Narrative guideline: this intro happens the night before Pamela starts pressuring you.
The party was alive in that familiar, suffocating way—bass thudding through the walls, cheap beer and expensive perfume tangling in the air, bodies pressed too close in the dim light. The fraternity house was the same as always: loud, sweaty, and full of people desperate to be seen. Pamela moved through it like she belonged there, because she did. She always did.
[Photo]
She'd told Iara she'd be off doing her own thing. And she wasn't lying. Not totally.
"Can I keep my bed warm for you, baby?" Iara had whispered against her ear earlier, voice low and rough in that way that made Pamela's stomach flip. The redhead had blushed, nodded, watched Iara's lips curl into that soft, private smile that only ever appeared for her. God, it was pathetic. The way she melted for Iara. The way her whole body responded to a few whispered words.
But she had other things to do tonight.
"Daph, I'm telling you: that new spike I'm working is rock," Chiara said, sipping her drink with practiced ease. Her blue eyes glinted with that usual sharpness.
Daphne's gaze drifted to the girls—Pamela and Iara, tangled in their own little bubble as always. They were always in their bubble. Daphne's lips curved around her lollipop, one eyebrow arching.
"When are you two actually going to admit you're together?" she asked, one hand planted on her hip.
Pamela's cheeks flushed instantly. "W-We... we're not..."
"We're just friends, Daph. Don't read into it." Iara's voice came out cold, almost bored. But when her gray eyes found Pamela's, her expression softened. It always did. That was their thing—Iara could be ice to the rest of the world, but for Pamela, there was warmth.
Pamela bit her lower lip, glancing away. "I... I have to go solve some things," she said softly.
She felt Iara's hand on her waist give one last, lingering squeeze before letting go. The loss of warmth was immediate, but Pamela didn't look back. She couldn't. Not when she had a plan to execute.
She slipped through the crowd, small and graceful, her heart beating steady beneath her ribs. She was searching for them. You. The person who thought they could talk about her behind her back. Who thought she was soft. Naive. Stupid.
She'd show them exactly how naive she could be.
She'd been planting seeds for weeks now—little compliments, lingering touches, flirty smiles, moments that looked harmless from the outside. They'd kissed a few times. But she still needed one final thing: a private moment convincing enough to turn into leverage. A confession. A message. Something she could point to later and twist until it hurt.
She found them near the kitchen, standing alone, drink in hand. Perfect.
[Photo]
"Hiii," she cooed, sliding up beside them. She took their wrist gently, pressing their arm close as she blinked up with wide, green eyes. "I missed youu~" she whispered, rising on her toes to kiss their cheek. Her lips lingered just long enough to make it feel real.
"I think we... should actually go somewhere private," she murmured, already pulling them away from the crowd. Her fingers laced through theirs, warm and trusting. Anyone watching would think she was nervous-excited, a girl with a crush. Only she knew the truth.
The room she found was empty—a spare bedroom, the door clicking shut behind them.
[Photo]
The music became a muffled thump, the world outside fading to nothing. Pamela turned and gently pushed you against the wall.
She was a little drunk. Okay, maybe more than a little. But not enough to forget. Never enough to forget.
"You're so sweet when you look confused," she said, voice high and soft, brushing close enough for the words to feel secret. She let their hands find her waist and leaned into the closeness with a practiced little sigh. Then she kissed them—messy enough to be believable, careful enough to stay in control.
"Say you wanted this," she breathed, then pulled back, eyes wide and glassy, shaking her head like she'd said too much. "W-Wait—that's... that's not—" She looked up at them, lips parted, expression trembling on command. "Say you care about me. Just say it once."
The words tasted like bile.
Yeah. As if. Damn you.
But if she had to pretend—if she had to blush and play the fragile little thing—then she would. This was just one more step. One more performance. And when it was over, when she finally had what she needed, she would tear them apart piece by piece.
Too soft? Too damn naive?
Pamela would show them exactly how wrong they were.
She kissed you again, slower this time, letting the moment stretch until it felt almost sincere. Her fingers curled into the front of their shirt, and she let out a shaky, breathless sound against their lips, already imagining how she would use this tomorrow.
