Chapter 5: Let’s Get Physical

The two wandered down the beach in search of the next challenge the beach would present them. It was alive with the thrum of activity, the golden sand dotted with booths and challenges designed to titillate and amaze. But nothing caught Wesley’s attention quite like the glowing sign over the booth they now approached: “Flex Fest: Instant Buff Magic!”

The scene around the Competition” pulsed with raw, electric energy as Wesley and Emily edged closer to the newest spectacle of Bikini Week’s science magic.

The competition wasn’t just any ordinary flexing booth. No, this was a full production, complete with makeshift gym equipment, glowing protein dispensers, and an array of outrageously beautiful “scientists” in lab coats so tight and cropped they barely qualified as clothing. Each “scientist” carried trays of neon-colored protein shakes, their every movement calculated to draw the eye.

Contestants lined up at a series of weights, their bodies trembling with anticipation as they prepared to take on the increasingly heavier barbells that waited for them. The rules were simple: lift as much as you could, chug a protein shake handed to you by a science babe, and then ... let Bikini Week’s infamous science magic take over. With every rep and every drink, their bodies swelled visibly, their muscles surging in size before the crowd’s cheering eyes.

Emily stood rooted to the spot, her amber eyes fixed on the stage. She wasn’t blinking. Her gaze darted from contestant to contestant as a wiry man stepped forward and gripped a modest barbell. One of the science babes, a voluptuous blonde with a megawatt smile and impossibly tanned skin, sidled up to him with a glowing orange shake in hand. As soon as the man chugged it down, he began lifting heavier and heavier weights. And that’s when the transformation began.

It started slow—his biceps trembling under the strain of the lift, veins popping along his forearms. Then, with a sudden jolt, his shoulders expanded, his chest ballooning outward as if filled with helium. His back broadened, the tight tank top he wore stretching to the brink of destruction as his thighs thickened like tree trunks beneath him.

“Holy shit,” Wesley muttered under his breath.

But Emily? Emily wasn’t saying a word.

Her amber eyes were locked on the newly transformed guy, her lips parted slightly. She wasn’t gawking like the others in the crowd, though. No, Emily was composed—too composed. Her nails traced lazy patterns against her bare midriff, her breathing just a little uneven. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a coy move that made Wesley glance over at her with suspicion.

“You okay, Bunny?” he teased lightly, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his tone.

Emily snapped out of it, blinking as if caught in the act. “What? Yeah. Totally fine.” She smiled, her cheeks a little pink. “It’s just ... interesting, isn’t it? The, uh, science-magic.”

Wesley raised a brow. “The science-magic?”

“Yes! It’s ... fascinating.” Emily gestured toward the booth, her movements a little too hurried. “You know, like, how does it even work? The lights, the ... the ... whatever’s happening in there.” She trailed off, her gaze wandering back to the next contestant—a lanky teen nervously stepping inside.

This time, the science babe was a curvy brunette with glasses perched provocatively on the bridge of her nose. She leaned in close as she handed the boy his glowing pink shake, her ample cleavage almost spilling out of her barely-there lab coat, and the boy began to pump and pump and pump.

Emily’s jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing as the boy pushed and strained. The results were instantaneous—his wiry frame exploded outward, pecs inflating like balloons, deltoids rounding out into perfect spheres. His swim trunks clung desperately to his thickened thighs, threatening to rip as the crowd erupted into cheers.

Emily shifted on her feet, her bare thighs brushing together. She adjusted the waistband of her shorts, her fingers lingering on the frayed edges as though they needed fixing. Wesley couldn’t help but notice how fidgety she was. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, her gaze locked on the teen as his silhouette swelled inside the chamber. When he finished moments later, his lankiness was gone, replaced by broad shoulders and bulging thighs that strained against his too-tight swim trunks.

Emily exhaled audibly, her hand fanning her face.

Wesley chuckled. “You sure you’re not overheating or something?”

“What? No, I’m fine! It’s just ... really hot right now” she said quickly, her voice a touch higher than usual. She tried to play it cool, but the way her fingers toyed with the edge of her crop top betrayed her. Emily shot him a look, her cheeks flushing deeper. “It’s ... impressive, okay? You don’t see stuff like this every day.”

Wesley smirked. “You wanna give it a try?”

“What? Me? That wouldn’t be right. I—” Emily paused, caught off guard by the question. She laughed nervously, her fingers brushing against his arm. “I mean, maybe you should. It’d be ... fun.”

“Fun, huh?” Wesley leaned closer, his grin widening. “You really think I need it?”

“No! Of course not!” Emily said, a little too quickly. Her fingers squeezed his bicep lightly, as if testing him. “You’re already, like ... great. But it’s for saving the beach, right? Given this world, imagine how much money you could raise if you looked like...” She trailed off, her gaze drifting back to the last contestant, who was now flexing for the cheering crowd.

Wesley stared at her, his grin fading slightly as realization dawned. “You’ve got a thing for muscles, don’t you?”

Emily’s eyes snapped to his, wide and defensive. “What? No! That’s ridiculous!” she said, but her voice was already betraying her. She paused, visibly flustered, then straightened her posture, as if drawing on some deeper reserve of intellectual strength. “Okay, listen,” she began, her tone shifting into a practiced rhythm, the kind she might’ve used during a particularly heated college debate.

“Muscles, like, in the cultural sense,” she started, gesturing broadly, “are a construct of the white supremacist patriarchy. They’ve been weaponized for centuries to enforce ideals of dominance, oppression, and control, you know? Think about it—the way media glorifies this hyper-masculine ideal. It’s all tied into this toxic framework that equates physical power with societal power.”

Her hands moved as she spoke, her words spilling out faster, almost like she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “It’s designed to keep certain groups at the top, Wesley. Like, you see it in colonization, right? Western ideals of beauty and strength? Muscles were fetishized to represent superiority. It’s this visual shorthand for dominance, for ownership, for—”

Her voice faltered for just a second, and her gaze flickered toward the booth again. A new contestant started to lift —a wiry guy with a confident swagger. Emily caught herself staring a beat too long as the neon lights swirled around his silhouette, his frame ballooning outward. In time to the pump of the weights his shoulders stretched wider, his chest expanded like a sculptor had carved it from marble, and his arms thickened with veins that pulsed visibly beneath his sun-kissed skin.

“—for control,” she continued, though her voice had softened slightly. She crossed her arms tightly, as though trying to physically contain the fluttering in her chest. “I mean, it’s obvious, right? The way it’s used in advertising, in sports, in movies. It’s all about projecting this unattainable image of power. It’s exclusionary. It marginalizes anyone who doesn’t fit the mold.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but her words kept tumbling out, almost involuntarily. “And yet...” She hesitated, her gaze shifting, her tone dropping slightly, “there’s ... something primal about it, isn’t there? Like, it taps into this base instinct, this ... this evolutionary drive to recognize strength as, you know, protection. Capability. A ... presence you can’t ignore.”

She cleared her throat, suddenly looking anywhere but at Wesley. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it?” she pressed on, her words gaining a frantic edge. “It’s manipulative. It’s reductive. It reduces people to their bodies. But at the same time...” Her gaze flicked back to the contestant, now striking a pose for the cheering crowd. Her eyes lingered, just for a moment, on the ripple of his biceps as he raised his arms triumphantly. “ ... it’s also ... a language. A way of ... communicating something ... visceral.”

Emily caught herself again, blinking rapidly as though trying to reset her thoughts. “But it’s all shallow,” she concluded hastily, her arms crossing even tighter over her chest. “Totally shallow. It’s designed to appeal to the lowest common denominator, to reinforce these outdated power dynamics. And that’s ... that’s not something I’d ever ... personally ... endorse or anything.”

Wesley watched her, his grin growing wider with every word.

“What?” she snapped, her face glowing red.

“Nothing,” he replied smoothly, his hands slipping into his pockets as he leaned back against the booth. “Just thinking about how you’ve clearly never thought about this before.”

Her mouth fell open. “I—! That’s—! You—!” She huffed, flustered, then turned away with a dismissive wave. “Shut up, Wesley ... or should I just call you Blaine now?”

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s the sun!”

“We’re in the shade and you were also biting your lip, Bunny.”

Emily’s face turned a deeper shade of crimson. “Shut up!” she muttered, shoving him lightly. But she didn’t pull away from his arm.

“Alright, alright,” Wesley said, still grinning. “But I’m starting to think you’d really like it if I stepped in there.”

Emily hesitated, her gaze flickering to the booth, then back to him. She bit her lip again, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her crop top. “I mean ... it couldn’t hurt to try, right? For ... for saving the beach?”

Wesley tilted his head, studying her. “You’re really into this, aren’t you?”

Emily huffed, crossing her arms. “Can we just drop it?” But the way she avoided his gaze, the way her body leaned just slightly toward the booth, said everything.

Wesley laughed, ruffling her hair. “Fine, Bunny. But if I ever do it, you’d better be ready for what comes next.”

Emily’s breath hitched, her eyes flickering to his chest for just a moment before she quickly looked away. “I think I will be...” she mumbled, her voice softer than before.

Emily was giving off ... interesting mixed signals to Wesley. On one hand, there were the signals of her mouth and mind. They told him she thought of muscles as patriarchal, oppressive, and shallow. She certainly probably didn’t think much of the artificial way these were gained, when the most positive interpretations of musculature were supposed to be emblematic of hard work.

But then there were the signals of her body. Her wandering, fidgeting fingers. Her flushed cheeks. Her shallow breaths. The ease with which he could prod at her and be rewarded with the sight of her cute face, all flustered and defensive. How much of that was this place’s effect on her, he wondered? How much of it was the real Emily, either poking through the artifice of Bunny or else melting down into it to create some fascinating new alloy?

“Well, that’s settled, then.” Casually, he began to stroll around to the front of the Flex Fest booth, hands in his pockets with exaggerated nonchalance.

“Wait!” Emily burst out, following him. “What’s settled?”

“You’re right. It’ll give us an edge in fundraising. And besides,” he added, gesturing to the toned six-pack he hadn’t had as a nerdy loser yesterday, “I think the narrative was pushing me in this direction anyway. If it’s offering us a nice, easy fast track, who am I to argue, right?” But while he kept his tone light and teasing, he felt a thrill of excitement run through him at the thought of what might come next.

Emily’s hands wrapped around his forearm. She looked up into his eyes with fond concern. “I just don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you to do this, Blaine.”

Wesley smiled down at her. “Bunny,” he said with the simple confidence of a man, the confidence a man earns just by being a man, “you can’t force me to do anything.”

He gave her a peck on her softly sculpted cheek before stepping up onto the stage, where the mad scientist gals were cavorting about with their vials. Their tits were nearly spilling out the tops of their ridiculous labcoat costumes. “Hey,” he said to them. “I want to take a shot at it.”

The crowd cheered as if this was some exciting new development, and not just the latest iteration of the same thing that had been happening for the last few demonstrations. Wesley happily soaked up their applause anyway. At the very front of the crowd, Emily was watching up at him with–admiration? Excitement? Concern? Her face was hot, but sometimes it did verge on inscrutable.

“Right this way, hot shot,” simpered one of the mad scientist girls. She tottered along on neon-green heels, leading him to the display of weights. He chose the heaviest dumbbells he thought he could manage and attempted a few bicep curls. The beach winds from last night had given him improved performance in that category, but not enough. After only a few, his muscles were already throbbing in protest.

The first scientist girl was about to offer him a bright orange serum when the big-titted blonde scientist stopped her. “Hang on. If my calculations are correct, I think this is the formulation for you.”

Wesley looked at the formula she’d just handed him. The angry red vial had a label that literally read, “Main Characters Only.” He glanced down into the audience where Emily was still watching him. This was his last opportunity to go back. And for half a second, he considered it. This would represent a daunting change, after all.

But it would also give him the power he really needed to make it further along. And then they could get out. Which was what they both wanted.

So he grinned at her, and then drank down the red formula in a single gulp.

A jolt of vitality hit his system. He’d never done cocaine before, but he had to imagine this was what it felt like. The gain in energy was both immediate and immense. With the singlemindedness of a machine, he immediately set down the dumbbells he’d selected and instead jumped up nearly thirty pounds apiece. Recalling what he remembered from high school gym class, he began to furiously pump out curl after curl.

With each rep, his biceps began to swell. The lines defining their boundaries etched themselves more and more deeply as subcutaneous fat was abruptly burned for fuel, or perhaps just violated the laws of physics by disappearing from the universe entirely. Rapidly, his bicep was shifting from a rounded shape to one with a defined slope and peak, veins increasingly visible beneath his tanned skin. And with each countermotion, his triceps grew to compensate, working in concert to stretch the tensile strength of his short sleeves to their limits.

He wasn’t directly working out his delts or his pecs, but they were growing, too. With each heaving breath, his chest muscles inched outward in every direction, the graceful lines becoming increasingly obvious beneath his shirt as their mass began to strain each button. His deltoids weren’t just broadening, but rounding out like fucking cannonballs that flowed elegantly into the increasingly slanted traps that gave him a thick, powerful neck.

His lats all but exploded, rapidly redefining his silhouette from a gentle trapezoid into a sharp triangle. All along the side stitches of his shirt, seams began to come apart, peeks of tanned skin increasingly visible as strained thread zigzagged across it and the large panels of fabric drifted apart like continents.

These weights were too light. He needed more. He set them down with an almighty clang and jumped up another fifty pounds. He was curling over a hundred pounds in each hand now. But he couldn’t stop. He just couldn’t.

The memory was not really a memory, because he didn’t recall living in it or inhabiting it. But it was a feeling: powerlessness. The world was big and complex and it was so easy to do wrong, be wrong. He recalled feeling adrift, wondering what a man’s place in this world could possibly be. And specifically, a man like him? One who was mindful and thoughtful and tried to be respectful?

But in the iron, there was power and purpose. There was a clearly defined role: to be the strongest. To be the best. To win against that asshole Pearson, and then to win at everything else he put his mind to. To get what was his, what he deserved. And, he thought with a fleeting glance at Bunny down in the crowd, to keep it and use it.

So with a masculine grunt, he lifted anew. The sweat trickling down his brow and body wasn’t the ugly sweat of hard exertion; it was the glowing sweat of a magazine ad, glossy and unattainable. Though he was doing absolutely nothing to work on his legs, he felt them rapidly expanding just the same. His quadriceps and hamstrings achieved beautiful separation, his calves becoming bigger than some mens’ biceps. And they were growing longer, too, because he was growing taller. The shorts he’d worn this morning were now increasingly short on him, even as his muscles threatened to tear their seams, too.

He grinned as he felt every seam he was wearing stretch within an inch of its life. Yes. He wanted this. Yes. He deserved this.

Yes. This was him.

At that acceptance, that realization, his shirt and shorts sundered as he let loose a triumphant, masculine roar.

The tatters of his clothes fell off him in tatters, revealing a body that surpassed any other at the demo so far. His six-pack had become a hyper-defined eight-pack, framed on each side by a fully realized adonis belt. His pecs bulged out like a shelf of pure muscle, separated by a canyon-like ridge. His thighs were as thick as watermelons, his biceps like footballs, his back a vast and tanned ocean of sculpted muscle.

And there were other ancillary changes. His tan had deepened, while his blonde hair had brightened slightly. As Wesley looked down at his body, he watched the hairs on his legs and arms disappear entirely, leaving him hairless and gleaming. His face had grown movie-star handsome, while still remaining boyish and youthful rather than steroid-rugged. His glutes had swollen so powerfully that they had swallowed his black briefs, turning them into a de facto thong. And their front strained with the bulk and girth of a heavy white cock that yearned for release.

He looked down at his new self in disbelief. And then, rapid acceptance. This was who he’d always been. Even when he hadn’t looked like it.

As the crowd erupted in rapturous excitement, he grinned cockily down at Emily and flexed every muscle of the new Blaine.

The moment Blaine—no, Wesley, though his new form seemed to demand a name as grandiose as the body that now bore it—descended from the Flex Fest stage, Emily could feel her resolve cracking like the seams of his clothes. The crowd’s cheers still thundered in her ears, the adoration for this new sculpted god almost palpable. Yet none of it compared to the way her own heart pounded as she watched him approach, each step radiating confidence and power.

His muscles didn’t just move; they flowed, a symphony of sinew and strength that seemed to play in harmony with the pounding synth music of the beach. His shoulders were broad enough to block the sun, each deltoid rounded to perfection, the definition so sharp it looked as though it had been chiseled by the gods themselves. His pecs jutted out like a proud shelf, the deep valley between them glistening with a sheen of sweat that caught the light just so. Every inch of him screamed masculinity, strength, dominance—and it was doing dangerous things to her composure.

Emily folded her arms tightly across her chest as he drew closer, her legs crossing as though she could physically hold herself back. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes darting up and down his form, trying to look unimpressed while clearly failing. She forced a scoff. “So ... I see you’ve gone full-on toxic masculinity now. Great. Love that for us.” Her voice wavered on the last word, and she cringed inwardly at how unconvincing it sounded.

Blaine smirked, his boyish charm now paired with a devastating confidence that made her knees weak. “Toxic? Really? I feel fantastic.” He flexed casually, lifting one arm to strike a bicep pose that made the muscle swell to mountainous proportions. A thick vein snaked along the peak, pulsing slightly, and Emily’s breath hitched audibly despite her best efforts to stay composed.

“Y-Yeah, well,” she stammered, her cheeks flaming, “just because it’s ... aesthetically pleasing doesn’t mean it’s not a tool of, of oppression!” She waved a hand vaguely at him, though her eyes betrayed her, lingering on the ripple of his abs as they contracted with his movements. “I mean, do you even know how many women have been, like, conditioned to find ... that attractive?” Her finger pointed at his chest, which rose and fell with his steady breaths, each pec flexing faintly with the motion.

Blaine raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “This?” he asked, placing one massive hand on his chest and giving it a deliberate squeeze. The muscle tensed under his grip, the motion so exaggerated it looked almost obscene. “You mean these big, oppressive pecs right here?”

Emily’s resolve shattered. “Okay, yes, fine!” she blurted, throwing her hands in the air. “They’re—ugh—they’re amazing, okay? But that doesn’t mean I’m impressed! I’m just ... I’m acknowledging the ... craftsmanship.” She bit her lip, her eyes glued to the deep line running between his pecs, glistening and inviting. “It’s like ... like admiring a sculpture. A really problematic sculpture.”

She took an unsteady step closer, her gaze flicking over his body. “Like ... your deltoids, for example,” she said, her voice softening despite herself. “They’re just so ... perfectly round and ... and they connect so seamlessly to your...” Her fingers twitched at her sides as if resisting the urge to reach out. “It’s like ... like a damn marble statue.”

“Uh-huh,” Blaine said, his voice dripping with amusement. “And what about the arms?”

Emily’s breath caught as he raised his arm again, his bicep bulging with exaggerated slowness. The peak rose higher and higher, the skin stretched taut over the muscle, veins webbing across its surface like a roadmap to every sinful thought she was trying desperately to suppress.

“They’re ... excessive,” she said weakly, her voice trembling. “I mean, who even needs arms like that? It’s just ... impractical. And—and patriarchal! Like, why do you need biceps that are ... that are...” Her voice trailed off as she stepped even closer, her gaze locked on the muscle before her. “ ... that big?”

Blaine chuckled. “Maybe it’s to carry stubborn little bunnies like you around when they get all worked up.”

Emily’s cheeks flamed. “You are insufferable,” she hissed, though the words had no heat. Her hands twitched again, and before she could stop herself, she reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against the peak of his bicep. The warmth of his skin was intoxicating, the solid mass beneath it making her head spin. “It’s just ... so firm,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. “Like granite ... but warm.”

Blaine flexed, and Emily let out an involuntary squeak as the muscle swelled under her touch, pressing into her palm. Her fingers instinctively traced the curve of his bicep, following the thick vein that pulsed with each beat of his heart. “I mean ... it’s for understand the science-magic of this place, right?” she mumbled, her words tumbling out in a flustered rush. “Like, I have to ... to understand how it’s possible. For ... educational purposes.”

“F-A-P purposes, huh?” Blaine said, his voice teasing. He flexed again, and Emily gasped, her other hand flying up to cup the muscle. “And what’s the lesson so far?”

Emily didn’t answer. Her hands were everywhere now, trailing over his shoulders, brushing against his pecs, pressing lightly against his abs. Each muscle was firm and unyielding, the definition so sharp it felt like tracing the edges of a masterpiece. Her lips parted, her breaths shallow and quick, as her fingers lingered on the ridges of his eight-pack.

“And these...” she whispered, almost to herself, her hands splaying across his abdomen. “It’s like ... like they’re carved out of ... out of...” She paused, her gaze hazy as she tried to find the right words. “Out of pure ... oppressive ... masculinity.”

Blaine grinned. “Oppressive masculinity, huh? Sounds like you’re into that.”

“I am not into that!” Emily snapped, though the way her hands caressed his muscles betrayed her. She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the deep V of his adonis belt. “But ... maybe I need a closer look. You know. For ... academic ... reasons.”

Without waiting for an answer, she leaned in, her tongue darting out to trace the edge of his abs. The salty tang of his sweat made her shiver, and she let out a soft, involuntary moan as she tasted him. “It’s just...” she murmured between licks, her voice breathless, “it’s for science-magic reasons ... I ... I’m just trying to see if you’re giving off pheromones that make me feel this way ... and stuff.”

Veronica Valmont adjusted the diamond-studded strap of her liquid silver bikini, her reflection gleaming in the mirrored panel of the Flex Fest booth. The lights caught every curve, every perfect angle of her figure. The bikini left almost nothing to the imagination, the metallic fabric catching every spark of sunlight and reflecting it like a spotlight directly onto her. This was her moment to SHINE!

She’d timed it perfectly. As Wesley—no, Blaine—emerged from his muscle-enhancement transformation, looking like a chiseled Greek god, Veronica would glide into the scene, all sensual allure and effortless command. The contrast would be irresistible: his raw masculinity in contrast to her sophisticated seduction. And then the girl would choose and choose rightly.

And ... and ... It HAD to work this time!

She tilted her head back, her cigarette burning low between her fingers, though she hardly needed its heat. Her body was already alive with fire—an inferno sparked by thoughts she couldn’t control, couldn’t name, though they centered around one girl.

And for some reason that girl was no longer Candy.

Candy had been her plan, perfect in every glossy, shallow way. The blonde with the kind of curves that demanded attention, her playful giggles and eager, pliable nature practically begging Veronica to take her apart piece by piece. Candy had been a game, an indulgence, someone Veronica could toy with and leave breathless, begging for more. She’d seen it so clearly—the way it would play out, the way she’d unravel Candy until the girl was nothing but a shell of her former self and would actively WANT to surrender to Veronica’s command.

But now Candy was somewhere inside, sulking and draped over some interchangeable Tad or Chad or Brad, and Veronica had almost forgotten about her. Instead she was out here, pacing the boardwalk, her thighs clenching, her chest tight with an ache that wouldn’t ease. Her cigarette trembled in her fingers as her mind betrayed her, wandering back—inevitably, uncontrollably—to Emily.

Emily, who wasn’t supposed to matter.

Emily, whose dark, straight hair had fallen like a silken curtain over her golden skin, framing eyes wide and sweet but sharp with an unexpected mischief. Emily, who wore denim cutoffs so short they were practically against the law, and a crop top that rode up every time she moved, teasing the soft, taut skin of her stomach. Emily, who had fumbled through a bikini contest earlier with a shy smile and an awkward charm that had left the crowd—and Veronica—hanging on her every goddamned move.

Veronica closed her eyes, exhaling slowly, the memory of Emily’s scent still clinging to her senses. Coconut, sunlight, and something faintly floral, mixed with the salty tang of skin kissed by hours in the sun. It had hit Veronica like a drug, heady and intoxicating, during a moment that hadn’t meant anything. Or shouldn’t have. Just a brush of her hand against Emily’s arm, a fleeting connection, and yet she’d felt the warmth of it lingering, searing, long after Emily had turned away.

She pressed her palms hard against the railing, the wood biting into her skin, trying to hold onto something solid while her mind betrayed her again. She pictured Emily laughing, that sweet, breathy giggle that made Veronica’s chest ache. She imagined the way her body might tremble if Veronica stepped closer, let her fingers ghost over that soft, sun-warmed skin, let them dip lower, under the edge of those ridiculous cutoffs, teasing the wetness she knew would be there, waiting, aching.

Fuck.

Emily wasn’t supposed to be her type. Veronica craved blonde bombshells, girls who radiated confidence, who knew how to use their bodies like weapons, who could meet Veronica’s intensity head-on and make her burn for it. Emily wasn’t that. Emily was smaller, softer, a quiet force that unsettled Veronica in ways she didn’t know how to name. And ASIAN! The only Asian Veronica could remember seeing in this town ... ever! But maybe that was why she couldn’t stop thinking about her. Why every stolen glance, every shy smile, every casual brush of skin against skin felt like it was pulling Veronica closer to the edge.