Yes

Nikki swallowed the last bite of her sandwich, the pill still bitter on her tongue despite the water washing it down. She crumpled the wrapper in her hand, her fingers trembling slightly as she tossed it into the trash. The fluorescent lights of the breakroom hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows that made her suddenly aware of how exposed she felt—the leather skirt riding up just a fraction too high, the bikini top digging into her ribs.

A notification buzzed in her pocket. Carole’s final text glared up at her: "Don’t even THINK about touching yourself tonight." Nikki’s cheeks burned. She shoved the phone away, but the words lingered, tightening her stomach.

Nikki finishes the day without issue, and makes her way home. After a quick shower to get the residual road grime off her, she decides to relax for the night, finding an old Tshirt and jean shorts to wear.

Nikki sinks into her couch with a sigh, the worn fabric familiar against her bare thighs. The TV hums softly in the background, some late-night talk show host’s laughter muffled by the rhythmic tap of her fingernails against her phone screen. A notification pops up—Carole’s name flashing—and Nikki’s breath hitches.

Nikki hesitated for a breath before tapping the notification. The message opened with Carole’s usual bluntness: "Forgot to ask—did you at least get his number?"

Her thumb hovered over the screen as the memory of Zeke’s hands—rough from surfboard wax—slid unbidden into her thoughts. The couch cushions suddenly felt too warm beneath her. She typed a quick "No", then deleted it. The truth was messier: he’d scrawled it on a napkin she’d left crumpled in the truck’s cupholder.

A second text buzzed before she could reply: "Of course not.

Nikki exhaled sharply through her nose, fingers tightening around her phone. The glow of the screen illuminated the faint flush creeping up her neck. She hesitated, then typed slowly, "Actually, he did." Her thumb hovered over the send button, pulse thrumming in her fingertips. The weight of the admission pressed against her ribs—like she was handing Carole proof of exactly how reckless she’d been.

The phone buzzed again almost instantly, making her jump.

Her thumb grazed the send button, and the text left for the ether.

The phone buzzed again almost instantly, making her jump. Carole’s reply was sharp: "Let me guess—napkin? Beach bar receipt? Or did he carve it into your thigh with his teeth?"

Nikki’s breath caught. The memory of Zeke’s mouth grazing her skin—playful, possessive—sent a flush prickling down her spine. She shifted on the couch, the denim shorts suddenly tight. Her thumb swiped open the camera roll before she could stop herself. There it was: a sun-bleached photo of the napkin, his number smudged by her own sunscreen-slick fingers.

Another buzz.

The next buzz made her thighs tense. Carole’s message filled the screen: "You’re staring at it right now, aren’t you?"

Nikki’s thumb jerked away from the photo as if scalded. The napkin’s edges curled in the image, the ink blurred where her fingers had gripped it too tight in the passenger seat of Zeke’s truck. She could still smell the salt on his skin when he’d pressed it into her palm, his laugh low as he’d murmured, "In case you forget how I taste."

The phone screen dimmed. She caught her own reflection—lips parted, the pulse in her throat fluttering visibly.

Her fingers trembled as she tapped the screen back to life, the glow painting her bare knees in pale blue. The talk show audience's laughter swelled, then faded as blood rushed in her ears. She typed one-handed, the other gripping the couch seam—"It's just a number."

The reply came before she could set the phone down: "Uh huh. And I'm just your best friend who knows you're biting your lip right now."

Nikki's teeth released her bottom lip. A bead of sweat traced her ribs beneath the thin cotton shirt. She curled her toes into the couch cushions, the denim shorts riding up as she drew one knee toward her chest.

The phone burned against her palm as Carole’s next message lit up the screen: "Tell me you haven’t already texted him."

Nikki’s thumbnail dug into the couch seam. A drop of condensation from her neglected water glass slid onto her thigh, shocking in its coldness. She watched it trace a path down her skin, her breath shallow. The napkin photo still glowed on her screen—his handwriting slanting bold and careless, like the way he’d pushed her hair back before kissing her.

Another buzz. Another demand.

She exhaled sharply and typed, "I haven’t," then immediately opened a new message thread.

Her fingers hovered over the blank message field, the glow of Zeke’s contact casting a pale stripe across her bare thigh. The AC kicked on, raising goosebumps where the sweat had cooled on her skin. She typed the first letter—then erased it—her pulse jumping when the phone vibrated with another incoming text.

Carole’s name flashed, but Nikki swiped it away, thumb smearing the glass. The napkin photo still filled half the screen, his slanted digits blurring as she zoomed in. The memory of his teeth scraping her shoulder made her press her knees together.

A notification popped up—Low Battery: 5%—the red warning staining her skin.

The red warning pulsed like a heartbeat as Nikki’s finger hovered over the call button. A car horn blared outside, startling her—the phone slipped, the edge catching the inside of her thigh before clattering onto the hardwood. She hissed through her teeth, the sting sharp where the metal frame had grazed skin already sensitized by memory.

The screen flickered—4%—as she snatched it up, Zeke’s contact still glaring back at her. Her thumb left a damp smudge as she swiped to Carole’s unanswered thread. The last message—"Tell me you haven’t already texted him."—now had a timestamp from three minutes ago