It started as a fantasy. They were magnetic—her curls, his calm. A couple so aligned, they moved like music. You felt it in the shared laughter, the occasional eye contact, the way the night danced between all of you without needing words.
But then she turned. And he smiled. And there was another—someone new. Someone waiting. And you realized: you weren’t crashing their story.
You were being handed a verse.
Their friend—soft eyes, wicked hips, the kind of grin that pulls honesty out of you—was exactly your tempo. She took your hand on the dance floor before you could second-guess a thing.
The couple stayed close. Not as shadows. As harmony. He watched you dip her. She bit your shoulder and caught their gaze over yours. It wasn’t just permission. It was orchestration.
In the hotel room later, it wasn’t just sex. It was rhythm. Reverence. You fucked like you were already known.
They didn’t touch you—but they *did*. She whispered to them what you were doing to her. They praised you with eyes and smiles and breath held from the other bed. And all of you were *lit*, alive in the knowing.
By morning, you weren’t just seen. You were remembered.
You don’t always get to feel that kind of welcome. That kind of rhythm. Where sexuality doesn’t erase friendship, it deepens it. Where eyes linger with warmth instead of weight.
You still think about the way their friend curled into your side, and the way the couple wrapped her in praise while glancing at you like you were art.
You didn’t steal the spotlight.
You joined the dance.
And you didn’t leave empty.
You left *fed*.