-Sloane Pierce:
It had been four weeks. Four long weeks of going to Roxy’s house almost every day, keeping an eye on her wounds, her progress, her stubborn refusal to ever take anything seriously.
Four weeks of trying, with every ounce of professionalism I could gather, to keep her at arm’s length while she tugged me closer with words, with smiles, with that infuriating persistence that never cracked into malice, never tipped into anything inappropriate, but also never let me breathe.
I told myself I was strong enough to withstand her. I told myself she was just bored, trapped, restless in her recovery, that her flirting was some kind of elaborate game to pass the time.
But the truth was, no one had ever looked at me the way Roxy did. No one had ever looked through the layers I wrapped myself in, through the glasses and the bun and the loose clothes, through the armor of long sleeves and high collars, and decided that something underneath was worth chasing.
Every day was a battle. Every day she’d toss out a line — some wicked compliment, some sly tease — and I’d deflect it, redirect it, swallow the warmth it sparked in me and try to smother it under professionalism.
Every day I told myself I was immune. And every night I came home and lay awake, hearing her laugh in my ears, seeing her smirk in my mind, feeling the ghost of her hand brushing mine when she insisted on being helped across the room.
I’d never met someone as insistent as Roxy. And I’d never met someone I wanted so badly to stop insisting, and yet, secretly, desperately, hoped she never would.
Standing in front of my mirror now, I tried to make sense of myself.
What did she see when she looked at me? Because all I saw was... average. Plain. Forgettable. My height, maybe, was something.
I stood taller than most women and a lot of men, tall enough that people noticed when I entered a room, I guess I have my height going for me.
My mind — well, people called me smart, but what was that worth when everything else about me was so dull?
I leaned closer to the glass. My green eyes blinked back at me, not vibrant emerald like the heroines of novels, but muted, tired, ringed with dark circles from nights of too much reading, too much worry, too much responsibility.
My glasses magnified them, made them look owlish, too big for my face. My hair, always pulled back into a bun, showed hints of brown and gold when the light hit it, but I’d never let it down long enough to notice.
My clothes, loose and long, hid everything. Not even an inch of skin showing if I could help it. I wasn’t hiding scars or shame, just... me.
Because there was nothing worth showing.
And yet. And yet I had started to care.
It started small.
A glance at myself before leaving for Roxy’s. A hesitation in front of the closet, wondering if one shirt was too shapeless, if one sweater made me look even more closed off.
Then it grew. I caught myself lingering in front of shop windows, staring at mannequins in clothes I’d never dared wear. I caught myself wondering what Roxy would say if I showed up looking... different.
Today, after receiving my monthly payment — generous, far more than I deserved, though most of it immediately disappeared into student loans and debts — I’d done something reckless.
Something I hadn’t done in thirty-two years of life. I’d gone shopping for myself. Not books. Not groceries. Clothes. Pretty clothes.
Clothes that didn’t drown me. Clothes that didn’t erase me. Clothes that shaped instead of hid.
Now they lay across my bed like evidence of a crime. Tight jeans, elastic but hugging, cut to emphasize hips I’d ignored all my life until Roxy, with her sharp eyes and sharper tongue, had pointed them out with a grin that made my stomach twist.
A fitted top, soft and pale, that curved around my waist, that dipped enough at the neckline to reveal cleavage I’d never thought twice about but suddenly couldn’t stop thinking about. A bra that wasn’t beige and utilitarian but lace-trimmed, supportive and — dare I admit — pretty.
I’d even bought a necklace. A simple chain, silver, nothing flashy, but when I clasped it around my neck, it shimmered against my skin in a way that startled me.
And makeup. God, makeup. I’d never touched the stuff beyond sunscreen. But today I’d stood in front of the drugstore aisle, overwhelmed by rows of powders and lipsticks and pencils, and walked out with a tiny bag: concealer, brow gel, lipstick.
Now, with trembling hands, I applied it.
Just a little, nothing expert, nothing glamorous. Enough to soften the shadows under my eyes, to shape my brows, to tint my lips a warm rose.
When I finally stepped back from the mirror, my heart stopped.
Because for the first time, maybe ever, I looked... pretty.
Not just neat. Not just professional. Pretty.
I blinked at my reflection, half-expecting it to dissolve into the plain, gray version of myself I’d always known.
But no. The woman staring back at me had curves, had color in her cheeks, had eyes that shone green and alive. The woman staring back at me looked like someone Roxy might already see, someone she’d been seeing all along, even when I refused to believe it.
I didn’t understand why my throat tightened.
I didn’t understand why I suddenly wanted her to see me like this.
With shaking fingers, I pulled my hair back not into the usual bun but a ponytail, letting it sway down my back, catching light I didn’t know it had. I stood straighter. I breathed deeper.
And then, terrified but determined, I grabbed my bag and left for Roxy’s.
The house was as it always was: sprawling, immaculate, guarded by gates and maids who all looked like they belonged in magazines.
When the maid opened the door, she gave me a curious once-over — a look I wasn’t used to, one that traveled from my jeans to my top to my necklace to my face — and then smiled knowingly.
Heat crept up my neck.
I didn’t stop. I walked inside, my steps louder than usual, more aware of myself than I’d ever been. My heart thudded in my chest as I climbed the stairs to Roxy’s wing, past corridors that smelled faintly of perfume and roses, until I reached her door.
I knocked.
Her voice, lazy and amused as always, called from inside: "Come in."
My hand shook as I pushed the door open.
Roxy stood by her mirror, her cast gone, her bandages gone, dressed in loose, silky pajamas that clung and shimmered as though the fabric had been made for her skin alone.
She leaned on one hip, her red-streaked hair falling around her shoulders, her gaze focused on herself — until she turned, until she saw me.
And her eyes widened and jaw almost dropped.