I wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her in tighter—deliberately slow, letting the movement linger. Angela's fingers toyed idly with the hair at the nape of my neck, her body molding against mine with practiced ease. The firelight gilded her skin, turning the moment intimate, almost theatrical.
Mira watched for a second too long. Something flickered across her face—uncomfortable, uncertain, a tiny shadow of envy or displacement.
She shifted away quietly, scooting closer to Lisa's side on the grass.
Lisa draped a casual arm around her shoulders in silent solidarity, offering a small, reassuring squeeze.
Mira leaned into it, but her eyes kept darting back to us—Angela's head on my shoulder, my hand resting low on Angela's hip—before she forced them away to the dying embers.
Inside, satisfaction hummed low and dark.
