drive in a sweat-soaked practice top, she offered zero apology. Charlotte laughed, sharp. The dig about the hour wasted hung between them like smoke. They dragged textbooks to the table. Charlotte leaned over, red pen cutting Scarlett’s answers to ribbons. Scarlett snapped that Charlotte didn’t know anything about her. Charlotte rolled her eyes, called her a rich brat. Words snapped, popped, then cracked open. Turned out both had homes that felt less like shelter and more like breakable china. Fault lines matched. Apologies tasted metallic and sweet. Scarlett said she was single. Charlotte’s mouth lifted at one corner. “Ever been with a girl?” “I’m not lesbian,” Scarlett answered, red in the cheeks. “Touching a girl won’t change the label,” Charlotte murmured, already reaching. The kiss landed hard enough to hush the room. Scarlett’s fingers curled on instinct. Charlotte peeled Scarlett’s shirt up and off. The study guide hit the floor in a flutter of pages. Scarlett laughed, low and surprised, and chased Charlotte’s mouth. Clothes shed in fumbles and tastes, skin and sighs replacing syllabus and ink. Study time surrendered. Opposites pulled, snapped tight, and caught fire.