Creep

Heather spots the scene across the crowded cafe. Dawn keeps shrinking back while some creep crowds closer, breathing her space. Heather slides in before it gets ugly. She loops an arm around Dawn’s waist and kisses her temple, then fixes the guy with a hard look. He grumbles something, steps off. Dawn lets out a shaky breath against Heather’s shoulder. They talk about lousy men. Dawn buys Heather a coffee. Every time their hands meet, static jumps through Heather’s nerves. Weeks grind by. They keep meeting at the same corner table. Heather rides the rush of every brushed knee and shared laugh, convinced each one means she’s closer. When she finally asks Dawn out flat, Dawn blinks, gentle but immovable, and says she only likes men. Heather swallows the hit, keeps her face neutral. Inside her the sting blooms like something black and sweet. Dawn keeps trying. Every date fizzles into excuses or filth delivered to her phone. She vents to Heather, who listens with a calm that’s almost gentle, biding her time. The second Dawn slips into the bathroom, Heather finds a stranger’s cock on the web, drops it into Dawn’s inbox without a trace. Dawn returns, stares at the screen, shoulders curling in disgust. Late one night Dawn shows up wrecked at the loft, soaked from rain, nowhere else to go. Heather strips her wet jacket, leads her inside. Dawn says she’s sick of liars and dicks; the thought of even stepping outside feels dirty. Heather says maybe the cure is something softer. She moves close, touches Dawn’s throat, whispers that the loft can stay their secret. Dawn leans into the hand on her skin, trust taking over the tremor in her voice, and the lights click low while a plan beneath the surface stays quiet, ticking.