The bus hissed as it pulled away from the curb, engine coughing dust into the te afternoon air. The lot behind it was half-empty, sunbleached, and humming with that zy summer heat that makes everything feel slower, heavier, full of promise and sweat.

  Jasmine stood there, backpack slung over one shoulder, the other hand twisting nervously at the hem of her shirt.

  There she was.

  Imani.

  Leaning against the hood of her old sedan like a song Jasmine hadn’t heard in years but still remembered every lyric to. Hoodie unzipped halfway, gray cotton clinging to her tits in that quiet way that made Jasmine feel like the air itself was watching. Thick legs crossed at the ankle. One hand tucked in her pocket, the other holding a sweating cup of iced coffee, condensation dripping onto her wrist.

  She looked up.

  Smiled.

  And just like that, Jasmine forgot how to breathe.

  Imani’s smile hadn’t changed. It still hit low in her belly, where all her softest pces lived. Her legs moved without thinking—toward her, across the pavement, each step like pulling through syrup.

  Imani opened her arms.

  And Jasmine colpsed into them.

  The hug was slow and long and real. Imani’s arms folded around her like they had muscle memory. Jasmine melted against her chest, her cheek pressed to the soft cotton stretched over warm skin and heavy curves, her eyes fluttering closed.

  The world could’ve ended around them, and she wouldn’t have noticed.

  “You made it,” Imani murmured, lips brushing her hair.

  Jasmine just nodded, fingers fisting the back of Imani’s hoodie.

  Her breath trembled. Not from nerves. From relief.

  I’m here.She’s real.She waited.

  Imani’s hand slid up, cupping the back of Jasmine’s head, thumb rubbing slow circles behind her ear. It was a grounding touch. A familiar one. One she’d used on every broken night phone call, every te-summer sob session, every time Jasmine needed to remember she wasn’t alone.

  “You okay?” she asked, voice low, thick like honey in heat.

  Jasmine pulled back just enough to see her face. Her own cheeks were already flushed, her eyes gssy.

  “I am now,” she whispered.

  Imani didn’t smile. She didn’t have to. It was in her eyes. That depth. That quiet way she looked at Jasmine like she saw all of her—everything she used to be, everything she’d become—and didn’t flinch.

  “C’mere,” she said, brushing her knuckles down Jasmine’s jaw, then opening the car door.

  The interior was warm. Familiar. A little dusty. It smelled like citrus and clean fabric and something sweet that clung to the seat cushions like memory. Jasmine buckled herself in with hands that didn’t want to stop trembling. She pressed her thighs together instinctively.

  Imani slid into the driver’s seat and didn’t start the car right away.

  Just looked at her.

  “You’re really back.”

  Jasmine nodded. “You kept the car.”

  “I keep what matters.”

  That made Jasmine’s stomach flip. She looked out the window, trying not to smile too big. She failed.

  Imani started the engine.

  The drive was quiet—but not empty.

  Music hummed from the radio in the background, something lo-fi and slow, all heartbeat bass and zy chords. Jasmine’s fingers fidgeted with her backpack strap in her p. She felt warm. Too warm.

  Imani’s hand dropped from the wheel and rested on her knee.

  Casual. Like it belonged there.

  Jasmine’s breath caught. Her legs stayed closed tight, but her body betrayed her. That familiar ache bloomed low—slow, pulsing heat between her thighs. Her cock stirred in her shorts, just enough to make her shift in her seat.

  Imani’s thumb rubbed a slow arc on her skin.

  Jasmine exhaled, soft and shaking.

  But Imani didn’t say a word.

  When they reached the apartment, Imani pulled into the same old spot, the curb paint still chipped where they used to sit with popsicles years ago. The door creaked open. Jasmine stepped out into the thick air, her shirt already clinging to the small of her back.

  Imani took her bag. Slung it over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. She didn’t ask. She didn’t need to.

  The stairwell up to her unit was cool in the shade. Concrete walls painted that muted gray that always looked half-wet. Jasmine trailed just behind her, watching the sway of Imani’s hips with every step. The round swell of her ass under those soft bck shorts. The way her thighs kissed with every stride.

  She didn’t realize she was staring until Imani gnced back, smiling.

  “Still following?”

  Jasmine blushed hard and nodded. “Always.”

  The apartment door shut with a quiet click. The air inside was cooler, but Jasmine’s chest was still tight. Imani set her bag down by the couch and turned to face her.

  “Shoes off.”

  Jasmine kicked them away. Toed off her socks. Fidgeted with the hem of her shirt again.

  Imani stepped forward.

  Slow.

  Deliberate.

  She didn’t touch her yet.

  Just looked.

  Jasmine stood frozen, mouth parted. Her cock had gotten half-hard again—just from being close. Just from the look in Imani’s eyes.

  Then Imani lifted one hand. Slid it under the edge of Jasmine’s tank top. Brushed the bare skin just above her waistband.

  “You’re taller,” she said softly.

  “You’re not.”

  “Still fit in my arms, though.”

  Jasmine nodded.

  “Still fit against my thigh?”

  Jasmine whimpered.

  Imani leaned in.

  Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a whisper, breath against her cheek.

  “Do you wanna sit down?”

  Jasmine nodded again.

  Imani took her hand, led her to the couch. Sat down. Opened her arms.

  And Jasmine melted.

  Not to fuck. Not to beg. Not yet.

  Just to be held.

  Her face pressed to Imani’s chest, the soft swell of her breasts a perfect pillow. Imani’s arms wrapped around her back. Jasmine’s legs folded beneath her, cock straining helpless in her shorts, pressed to the curve of Imani’s hip.

  Neither of them moved for a long time.

  Because this?

  This was the part they missed the most.