Most Likely To...

Coco slams her bedroom door behind them, yearbooks clutched to her chest like she’s been waiting for this moment forever. They collapse onto the bed, flipping pages, hungry for proof they crushed senior year. Then the gut punch hits—Coco’s labeled “Most Likely To Die A Virgin,” Ava “Most Immature.” Laughter dies in their throats. Coco’s face burns. She is a virgin, sure, but hell if that label’s going to stick. Ava sits up straight, eyes sharp. "Date girls," she says. "Easier, hotter, zero waiting." Coco’s mind races—straight as she is, the idea flashes hot. She turns to Ava. "Then fuck me. Right now. We fix both problems at once." Ava swallows. This jumped way past talk. Coco pushes. "You want to look grown? Nothing says grown like getting me off." Ava chews her lip, then nods, pulse loud in her ears. They lean in. The first kiss is sloppy, teeth knocking, nervous giggles slipping out. Tongues find rhythm, hands slide under shirts, fabric whispering as it hits the floor. Skin on skin, Coco arches when Ava’s fingers trace lower. Ava spreads her open, licks slow, then faster, until Coco’s gripping sheets and breathing hard. They grind together, legs tangled, sweat mixing, Ava’s mouth drawing gasps that turn into moans. Coco comes quick—sharp, sweet—and flips Ava, returning the favor with clumsy hunger that melts into hungered precision. When they finally collapse, tangled and wrecked, yearbooks lie forgotten on the floor. They proved the committee wrong the raw way. No votes needed.