Don't Mind Us

Whitney’s new place feels bigger without Eliza, though it’s less private. Her new roommate Spencer pushes in anyway, barefoot, tank top thin from wear, cutting between Whitney and the television. “One question,” Spencer says, arms already full of promise for later. Whitney pauses her game, thumbs resting on the sticks. “Go.” Spencer wants the couch and the screen tonight for her girlfriend. Whitney shakes her head. Today is her rotation; she plans on six hours of back-to-back matches with her squad. They bargain while the console hums. In the end, Spencer yields the television—if Whitney keeps playing while they use the room. Whitney takes the deal. Hours later the door clicks. Mocha steps inside first, smelling of warm skin and sugar. Spencer follows, tongue already brushing Mocha’s ear. They sink onto the couch cushions inches from Whitney’s knee and start kissing hard enough to make the speakers rattle. Whitney tries to stay inside the match, headset snug, yet elbows graze her, bodies shift, denim slides down smooth thighs. Mocha laughs low when Spencer spanks the curve of her ass; the sound cracks like a whip next to Whitney’s ear. Clothes pile at her feet until a lace bra sails across her screen and lands over her eyes. Whitney dies ingame. She rips off the headset, the failing soundtrack bleeding out. “You two said you wouldn’t wreck my game,” she snaps. Spencer grins, lips glossy. “We didn’t promise to be quiet.” Mocha leans over, eyes sparkling, and runs two fingers along Whitney’s collarbone. “Or you could stop fighting it. Room’s big enough for three.” Whitney sits back, controller slipping to the floor. She remembers Eliza’s old tricks, the excuses, the heat that followed. Same script, different names. Still, the couch already feels warmer than the idle menu screen. “Fine,” she says, already reaching for Spencer’s hip. “But this time I set the rules.”