'Marriage' Counseling

Jezabel sat at a corner table when Bunny walked through the door. One glance stole her breath. Every inch of her locked onto the blonde, pulse hammering, cheeks burning. Bunny smiled at the barista, said she worked as a counselor, and the words hit Jezabel like an offer. An excuse. A way in. She looked down, pretending to check her phone, and missed the quick flick of Bunny’s gaze sliding over her body. Heart pounding, Jezabel rose and crossed the shop. She told Bunny she was looking for counseling, voice steady even as her fingers shook against her coffee cup. Bunny mentioned her specialty—marriage—and Jezabel claimed a ring she didn’t own. An appointment was set. Days later the office smelled of clean cotton and paper. Bunny sat across from her, notepad open, eyes patient. Jezabel’s story about a husband slipped. Details mismatched, dates tangled. Bunny listened, then set the pad aside. "You’re not married," she said, calm but certain. Jezabel’s shoulders dropped. She admitted the lie, words tumbling out too fast. Bunny leaned forward, confession soft and certain of its own: she had noticed Jezabel in the shop, had wanted her, would have asked her out if the pretense hadn’t gotten there first. They met in the middle of the room. Lips crashed. Hands slipped beneath cotton and silk, heat uncoiling, mouths open and greedy. No excuse needed now, only skin and breath and the quiet click of a lock.