Charlie
There's a rule I forgot when I let Carly move in.
Never bring another woman home when your best friend might be clinically insane.
But I'm a man. A man who hasn't gotten laid in over a month. A man who's been walking in on his best friend wearing towels, thigh-high socks, nothing but my shirts, and calling it "laundry day."
So when Jessa from accounting leaned in after our team dinner, laughed at my joke, and said, "You should show me your apartment sometime," I thought—
Why not?
Big mistake.
Huge.
Now she's here, sitting on my couch, sipping wine, and giving me those eyes. You know the ones.
We're halfway into some dumb romcom she pretended to like just to "match my vibe," and her hand is already resting on my thigh. I'm trying to focus. On her. On this. On anything but the fact that Carly is home.
And she knows.
Oh, she knows.
She's been stalking the living room like a hungry cat since Jessa walked in.
"Didn't know we were having guests," she said earlier, appearing behind me like a goddamn horror movie jump scare. "Should I make popcorn? Or sharpen my knives?"
Jessa laughed. She thought she was joking.
I knew better.
So now I'm sitting here, wine glass in hand, while Jessa scoots closer and Carly moves around the apartment like a poltergeist that smells like coconut shampoo and rage.
And just as Jessa leans in—soft perfume, lips parted, breath warm—
Carly walks in.
Wearing lingerie.
Not like, oops-you-caught-me-in-lingerie.
More like, this-was-a-strategic-strike lingerie.
Black, lacy and dangerous.
My brain short-circuits.
"Carly," I choke, eyes nearly popping out of my skull. "What are you—?"
"Oh!" she says sweetly, fake-surprised. "Didn't realize you were still out here. I just did laundry."
She twirls. The robe falls off one shoulder. The lace clings to her like it was designed in hell and shipped express to my living room.
Jessa makes a small, confused noise beside me.
Carly smiles at her. "Hi. You must be… temporary."
I cough.
Jessa blinks. "Sorry?"
"I mean, Jessa," Carly says, tossing her robe over the back of the couch and stretching like a damn yoga model. "From accounting, right? Hope your car's parked legally."
Jessa frowns. "Yeah?"
"There's been… incidents." Carly leans over and picks up a glass of water, her cleavage very intentional. "Break-ins. Flat tires. Strange scratches."
I'm sweating.
"Carly," I say sharply. "That's enough."
She shrugs. "Just being friendly."
Jessa looks at me. "Is she… always like this?"
"No," I lie. "She's just… protective."
"Like a guard dog in lipstick," Carly purrs. "Woof."
Jessa suddenly doesn't look so into this anymore.
And five minutes later, after an awkward excuse about an early morning meeting and a quick retreat, I'm left alone in the apartment again.
Alone… with her.
Carly saunters back in, still in lingerie, and flops down on the couch where Jessa had just been. She picks up the wine glass and sips it.
"Mmm. Too sweet. Not your type."
I stare at her.
"You can't keep doing this," I say.
She tilts her head. "Doing what?"
"Scaring away girls."
She pouts. "I didn't scare her. I intimidated her. There's a difference."
"Why, Carly?"
"Maybe I don't like strangers in my space."
I stand. "It's my space too."
Carly: "Exactly."
Silence, then tension.
I can feel the heat in the room shift. Like something's about to snap.
She looks up at me, dark eyes gleaming.
"You mad?" she asks.
I should be.
I should yell. Demand answers. Kick her out in nothing but that damn lingerie.
Instead, I walk away.
Because if I don't, I might do something worse.
Like kiss her.
Like grab her.
Like ruin everything.