T-Minus 14

The day before had been… uneventful.

No teasing, no lingering kisses turning into something more, no stupidly long makeout sessions that made them late for class. Just business.

Liam had woken up yesterday morning, checked his email like he always did, and—bam—interview invite from CashApp.

And just like that, his entire demeanor shifted.

Gone was the usual playful, sarcastic boyfriend who made everything a joke. Instead, he had been hyper-focused, serious, and borderline unapproachable. Every spare moment was spent practicing answers, refining talking points, running mock interviews—his entire day revolved around prepping.

Which, in turn, meant your day revolved around keeping yourself busy.

So, for the first time in a while, you actually focused on schoolwork. Sat down, opened your laptop, knocked out assignments that had been gathering dust for longer than you’d like to admit.

It felt… odd.

No distractions, no Liam pulling you into his arms mid-sentence, no excuses to put everything off.

Just you, your laptop, and the realization that you were two weeks away from the end of this curse with no clue what your future looked like.

But that wasn’t a problem for today.

Today marked exactly 14 days to the end of this all.

The bathroom was warm with lingering steam as you stepped out of the shower, the air thick with the scent of shampoo and body wash. Droplets trailed down your skin, soaking into the towel you had wrapped snugly around yourself, and when you turned toward the mirror, all you could see was a hazy blur of your reflection.

Your hand reached out, fingers swiping across the fogged glass to clear a small section.

There you were.

Damp hair clinging to your shoulders, face flushed from the heat of the water, eyes sharp yet undeniably softer than they had ever been before.

You held your own gaze for a long moment.

Then you turned away.

Liam had already showered and gotten dressed, moving with the quiet focus of someone with something big ahead of them. It was almost strange to see him like this—so serious, so lost in his own head—but you knew how much this interview meant to him.

CashApp wasn’t some massive tech giant, but it was still a real company, a real career opportunity. If he landed this, he wouldn’t have to job hunt after graduation. He’d already be set.

You, on the other hand…

You had spent half the year learning how to walk in heels and_ suck dic_k. Not exactly resume material.

You had nothing lined up. Not even a plan.

No company was going to interview a guy named Lucas only for a girl to show up to the Zoom call. And even if they somehow believed you, you weren’t exactly in the right headspace to talk about your "passion for data analytics" or whatever the hell you were supposed to be doing post-graduation.

But that wasn’t today’s problem.

Today, you were supposed to be meeting Richard.

You had done plenty with him before—kissing, touching, getting on your knees—but this was supposed to be the real thing. The final stretch before the last man on your list.

And yet…

Your phone sat untouched on your nightstand since the morning, and you had no intention of reaching for it today.

With a small exhale, you dropped your towel and reached for your underwear. A lacy black thong, delicate yet sinful, followed by a matching bra that hugged your curves just right.

Then, the real decision: what to wear.

You hesitated at your dresser, fingers grazing over different fabrics before settling on something that felt just slutty enough to be believable. A short, ruched mini skirt, black and hugging every inch of your hips. Paired with a form-fitting, burgundy top, one that dipped just low enough to tease without looking ****.

The outfit screamed, I know exactly what I’m doing today.

Which, if anyone asked, was exactly the point.

Not that anyone needed to ask.

Once dressed, you ran a brush through your damp hair, working through the knots with quick, practiced strokes. You made a mental note—again—that you really needed to get a hair dryer or at least some kind of styling tool. Letting your hair air-dry every day wasn’t exactly giving you the baddest bitch on campus look.

As you were finishing up, the bedroom door creaked open.

Liam stepped in, fully dressed, freshly shaven, looking good enough to make your stomach do a stupid little flip.

He was wearing a crisp button-down and slacks, the kind of outfit that made it clear he wasn’t just going to class today. His hair was still damp from his own shower, pushed back in a way that made him look both effortlessly handsome and frustratingly professional.

You turned to face him, still perched on the edge of your bed. "Damn, you clean up nice."

Liam huffed out a laugh, adjusting his collar. "Yeah, well, someone has to keep the ‘hot boyfriend’ title in this relationship."

You smirked, standing up and closing the distance between you. "Please, you never had that title."

"Uh-huh." His hands found your waist, fingers grazing the fabric of your skirt. "Is this what you’re wearing to…?"

You shrugged. "Figured I should look the part."

His jaw tensed slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he exhaled, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking something off. "Alright. I should head out before I overthink every answer I prepared."

You placed your hands on his chest, smoothing over the fabric of his shirt. "You’re gonna do great."

He scoffed. "You don’t know that."

"I do, actually. You’re the smartest, most hardworking guy I know." You smiled, tilting your head. "Also, you’re hot. And everyone knows hot people get special treatment."

That got a chuckle out of him, but then his expression softened, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "Thanks, Luna."

"You got this," you murmured, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, lingering kiss.

His hands tightened on your waist, your body pressing against his, heat curling in your stomach despite knowing now wasn’t the time.

He pulled back first, just enough to rest his forehead against yours. "I love you."

Your heart squeezed.

"I love you too," you whispered.

And just like that, he was stepping back, grabbing his keys and bag, casting you one last look before heading out the door.

As soon as he was gone, you grabbed your phone and tapped out a message.

"Good luck, babe. You got this. <3"

Sent.

And with that, your plans for the day were set.The apartment was quiet now.

Liam was gone, off to his big interview, leaving you with nothing but the steady ticking of the clock and the faint hum of morning traffic outside. The absence of his presence was almost palpable, like the room itself felt different without him in it. But you pushed that thought aside as you perched yourself in front of your vanity, ready to start the process of transforming yourself into something undeniable.

Makeup had become second nature to you over the last six months.

At first, it had been a struggle—learning the right shades, the right techniques, figuring out how not to look like a clown—but now? Now it felt almost effortless. A ritual. A pleasure.

Your reflection stared back at you, fresh-faced, clean, a blank canvas.

You pulled your hair back with a silk scrunchie, securing it into a loose bun so nothing would get in your way.

Then, you reached for the first step.

Your fingers found the moisturizer first, smoothing the cool cream over your skin in gentle, circular motions. Hydration was key—a good base meant a flawless finish. You massaged it in, feeling the way your skin drank it up, leaving behind a subtle glow.

Next came primer, the silky-smooth formula gliding over your cheeks, your forehead, your nose. It blurred imperfections, filled in pores, made everything feel like butter.

Foundation followed.

A pump onto the back of your hand, the creamy liquid warming against your skin before you dotted it across your face. Forehead, cheeks, chin, nose. The damp beauty sponge bounced over your skin, blending everything seamlessly.

Watching the unevenness disappear, the redness fade, the dark circles soften—it was like magic. With each motion, you felt more like yourself.

Funny, you thought, pressing the sponge into your jawline. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have recognized this person in the mirror.

But now? Now, you couldn’t imagine not being her.

Next came concealer, a shade lighter than your foundation, brightening your under-eyes, lifting your cheekbones. You blended it with quick, gentle pats, watching the way it melted into your skin like second nature.

Then, contour.

A deeper shade swept under your cheekbones, along your jawline, the sides of your nose. The shadows it created were subtle, but effective. Soft, feminine, sculpted.

A swirl of cream blush on the apples of your cheeks—a delicate flush, like you’d just been kissed.

The warmth of it spread across your skin as you blended it out, and for some reason, the thought made you smile.

Powder came next, setting everything in place, locking in the work you’d done. No creasing. No fading. No imperfections.

You leaned in closer to the mirror, your hand steady as you picked up your eyeshadow palette.

Today’s look? Something sultry.

A soft champagne shimmer across your lids as a base—nothing too dramatic, just something to catch the light. Then, a warm brown shade buffed into your crease, blended seamlessly to add depth.

Your brush dipped into a darker espresso shade, sweeping it along your outer corners, dragging it along your lower lash line. The smokiness added a certain edge, a contrast to the softness of everything else.

Then, eyeliner.

A sharp, clean wing. Not too thick, not too thin—just perfect. The flick of your wrist was confident, precise, the black ink gliding effortlessly across your lid.

Mascara followed, coating your lashes in rich, inky black, lengthening, curling, making your eyes pop.

By the time you were done, you knew you looked good.

Your fingers hovered over the selection of lipsticks in front of you.

Red was tempting—bold, striking, unmistakably sexy. But today, something softer felt right.

You settled on a deep, glossy mauve, one that enhanced the natural color of your lips while making them look fuller, more inviting.

As you swiped it on, you took a moment to admire yourself.

The girl staring back at you was undeniable.

And then, for some reason, your stomach twisted. Just slightly. Like a whisper of something you didn’t want to listen to. You ignored it.

You stood up from the vanity, adjusting the hem of your tight little mini skirt before stepping into a pair of black stiletto ankle boots. They elongated your legs, added an extra sway to your hips.

Then, the finishing piece: your beige trench coat, draped over your shoulders like an afterthought.

Your hand hovered over your phone, as if expecting something—a text, a sign, an excuse—but nothing came.

With one last look in the mirror, you exhaled.

Time to go.