Making your way to their flat

The evening air is cool against Cathy's skin as you step out of your building, and the sensation is strange—different nerve endings, different sensitivity, the wind finding places on her body that yours doesn't have. You pull the door shut behind you, and the sound of it clicking into place feels final. Committed. You are Cathy now. You are walking down the street in her baggy jeans and her worn black t-shirt, your ponytail swinging against your back, and nobody knows.

The streetlights are just flickering on, casting pools of amber across the sidewalk. You turn left, toward campus, because Cathy's flat is on the west side of the university district, a fifteen-minute walk from your building if you take the direct route. But Cathy's memories tell you the direct route is a bad idea. The main drag past the library is always crowded with students, and too many of them know her. Too many of them might want to stop and chat, ask about practice, ask about Matt. You can't risk that.

So you take the back way. Down Elm Street, past the old church with its sagging roof, then through the residential neighborhood where the houses are dark and quiet. The sidewalks here are cracked, tree roots pushing up through the concrete like veins. You pass a couple walking a small dog—the woman nods at you, a brief, friendly acknowledgment—and Cathy's memory supplies her name. Rachel. Used to be on the track team freshman year, dropped out after an injury. You nod back, keep walking.

Two blocks later, a guy in a hoodie calls out, "Hey, Cathy!" from across the street. Your heart seizes, but Cathy's memories are faster than your panic. She knows him. Derek. Teammate's boyfriend. He's waving, casual, already turning away before you can respond. You lift a hand, a half-wave, and keep moving. The interaction lasts three seconds. It feels like an hour.

People look at you differently here. Not with the hungry, assessing gaze you imagined, but with a kind of easy familiarity. You're not a stranger in this body—you're a fixture. The girl who runs. The girl who smiles. The girl who holds doors and remembers names. You pass a coffee shop, and through the window, a barista you've never seen raises a hand in greeting. You wave back. Cathy's memory tells you her name is Priya, that she gives free refills on Tuesdays, that she has a cat named Miso.

You turn the corner onto Maple, and there it is—the low brick building where Cathy and Matt live, third floor, end unit. The windows are dark. Good. Nobody's home.

Then you see her.

She's sitting on the front steps, a petite blonde in a cropped sweater and leggings that hug small, tight curves. She's scrolling through her phone, but when she hears your footsteps, she looks up, and her face breaks into a smile. Cathy's memory supplies her name instantly. Lily. Twenty-three, one year older than Cathy, lives in the unit below theirs. Works at a bookstore downtown. Single. And very interested in Matt.

"Hey, stranger," Lily says, tucking her phone into her pocket. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

You smile, and it comes naturally now—the dimple, the slight tilt of the head. "Been busy," you say, and Cathy's voice is warm, easy. "You know how it is."

Lily laughs, a light, musical sound. She stands, brushing off her leggings, and you catch yourself looking. Really looking. Her body is small and compact, the kind of tight, athletic frame that comes from yoga and Pilates rather than running. Her breasts are modest but high, and the cropped sweater shows a sliver of toned stomach. Her ass is small and round, perky in a way that makes you think of a gymnast.

She's cute, you think. Really cute.

"Are you and Matt doing anything this weekend?" Lily asks, and there it is—a flicker in her eyes when she says his name. Cathy's memory confirms it. Lily has a crush on Matt. A small, hopeless, never-acted-upon crush. She would never cross that line, and Matt would never even notice. But it's there, a tiny, secret thing that makes her cheeks flush slightly when she talks to him.

"No plans yet," you say, and Cathy's mannerisms take over—the casual shrug, the way she shifts her weight to one hip. "Why? You need something?"

Lily shakes her head. "Oh, no, just making conversation." She glances at you, then away. "You look really nice tonight, by the way. I like your hair like that."

"Thanks," you say. "It's just lazy."

And then, because you can't help it, you let your mind wander. What if I printed a suit of Matt? What if I came back here wearing his body, knocked on Lily's door, and watched her eyes go wide? You imagine it: his broad shoulders, his easy grin, his large hands. You imagine her stammering, blushing, inviting you in. You imagine what she would do if Matt—if you—made the first move.

Your nipples stiffen under the cotton bra. A dull, warm ache begins between your legs.

You blink, forcing yourself back to the conversation. Lily is still talking, something about a new coffee shop that just opened downtown, and you nod along, using Cathy's memories to fill in the gaps. But you're already planning your exit.

"I should head up," you say, gesturing to the building. "Need to shower before Matt gets home."

Lily nods, stepping aside. "Of course. Tell him I said hi."

"Will do."

You climb the steps, feeling her eyes on your back—or rather, feeling your own awareness of her eyes, now that you know what she's imagining. The spare key is exactly where Cathy's memory said it would be: nestled in the hollow base of a ceramic frog on the windowsill beside the door. You fish it out, unlock the deadbolt, and slip inside.

The door closes behind you with a soft click.

You're in.

The flat smells like them. Coffee, laundry detergent, a faint trace of Matt's cologne. The living room is small but tidy—a gray couch with a knit throw, a coffee table littered with textbooks and a half-empty mug, a TV mounted above a bookshelf crammed with DVDs and framed photos. Cathy's memory guides you through it all. The kitchen, with its chipped countertops and the dish rack still holding last night's plates. The bathroom, with two toothbrushes in a cup, his and hers, side by side.

You don't stop. Not yet. You're saving the bedroom for last.

You drift down the hallway, running your fingers along the wall, feeling the texture of the paint under Cathy's soft fingertips. There's a bulletin board covered in ticket stubs and photos—their first concert together, a weekend trip to the coast, a blurry selfie from a party. You pause at a picture of Matt. He's grinning, his arm around Cathy's shoulders, and he looks happy. He looks kind.

"He would never act on it", you think, remembering Lily's crush. "But I could."

The bedroom door is closed. You push it open.

Their bed dominates the room—queen-sized, gray duvet, four pillows stacked neatly. Matt's side has a lamp and a novel with a bookmark stuck fifty pages in. Cathy's side has a water bottle and a small jewelry dish with a single pair of earrings. The closet door is open, revealing a shared rack of clothes: his flannels, her leggings, his jeans, her old sorority sweatshirt. It smells like them. It smells like us, and the thought is so strange and intimate that your breath catches in your throat.

You stand in the doorway for a long moment, just looking. Then you reach for the hem of Cathy's t-shirt.

You pull it over your head slowly, feeling the cotton drag across your stomach, your ribs, the upperside of your breasts. The air is cool on your skin, and your nipples tighten immediately, even inside the bra, drawing into hard points. You let the shirt fall to the floor.

Next, the ponytail. You reach back and pull the elastic free, and Cathy's dark hair tumbles down past your shoulders, brushing your bare back. You shake your head, feeling the weight of it, the way it moves.

The jeans come next. You pop the button, slide the zipper down, and push them over your hips, your thighs, your calves. You have to sit on the edge of the bed to step out of them, and the mattress dips under your weight, familiar and foreign all at once. You fold them—a habit you didn't know you had—and place them on a chair in the corner.

The bra unhooks with a practiced twist of your fingers. You slide the straps down your arms, and your breasts settle, free and heavy, the cool air raising goosebumps across your chest. You cup them, just for a moment, feeling their weight, their warmth. Then you let them go.

The panties are last. You hook your thumbs into the waistband and peel them down, down, until they pool around your ankles. You step out of them, and then you are naked.

Fully, completely naked, standing in the middle of Cathy and Matt's bedroom.

You turn to the mirror on the closet door.

Cathy stares back at you, her dark hair loose and wild, her cheeks flushed, her nipples hard. Her body is bare and beautiful, every curve and muscle exactly where it should be. And behind her reflection, you can see the bed, the pillows, the indentation where Matt sleeps. You can see the two of them in this room, tangled in these sheets, his hands on her body, her legs wrapped around his waist.

Your pussy aches. Your skin hums.

You stand there, naked and aroused, in the space where they fuck, and you don't move. You just breathe. You just feel. You don't look for toys. You don't open drawers. You don't touch anything.

Not yet.

You just stand in the middle of their bedroom, naked and wanting, and let the anticipation build.