Don't Go Through With This

The door to the women's room sticks, then gives. Prudence slams against the porcelain sink, mascara streaking down her face like war paint gone cheap. Somewhere past those floral walls her husband drinks and laughs; she tastes bile and roses. When the stall door clicks again, Eliza steps out—tight black dress, sharp smirk—and the whole place shrinks. "Jesus, Bunny," Eliza says. Heat jumps between them, wrong and familiar. Prudence grips the counter until her nails dig crescents. "You're not supposed to be here." "Neither are you." Eliza's eyes cut lower, linger. "Least not in that dress like a goddamn coffin." The old fear curls in Prudence's stomach, but it mixes with something hotter, darker. Eliza moves closer, stops just at the edge of breath. "Took me five minutes to find you. Took you five years to hide." Prudence tries to look away; can't. Their reflection in the cracked mirror shows two mouths barely apart. "If they see—" Eliza laughs once, quiet, filthy. "Let 'em." Her hand slides up the white satin of the bride's thigh, pushing past tulle to skin no man has ever earned. Prudence shivers, hips tilting forward even as her voice cracks. "Eliza, I can't—just leave." "You already did." Fingers circle, press, drag. Heat slick and sudden pools under lace. "You wore that ring; you still walked in here looking for me." Breath stutters against Eliza's throat. Prudence's knees threaten, lock, threaten again. The reception hums behind the door like distant thunder. A stray drop of condensation slides down her neck, pools in the dip between collarbones. Eliza licks it away. "Run with me tonight," she whispers, voice rough. "Or stay and keep dying slow." Prudence answers with her tongue, urgent, desperate, the slap of thigh against sink. Pleasure crashes hard, legs jerking, dress riding up to bare pale flesh and a flash of wedding-white garter soaked through. They ride the tremor together, gasps sharp and loud, until footsteps echo in the hall and both freeze, lipstick smeared, hearts punching ribs. Prudence stares at the exit, at the ring glinting under fluorescent light. Eliza waits, palm still cupping wet heat, thumb moving lazy circles as if daring the world to knock. A drop of sweat rolls down Prudence's spine and vanishes into silk. The moment stretches thin, ready to snap or swallow her whole. One last breath catches in her throat. She pushes back against Eliza's hand, still trembling, still deciding.