Run-In With An Old Friend

I hit the pier under a washed-out sun, cigarette dying between my fingers, and there she was—Cosima Knight climbing the steps like the place owed her money. Four years gone, same long legs, same fuck-you stare. We locked eyes, that old voltage snapping straight back into place. We traded quick stories at a sidewalk table, salt on our tongues, cheap beer sweating in plastic cups. I dropped the line about those nights in her daddy’s backseat—windows fogged, her thighs shaking every time I slid two fingers in—and color climbed her neck. She didn’t look away. Instead she leaned in, voice low: "You were always trouble." I asked what she had going tonight. She smiled slow, wicked. "You." My apartment smelled like old leather and last night’s whiskey. The second the door clicked she pushed me against it, mouth hot, teeth scraping my bottom lip. Clothes hit the floor—her black thong landing on my boot like a flag of surrender. She hadn’t been with a girl since us; her fingers trembled when they found how wet I already was. I backed her onto the couch, spread her knees, and tasted four years in one long, slow drag of my tongue. I grabbed the laptop, flipped it open, hit record. Red light blinked while Cosima sank two fingers deep inside me, curls falling across her face, moaning my name—Roxy—like it still belonged to her. The camera caught every filthy, desperate second of the high-school reunion we never planned on filming.