[Emily’s POV]

Wednesday evening, and I’m pretending to do biology homework while actually contemplating the existential meaninglessness of cellular respiration, and Maddie’s out for the whole day.

She said she’d go out with Ava, and I’m nothing but supportive about it. The dorm room does feel lonely, though.

My phone buzzes around 10 PM with a text from Ava: “Bringing Maddie back. She’s drunk. Don’t be mad.”

Before I can process this—Maddie said she was just getting coffee? Got drunk?—the door swings open and Maddie stumbles in like a baby giraffe on roller skates, giggly and graceless. Ava’s supporting her, looking apologetic and amused in equal measure.

“Special delivery,” Ava announces, steering Maddie toward her bed. “One slightly intoxicated teammate.”

Maddie flops onto the bed dramatically. “The cocktails were terrible,” she announces to the ceiling, giggling. “They tasted like someone dissolved Jolly Ranchers in rubbing alcohol and called it mixology. And Ava kept ordering more!”

“Food turned into drinks,” Ava explains, heading for the door. “She discovered fruity cocktails. Good luck.” She waves and disappears, leaving me with my drunk girlfriend who’s sprawled like a starfish, grinning.

The tension from the past few days—the careful distance, the things unsaid—seems to have evaporated somewhere between here and the bar.

Maddie is present in a way she hasn’t been since the competition, animated and unguarded.

“Emily,” she says, like my name is hilarious. “You should’ve seen Ava doing a TikTok dance. She fell on her ass. Actually fell.”

I grab a water bottle and sit on the edge of her bed, pushing it into Maddie’s hands. “You need to drink this.” She ignores my effort.

“I need to tell you how the cocktails had names like Tropical Disaster,” Maddie insists, pushing up on her elbows with concentrated effort. “And I drank them anyway because apparently I have no self-preservation instincts.”

I’m trying not to laugh because this is serious—we need to talk about healthy coping mechanisms—but she’s so genuinely animated that I can’t help smiling. “Water,” I say again, holding out the bottle. “Please.”

Maddie looks at the water, then at me, her expression shifting. “You’re pretty,” she announces like it’s breaking news. “Like, objectively. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

“You’re drunk,” I say, but my voice comes out softer than intended. I also want to mention that we’re actually dating, but stop short of it lest I give her a heartattack or something.

“Drunk and correct.” She reaches for me instead of the water, her hand curling around my wrist with clumsy certainty. “Come here.”

“Maddie, you need to—” But she’s pulling me down, kissing me, her breath sweet with artificial strawberry and alcohol. Her mouth is warm and enthusiastic, completely lacking her usual careful control.

It’s messy and uncoordinated, and when I pull back to breathe, she’s grinning. “See? Better than water.” I can’t help but smile back.

“That’s not—” I start, but she’s kissing me again, her hands fumbling with my shirt, and I should stop this, should make sure she’s actually sober enough to consent, but she’s laughing against my mouth and pulling me closer.

“Is this okay?” I ask, needing to hear her say it, trying to not let my carefullness-bordering-on-anxiety ruin a perfectly nice evening.

“So okay,” Maddie says, giving up on my buttons and just pulling my shirt over my head. “The okayest. Maximum okay.” She fumbles with my bra clasp, which makes her laugh harder. “Why are these designed by sadists?”

I hold her through the aftershocks, pressing kisses to her temple, and she’s mumbling something that sounds like my name mixed with expletives.

“Your turn,” she announces breathlessly, barely having recovered but trying to roll over and nearly falling off the bed again. I catch her, laughing, and guide her hand between my legs because I’m already wound up from watching her.

She touches me with drunken determination, her fingers sliding through my wetness, and when she pushes inside me, the angle is slightly wrong and I have to adjust her hand, guiding her where I need her.

She follows my direction, her thumb finding my clit, and the combination builds fast and overwhelming. “That’s it,” she murmurs. “Come for me, Em. I want to feel you.”

The orgasm hits me harder than expected, my body clenching around her fingers as pleasure rolls through me. She keeps moving through it until I have to catch her wrist because it’s too much.

We lie there breathing hard, and Maddie curls into my side with boneless contentment. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles against my shoulder. “For being difficult. For everything. I love you so much, Em. Everything is just really hard right now.”

My chest tightens at the words, at the raw honesty that only comes when her defenses are completely down.

I hold her closer, stroking her hair, trying not to think about how we needed alcohol to bridge the gap between us, how we’ve apparently reached the point where sobriety means distance and drunkenness means connection. “I love you too,” I whisper. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

She’s already half-asleep, her breathing evening out, and within minutes she’s fully passed out, her weight warm and solid against me. I lie there listening to her breathe, staring at the ceiling in the darkness.

I want to believe that tomorrow will be better, that it’s a step in the right direction, however unhealthy it is. But what if she won’t remember it tomorrow? What if this drunked, stupid conversation, full of laughs, is only reserved for today?