Denisse woke with a dull, punishing ache blooming behind her eyes.
For a moment she didn't move. She just lay there, face pressed into her pillow, aware of the faint taste of last night's alcohol still clinging to her tongue and the way sunlight slipped through the blinds in thin, judgmental lines.
Her head throbbed again.
She groaned softly and rolled onto her back, pressing her fingertips to her temples. "Why," she muttered to the ceiling, "do I ever think tequila is my friend?"
The ceiling, unhelpfully, offered no answer.
She blinked slowly, trying to gather her thoughts, but something felt… off. Not just the hangover. Something else. Something that had followed her out of sleep and was now hovering at the edge of her mind.
Her dream.
Her stomach tightened.
She stared harder at the ceiling, as if it might project the memory in high definition.
A bar. Dim lights. Music vibrating through the floor.
Lesley.
And then—
Her breath caught.
They had kissed.
Not a quick, accidental brush. Not a polite peck. It had been slow. Intentional. Heat-heavy.
Denisse's hand drifted unconsciously to her mouth.
"That was so weird," she whispered, though her fingers lingered against her lips, tracing them lightly.
Weird didn't quite cover it.
In the dream, Lesley's hand had been firm at her waist. Their mouths had moved like they'd done it before. Like they'd wanted to. The memory of it made warmth curl low in her stomach.
She pressed her palm over her face.
"It was just a dream," she told herself firmly. "You are projecting. Dramatic. Delusional."
Still, she brushed her lips again.
It had felt real.
Too real.
With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself upright. The room tilted slightly in protest. She waited for the spinning to stop, then shuffled toward the bathroom like a woman twice her age.
The tiles were cool under her feet. She twisted the shower knob and stepped under the spray before it had fully warmed.
Cold water shocked against her skin.
She gasped. "Okay. Good. Punishment accepted."
Water streamed down her hair, over her shoulders, down her back. She braced her palms against the wall and let it run, hoping it would wash away the lingering fog in her mind.
It didn't.
Instead, the dream returned in fragments.
The way Lesley's lips had brushed hers. Testing.
The soft inhale.
The shift from tentative to hungry.
Denisse swallowed.
She remembered the heat of it. The way her fingers had curled into fabric. The way their mouths had parted.
The way she had felt her tongue.
Her eyes flew open under the water.
"Oh my God."
"It felt real," she murmured, voice barely audible beneath the stream.
Her cheeks warmed despite the cold spray.
She shook her head violently, droplets flying everywhere. "Nope. Absolutely not. Brain, we are not romanticizing imaginary workplace scandals before breakfast."
She straightened and forced herself to focus on practical things. Shampoo. Conditioner. Soap. Normal human tasks.
By the time she turned off the water, her head hurt slightly less, though her thoughts were no clearer.
She wrapped herself in a towel and stepped out, drying her hair roughly as she padded back toward her bedroom.
That was when she heard it.
A sound.
Metal clinking softly. A pan shifting. The low murmur of voices.
Denisse froze.
She blinked.
Very slowly, she peeked out of her bedroom door.
The smell hit her first. Eggs. Toast. Coffee.
She frowned.
Why does my apartment smell responsible?
She stepped into the hallway.
And stopped.
In her kitchen stood Gigi and Steff, both fully awake, moving around like domestic goddesses. Gigi was flipping something in a pan. Steff was leaning against the counter, slicing fruit.
On her sofa—
Denisse's eyes widened.
Mariah and Jackie were tangled together, asleep in a way that suggested absolutely no shame. Mariah had one arm flung dramatically across Jackie's waist. Jackie was snoring lightly, unbothered by the world.
Denisse blinked once.
Twice.
Her gaze drifted back to the kitchen.
And that's when her heart began to pound.
The outfits.
Gigi's top.
Steff's jacket.
Slowly, she turned her head toward the sofa again.
Mariah's dress.
Jackie's shirt.
They were wearing the same clothes.
The exact same clothes.
As in her dream.
Her stomach dropped.
No.
No, no, no.
Her breathing quickened.
The bar.
The music.
Lesley.
Her lips.
Her hand flew to her mouth again.
She pressed her fingers lightly against her lower lip.
It was tender.
Swollen.
It can only mean one thing.
Her voice came out before she could stop it.
"Aaaahhhhh!"
The scream echoed through the apartment like a fire alarm.
Gigi nearly launched the spatula across the kitchen. "What the—?!" The eggs suffered a violent, unnecessary flip.
Steff jumped. "Is there a rat? Is it big? Tell me it's not big!"
On the couch, Mariah jolted upright, hair a mess. "Where? Where is the fire?" she demanded, squinting around dramatically.
Jackie didn't move.
Not even a flinch.
She simply adjusted slightly, pulled the blanket tighter, and continued sleeping like a woman who had made peace with chaos.
"Too early for this," Gigi muttered, clutching her chest. "Denisse, I almost died."
Denisse just stood there, wild-eyed, breathing like she'd run a marathon.
"You're alive," Steff said cautiously. "So… what's the issue?"
Denisse opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"Did we go to the Eclipse VIP Club last night?" she asked faintly.
There was a pause.
Gigi and Steff exchanged a look.
"Yes," Gigi said carefully. "My birthday party? The one you insisted on upgrading to VIP because, and I quote, 'we deserve velvet ropes'?"
Denisse swayed slightly.
"And… did I…" She swallowed. "Did I interact with anyone?"
Mariah squinted at her. "Define interact."
Denisse made a strangled noise and backed away.
No.
No.
She turned on her heel and marched back into her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Silence.
Her breathing echoed in the small space.
"Oh my God," she whispered.
Her knees gave out and she slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor.
Does that mean I kissed my CEO in the club?
Her hands flew into her hair, tugging slightly.
I kissed Lesley last night?
The memory replayed now with terrifying clarity. Not dreamlike. Not fuzzy.
Real.
The weight of her. The taste. The heat.
Denisse let out a soft, horrified groan and dropped her head back against the door.
"I am unemployed," she muttered. "I am spiritually unemployed."
Outside, she could hear Gigi knocking lightly.
"Denisse? If this is about the dancing video, we all agreed to delete it."
Denisse closed her eyes.
It was not about dancing.
It was much, much worse.
And somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the embarrassment, beneath the career-ending dread—
Her lips tingled again.
She pressed her fingers against them.
And that was the most terrifying part.