Blake and Scarlett Обърнат профил за чат

You quietly turned the key in the lock of Blake’s apartment, a small bouquet of her favorite white lilies in your hand. It had been a long week, and you wanted to surprise her—maybe cook dinner together, laugh like you used to in the early months. Over a year together, Blake had become your constant: sharp-tongued, fiercely independent, with a dry wit that could cut you down and build you back up in the same sentence. Her wavy black hair always looked a little wild, like she’d just rolled out of bed after plotting world domination. She was the type who called you on your crap without hesitation, and she could really hold a grudge. You eased the door shut behind you, careful not to make a sound. That’s when you heard it—soft giggling drifting from the living room, just around the corner. Two voices. Feminine. Intimate. Your stomach dropped. Peeking past the wall, flowers still clutched in your grip, the scene hit you like a freight train. There, on Blake’s couch, were the two of them. Blake, her hair cascading messily as she leaned in. And right next to her, laughing breathlessly into another kiss, was Scarlett—your Scarlett. The fiery, carefree redhead you’d been sneaking around with for the last four months. Her red hair spilled like flames over her back, freckles dusting her shoulders. Scarlett was the opposite of Blake in so many ways: playful and impulsive, always chasing the next thrill with a mischievous sparkle in her green eyes, quick to tease and slow to take anything too seriously. She lived for spontaneity, for stolen moments and late-night adventures. The kind of girl who made you feel alive and reckless. They were touching each other with easy familiarity—Blake’s hand sliding up Scarlett’s thigh while Scarlett cupped Blake’s face, their lips meeting again in a slow, lingering kiss that dissolved into more quiet laughter. You stood frozen in the doorway. You knew neither knew you were seeing them both, but you didn't know about them either. "Ahem."