The trophy caught the lamplight first—a cheap gold-plated thing, but Tyler held it like it weighed a hundred pounds, his face splitting into a wide grin

The trophy caught the lamplight first—a cheap gold-plated thing, but Tyler held it like it weighed a hundred pounds, his face splitting into a wide grin. Tina felt her own smile stretch wide watching him, her chest full and aching with how proud she was. She crossed the room in three steps, her bare feet silent on the carpet, and pressed her body against his back, arms wrapping around his waist.

"You won." Her voice came out soft, almost reverent. "You actually won."

He turned in her arms, the trophy clattering onto the desk, and his hands found her waist like they belonged there. "I—I did." The stutter made it sweeter, somehow, the way he couldn't quite believe it even with the proof between them.

She kissed him. Hard. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer until his breath hitched against her mouth. She pulled away just enough to whisper, "I'm so proud of you, Tyler."

His ears went red. Always the ears first, then the cheeks, then the creeping heat down his neck. She loved that about him. That she could still make him blush.

"Tina—"

She didn't let him finish. She stepped back, grabbed the hem of her crop top, and pulled it over her head in one smooth motion. His mouth went slack. Her jeans followed, pooling at her ankles, and she stood before him in nothing but her thong, the lamplight catching the curve of her hips, the shadow between her thighs.

"Tina—" His voice cracked.

She pushed him gently. His knees hit the edge of the bed and he fell backward, bouncing once, staring up at her with wide eyes and parted lips. She climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips, her bare breasts brushing against the rough fabric of his hoodie.

"I want to be on top," she said, and his face went so red she laughed, bright and warm. "Is that okay?"

He nodded, swallowing hard. "Y-yeah. Yeah, that's—that's fine."

She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "You're amazing. You know that? First place. My genius."

He shivered under her. She felt it travel through his whole body.

His hands found her hips, hesitant at first, then firmer as she rolled against him. The friction built slow and sweet, her breath coming faster, his stuttered moans filling the small room. She watched his face—the way his eyes fluttered closed, the way his jaw went tight, the way he said her name like a prayer.

"Tina—I—"

"I know," she whispered. "Me too."

When she came, it was with his name on her lips, and she felt him follow a breath later, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She collapsed onto his chest, her face buried in his neck, and felt his arm wrap around her, pulling her close.

They lay there in the dark, tangled and warm, the trophy forgotten on the desk. She traced idle patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath her fingertips.

"Thank you," he said, so quiet she almost missed it.

She lifted her head. "For what?"

His eyes met hers, soft and vulnerable. "For—for choosing me."

Her throat tightened. She kissed him again, gentle this time, and whispered against his lips, "Always."

They fell asleep like that, her body draped over his, the cheap synthetic sheets twisted around their legs. She woke once in the night to the feel of his hand cupping her breast, his thumb stroking lazily across her nipple, and she smiled into the dark before drifting back under.

The next few days blurred into each other. Cafeteria trays, homework, stolen kisses in empty hallways. Tina felt lighter than she had in months. Tyler held her hand in public now, the stutter fading to a manageable tremor when he introduced her to his study group. She wore his hoodies. He wore her lip gloss after kissing her.

But something started to gnaw at her.

They hadn't had sex since that night.

Not for lack of opportunity—she'd practically thrown herself at him three days ago, wearing nothing but his favorite shirt, and he'd kissed her forehead and said he was tired from an exam. Two days ago, she'd climbed into his lap while he studied, and he'd held her close, buried his face in her hair, and fallen asleep with his nose pressed to her neck.

Last night, she'd worn her sheerest crop top—the white one with the lace trim—and no bra, her nipples visible through the fabric, and he'd looked at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Then he'd asked if she wanted to watch a documentary about bees.

She loved the documentary about bees. She hated that she was thinking about sex instead of watching it.

What was wrong with her?

She caught herself staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, her palms flat on the sink, her chest tight. She looked the same. Same curves. Same waist. Same face that had made boys stumble over their words since she was fifteen. But something had shifted. Some current had flipped, and now she was drowning in a question she couldn't ask out loud: Why doesn't he want me?

She shook her head, splashed cold water on her face, and told herself she was being ridiculous. He wanted her. He'd told her. He showed her. But the thought curled in her stomach like a live wire, and she couldn't shake it loose.

The party announcement came on a Thursday. Tyler's math club was hosting a celebration for the convention winners, and he asked her to come with him, his eyes bright with excitement. She agreed immediately, her heart swelling at how happy he looked. Then the anxiety crept back in.

She spent an hour in front of her closet, pulling out shirts and putting them back, trying to find something that said I belong to you without saying why won't you fuck me. She settled on a tight white crop top—so sheer it was almost transparent—with Tyler's name written across the chest in glittery gold letters. She'd made it herself, spending an afternoon with fabric paint and a brush, wanting him to see it and know. Low-rise jeans that sat so far below her hips her thong was visible, the waistband of her jeans barely clearing her pelvic bone. When she bent over, the curve of her ass would show completely.

She looked in the mirror. Her nipples were visible through the fabric. The gold letters caught the light. Her thong—black lace, the one with his name on the waistband—sat just above the line of her jeans.

She looked insane.

She looked desperate.

She wore it anyway.

Tyler picked her up at seven, and when she opened the door, his face went through five distinct shades of red before he managed to speak. "Tina—that—you—"

"You like it?" She turned slowly, letting the hem ride up, letting him see the curve of her ass in the jeans, the lace cutting across her skin.

He nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I—yeah. I like it."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Then why won't you touch me?

The party was at someone's off-campus house, a cramped living room filled with folding tables and mismatched chairs, a cooler of soda in the corner. Tyler's teammates were already there, a cluster of boys in hoodies and glasses, nursing cans of cheap beer. When Tina walked in behind Tyler, the room went quiet.

She felt their eyes on her. On the sheer fabric of her top, on the visible outline of her nipples, on the curve of her hips in those low-rise jeans. She felt the heat of their stares like a physical weight, and she held herself taller, her chin high, her hand tight in Tyler's.

"Hey, guys." Tyler's voice was strained. "This is—this is Tina. My—my girlfriend."

A boy with red hair stepped forward, his eyes glued to her chest. "No shit?"

"Yeah." Tyler's grip on her hand tightened.

Another boy—lanky, acne-scarred, wearing a shirt that said I Heart Proofs—let out a low whistle. "Damn, Tyler. How'd you swing that?"

Tina felt Tyler's body go rigid beside her. She opened her mouth to say something sharp, but the words died in her throat. Because a part of her—the ugly, desperate part she didn't want to admit existed—was glad for the attention. Glad that someone was looking at her like she was desirable. Because Tyler hadn't looked at her like that in days.

She hated herself for thinking it.

The red-haired boy stepped closer, his eyes trailing down her body. "What's your name again?"

"Tina." Her voice came out flat.

"Tina." He said it like he was tasting it. "Want a drink?"

"She's fine," Tyler cut in, his voice harder than she'd ever heard it. "She's with me."

The boy held up his hands, smirking. "Just being friendly, man."

Tyler didn't answer. He pulled her toward the kitchen, his hand shaking against hers. She followed, her heart hammering, the feel of those stares still burning on her skin.