Selena woke up before her alarm, heart already buzzing with something reckless. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, knowing exactly what she was about to do, and knowing exactly why.
For weeks now, maybe longer, she'd felt the shift. The way Sam looked at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention. The way his voice always dipped lower around her. The way his eyes trailed a second too long on the curve of her waist, the slope of her neck. He wasn't subtle.
He was still respectful. But there was something underneath all of it—coiled, waiting. A silent dare between them.
She wanted to see it for herself. Not just from his stolen glances or his silences or the way his hands brushed her hip like it was nothing. She wanted to look it in the eye. Selena stood from the bed and walked to the mirror, pulling her hair into a lazy, messy ponytail. Then she opened her drawer and reached for the tank top. It was skin-colored, soft, and clung to her body like a second skin. The neckline dipped low, cutting across her chest in a way that left nothing to the imagination. She didn't wear a bra. That was intentional.
The skirt came next. Fitted, barely mid-thigh, snug at the hips. It rode high when she walked. She studied herself briefly in the mirror, expression unreadable. She didn't feel shy. She felt in control.
Over it all, she pulled on an oversized hoodie, zipper open just enough to give the illusion of modesty. Then she slipped into her sneakers and stepped into the hallway.
The smell of eggs and coffee wafted in from the kitchen. Jennette was already up, humming to herself, and Sam sat at the table, flipping through his phone.
He looked up at the sound of her footsteps. For a second, he blinked. His eyes dropped from her face to her thighs, her hoodie barely hiding the hem of her skirt. Then he glanced quickly back at his coffee like nothing had happened. But she'd seen it. That flicker of hesitation. That flash of something he tried to swallow.
"Morning," she said casually, grabbing a mug and pouring herself some coffee.
"Morning," Jennette chirped.
Sam's voice followed a beat later. "Hey."
She joined them at the table, her legs crossed, hoodie riding just high enough to tease. She didn't do anything overt.
He barely touched his breakfast.
They rode to the shop together like always, Sam behind the wheel. And Jennette drove by herself on a completely different route to her school. The rain had started early, just a drizzle—but clouds hung thick over Queens, hinting at something heavier coming later.
Selena sat in the back, chin tilted toward the window, watching Sam in the rearview mirror. He didn't meet her eyes once. He was doing everything in his power to act like nothing was different.
But his silence told her everything.
When they arrived at the shop. The shop was quiet, the morning slow. A few loads from the night before sat waiting to be folded. Selena walked to the back, where she kept her things, and stood in the doorway just long enough to feel his eyes on her from the cashier's desk.
She could feel it, like heat pressed against her back.
Slowly, methodically, she unzipped her hoodie and slipped it off, folding it over the back of the chair. She didn't turn to look at him, but she knew he watched her. Her tank top clung to her curves, almost blending with her skin. She bent slightly to tie her shoelaces, her skirt lifting just enough to remind him she was daring him to look.
And he did.
But he didn't move.
The day dragged. A few customers came in during the morning. Sam focused on the counter like it was a lifeline. He didn't say much, didn't joke the way he usually did. His voice was clipped, short, and professional.
Selena didn't push further. She just existed; moved naturally, folded laundry, took deliveries to the back, answered customer questions when he was too busy pretending not to burn.
By late afternoon, the rain had turned into a downpour. Thunder rolled over the rooftops, and the light outside dimmed to an almost eerie gray. The street outside was quiet, not a single soul in sight. Sam looked up at the window, brows furrowed, his knee bouncing slightly behind the counter.
Selena was in the back room again, tidying up the shelf where detergent pods were stored. A measuring spoon had slipped from the detergent box and rolled behind the washing machine. She bent over, reaching for it, not caring that the skirt hiked up again.
And when she heard him behind her, his voice rough and uncertain, she smiled before she turned.
"Uhm," he started, his voice half-caught. "I don't think we're getting more customers in this weather."
Selena straightened slowly and nodded, feigning nonchalance. "Yeah. Looks dead out there."
She could hear the breath he held. Feel the weight of his gaze like a hand pressed between her shoulder blades.
She turned to face him fully, the spoon still in her fingers.
He stepped closer, slowly. Like he was being pulled, not walking.
She watched his eyes flicker between hers, then drop to her collarbone. He didn't hide it this time. He reached past her to take the spoon from her hand and set it on the washing machine behind her. His fingers brushed hers. Intentional. Soft.
She didn't pull away.
Silence bloomed between them, thick and buzzing.
Then very slowly, he lifted his hand to her thigh, resting it there before rubbing one of his fingers in her pleasure point, "You're not wearing any,".
Her breath caught.
"I shouldn't," he whispered, but continued the action with his finger.
"Oh yeah?" she said, voice steady, her eyes locked to his.
But neither of them moved right away.