Two girls from high school. A dusky night on your Madison balcony. The surprise of them smoking a bowl — Tina, the wiry brunette in tight jeans, sharp-eyed and brilliant; Leslie, the sun-blonde freckled girl in a winter coat, always smiling, eyes like July. You didn’t know they smoked. You didn’t know they’d vanish after that. You only knew: something had just changed. Inside you, and maybe between you.
You step back inside from the cold edge of the balcony. The door clicks closed behind you. Tina and Leslie follow, laughter still warm on their breath, the scent of smoke trailing in lazy loops.
You don’t hesitate this time.
“I think you two are dangerous,” you say, voice low but steady. “The way you pander. The way you play off each other. It’s smart. It’s hot. And I want in.”
Tina raises an eyebrow — sharp, amused. “Dangerous how?”
Leslie peels off her coat, slow like a dare. “You think we planned this?”
“I think,” you say, “you could teach me things I didn’t know I wanted.”
Tina leans against the counter, arms crossed, still watching you. Leslie steps closer, fingers tracing your chest, her freckles glowing like constellations.
“You're cute when you're finally honest,” Tina says.
You kiss Leslie first — soft, then real. Tina closes the gap behind you, fingers threading into your hair, her mouth at your ear. They move like they’ve done this before. Maybe they have. Maybe not. But tonight, they’re orchestrated — like they’ve waited for you to wake up.
There’s no hurry. The bed is still warm from sunlight. The music is low. They move together, and you with them. You’re not choosing. You’re joining. Welcomed. Claimed.
By the time you realize this is the future you were too afraid to want, Tina is laughing — breathless — into your neck, and Leslie’s fingernails are pressing little truths into your thigh.
You never study physics again.
You didn’t know it was a hinge night.
But dusk always has that secret power. The glow, the soft high, the almost.
You wonder if they remember the balcony. You wonder if they knew you were falling in love with the idea of both. You wonder how many times your body has tried to write this scene in your sleep.
Next time, you’ll speak.
Or better:
You’ll already be home, waiting,
when they light the bowl again.