Chapter 2

The beer arrived and I took a sip. The first one went down easy, light, almost sweet. The jukebox switched tracks, and the old guitar sound spread through the bar. On the wall, among flags and colorful posters, a handwritten note caught my eye: “Open mic night Thursdays, 7pm.” I looked at it and thought about what it’d be like to come back here. It was all new, confusing, and at the same time, it gave me this huge urge to live it all at once.

“So,” she said, propping her chin on her hand, eyeing me from the side, “you came to Psych to figure out other people’s heads or your own?”

“I dunno, I guess mostly others,” I replied, not totally sure, laughing. “What about you?”

“First for the girls,” she said without batting an eye, “and then ‘cause I’m crazy anyway.”

“I’m picking up on that,” I shot back, teasing. “And do you live near campus? I’m looking for a sorority house.”

She looked me up and down, with that look like she was already cooking up a joke.

“You smoke?”

“Nope.”

“You a Bolsonaro fan?”

“God no.”

She smiled, satisfied. “You’re in.”

She laughed to herself, took a long swig, and added:

“I’m looking for someone to split with. My dad rented this little house in a compound nearby and I want company so I’m not alone. Wanna come check it out?”

“Wow, that’d be cool… but how much?” I asked, trying to play it cool.

She grabbed her phone, held out her hand to me. “Gimme your number.”

I typed it in, without overthinking. She saved it and started texting something.

“This number’s my dad’s,” she said, not looking up. “He’s a cop, but he’s cool. He handles the rent — tell him and they’ll sort it out. Finish your beer and we’ll go see the place. Maybe you’ll like it.”

I stared at her, trying to figure out if this was just friendly or an invite with strings attached. But Lelly wasn’t the type you could read right away. She had this mix of carelessness and calculation, lightness and teasing. We finished the beer in comfortable silence. I insisted on paying the tab and she didn’t argue, just stood up and said:

“Let’s go, flower girl.”

The walk to her place was short, about fifteen minutes on foot, cutting through narrow streets lined with trees. The sun was low, turning the building fronts orange and the asphalt warm. When we stopped, it was in front of a discreet side gate to a big, well-kept house. She punched a code into an electronic lock and the gate swung open, revealing a long hallway that led to a compound in the back.

The houses were small, all identical, forming a rectangle around a narrow courtyard, almost like a mini brick-paved square with empty plant pots in the corners. The windows all faced the same space, creating this weird sense of closeness — everybody could see everybody.

“This is like a student village,” she explained as we walked. “First one’s a couple from education. Second, a med school pair. The corner one’s some guy I haven’t talked to — he only shows up at night. And the last two, next to mine, are empty.”

She stopped in front of a peeling wooden door and turned the key.

“Welcome to my chaos.”

Inside, it smelled like incense and old coffee. It was simple, but tidied up on the fly: a small living room with a two-seater couch, an iron bookshelf full of books left by old tenants, and an old fan in the corner. The kitchen was tiny, with cracked white tiles and a fridge covered in stickers with quotes and drawings.

The bedroom had more life to it. Two single beds took up most of the space, one covered in dark sheets and the other with a rumpled comforter. On the wall, photos pinned with tape, band posters, and handmade drawings. On the dresser, a pink lamp, an open bottle of wine, and a speaker. Some clothes tossed on a chair rounded out the scene.

“The furniture came with the place,” she explained, opening the window. “The rest is on me.”

I looked around. It wasn’t the kind of spot that wowed you, but it had good energy, like people lived there, not just crashed. It was personal, messy, alive.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, watching me.

“It’s… kinda cramped,” I said, not overthinking it. “Think two of us could fit?”

She smiled, leaned her shoulder against the wall.

“We’ll squeeze in. I’m little,” she pouted, raising an eyebrow. “I’m gonna take a shower ‘cause I stink. Wait for me?”

“Go ahead. I’ll be fine. My bus doesn’t leave till tonight. Should’ve scheduled earlier.”

I sat on the bed that’d probably be mine and let my body sink into the mattress. I looked around with this good chill in my stomach. It was fear and excitement mixed. First time away from home. First place that’s mine and someone else’s. The feeling that life had finally kicked into gear.

Lelly opened the closet, grabbed a change of clothes, and dropped them on her bed. The bun wouldn’t stay put. It was the third or fourth time I’d seen her redo it, straight strands escaping down her neck. Then she turned her back and pulled off her shirt in one quick, absent move, like we were already tight. I swallowed hard, caught off guard for a second by how casual it was. It wasn’t crazy, but there was something intimate about it, on day one.

When she turned sideways, still fiddling with stuff, I got a better look at her petite body and breasts that weren’t as small as I’d pictured. Medium-sized, fitting her perfectly. The bra, though, looked a size too small: straps digging lightly into her shoulders, the side band marking her skin. It seemed uncomfortable.

“That one’s squeezing you,” I said before I could stop myself.

She laughed, easy.

“It is. But it’s the only clean one.” She paused to look down, chin almost to her chest, then shot back, “And quit staring at my tits.”

She tied her hair up again, grabbed her towel, and stopped at the bathroom door.

“I’m leaving the door cracked. If you wanna come in and chat, no problem — just let me pee first.”

“Go ahead, I don’t wanna see you pee!” I said, laughing at how straightforward she was.

I nodded. She disappeared behind the door, and ten minutes of silence passed before the shower hit the tiles, a steady rush that filled the room. I stared at the photos pinned with tape, the band posters, the whole mess around me.

Something stirred in me — curiosity, maybe. She was pretty. Pretty in a way that drew you in without trying, like her presence just glowed. I eyed the bathroom door, ajar, listening to the water pounding the floor, and felt a shiver crawl up my body, the kind you can’t tell if it’s from the chill or something else.

Before the urge faded, I stood up. I stopped at the cracked door. I wanted to see, but also play it off.

“And how much for utilities, internet, and gas?” I asked, trying to sound practical.

“Come in, I can’t hear you!” she yelled from inside.

The water drowned my voice. I repeated, a bit louder, laughing inside at the lame excuse I’d picked.

“I said, how much for…”

I pushed the door open gently. Steam billowed out in warm waves, scent of soap and sweetness in the air. The soft light made the bathroom feel smaller, more intimate, and the shower stall, with the curtain pulled back like she didn’t care about being seen — or like she enjoyed soaking the whole floor — gave me the view. Her under the spray, fully exposed. Petite, round firm breasts glistening with water, the nipple piercing a bold detail that made her delicate body even more magnetic. The curve of her shoulders flowed clean to her waist, and her ass, smooth and round, looked bigger now, bare and inviting, like it knew the perfect fit for my hand to grab it. Her pink pubis, with sparse blondish hairs so fine they were barely there, somehow called to me.

I stood frozen, mesmerized, my gaze locked on the paths of water tracing every spot I wanted to touch. That’s when I got it: it wasn’t curiosity. It was lust. I wanted her like recognizing a song from afar and suddenly needing to dance.

I thought about turning back, but I didn’t. Heat lit up inside me, old and new at once. I glanced away to play it cool, then back without meaning to. It was her pulling me in, like the steam itself was shoving me into that moment.

Lelly laughed, her voice echoing off the tiles.

“We split the bills down the middle, flower girl!” she shouted, amused. “No clue how much — Dad pays.”

I didn’t hear the answer.