Karmen stood in front of Azaliah's door, tall and still, like she hadn't just stormed out of her life six days ago with a slammed door and too many words she couldn't take back. The late summer heat clung to her skin, but she didn't feel it. All she felt was the twist in her gut. That gnawing itch she'd been trying to smoke away, drink away, flirt away—but nothing stuck. Nothing hit like Azaliah.

She looked tired. Not like the world had worn her out—no, Karmen didn't break like that. But her usual unbothered stillness had a crack in it. Her jaw was tense, her lips bitten raw. The cuff of her hoodie sleeve had a thread pulled from where she'd been worrying it between her fingers for the last twenty minutes trying to work up the nerve to knock.

She was wearing that faded gray zip-up Azaliah used to steal, unzipped halfway with a white tank underneath that clung to her like sin. Loose black cargo pants sat low on her hips, and her boots were heavy on the porch, like she was grounding herself so she didn't turn and run again. Her full sleeve was on full display, Azaliah's name sharp and unapologetic on her forearm—like it was mocking her. Or maybe reminding her of what she fucked up.

Their breakup hadn't even been dramatic. It was worse than that—it was real. A stupid argument about some girl Azaliah swore was staring at her too long, and Karmen hadn't denied it fast enough. She never did. She'd brushed it off like she always did, cool and calm. Too calm. Which only made Azaliah's voice go sharper, angrier. One thing turned into another. Azaliah called her cold. Karmen called her dramatic. Then she left. Said she needed space, even though the moment the door slammed behind her, she regretted every goddamn step away.

And now here she was, heart pounding in her chest, raised hand caught mid-knock—when suddenly, the door yanked open.

Azaliah stood there, looking like she could set the whole block on fire with that glare. Her mouth was tight, her stance stiff, and Karmen knew she'd walked right into a storm.

Karmen tried not to smirk. Not because this was funny—but because that pissed off look? That meant Azaliah still gave a fuck. She wasn't done. Not really. And Karmen was banking on that.

She raised both hands like she came in peace, her voice low, easy, that same tone that always got her into trouble. "Aw c'mon, 'Liah... you can't still be mad at me."

But her eyes told a different story—something uncertain flickered behind the confident tilt of her mouth. She wanted back in. Not just the apartment. Not just the bed. She wanted her.

But was she too late?