Grace had always prided herself on being in control. Lists, schedules, neatly labeled folders—her life was curated like a museum exhibit. Every step planned, every action intentional.
Which is exactly why she has no idea how she ended up here, on a sagging couch in Nani’s apartment, watching Wan roll a blunt with practiced ease.
“This isn’t your scene, is it?” Wan smirks, her fingers working deftly, long nails glinting under the dim, flickering light.
Grace glares at her. “I can be spontaneous.”
Wan raises an eyebrow. “Really? Because I had to physically drag you here after Nani offered us a deal.”
Grace shifts uncomfortably, glancing over at Nani, who sits on the other side of the room counting cash, utterly unbothered. She’s beautiful in that effortless way, hair half up, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, an aura of cool detachment that makes it impossible to tell whether she likes or merely tolerates them.
“I just don’t make a habit of buying drugs from—” Grace lowers her voice, “—a literal dealer.”
Nani smirks without looking up. “You’re buying from me, sweetheart, not the cartel. Relax.”
Grace’s mouth tightens, but Wan snickers and nudges her. “C’mon, you need this. Loosen up for once in your life.”
Grace exhales sharply. She hates when Wan does that—sees through her like she’s made of glass, calls her out without hesitation.
And maybe Wan has a point. Maybe she does need this.
So when Wan holds out the blunt, the end already lit, Grace hesitates for only a second before she takes it between her fingers. The room feels warmer, smaller, as she brings it to her lips. She inhales, the burn sharp and unfamiliar, but Wan is watching her like she’s waiting for something, and Grace refuses to back down.
The high creeps in slow, slipping beneath her skin like honey, softening the edges of everything. She leans back, exhales, and meets Wan’s gaze.
“See?” Wan murmurs, her voice lower now, smoother. “Told you.”
And maybe it’s the haze, maybe it’s the way Wan’s eyes glint in the dim light, or maybe it’s just been a long time coming—but when Grace tilts her head, when Wan leans in just a fraction, Nani groans from across the room.
“Jesus, not on my couch.”
Wan laughs, but she doesn’t pull away. And Grace? She’s not sure she wants her to.
The air between them is thick—smoke curling in slow ribbons toward the ceiling, mingling with the unspoken tension hanging heavy between Grace and Wan.
Grace feels… different. Lighter. Like the rigid framework of her carefully constructed life is dissolving at the edges, and all that’s left is the low thrum of her pulse and the weight of Wan’s gaze.
“I think I like you better like this,” Wan murmurs, amusement lacing her voice. She’s close enough that Grace can see the slight smudge of eyeliner beneath her left eye, the way her lips part just slightly when she exhales.
“I think I don’t care what you think,” Grace replies, but there’s no bite to it. She’s too relaxed to be sharp, too comfortable to build walls.
Wan just smirks and leans back, stretching out like a cat, her arm draped lazily over the back of the couch. “Sure, babe. Keep telling yourself that.”
From across the room, Nani makes a noise of mild disgust. “You two are exhausting.”
Grace turns her head—slowly, because everything feels slow now—and blinks at Nani. “You sell weed. Aren’t you supposed to be, like… chill?”
Nani snorts. “Yeah, well, my job gets a lot less fun when people start eye-fucking on my couch.”
Grace flushes, but Wan just grins wider. “Jealous?”
“Disgusted,” Nani corrects, shoving her wad of cash into her hoodie pocket. “And kind of annoyed, because you’re both bad at this.”
Wan raises a brow. “At smoking?”
“At flirting,” Nani deadpans. “It’s painful to watch.”
Grace opens her mouth to protest, but Wan cuts her off. “She’s right, you know.”
Grace glares. “I don’t flirt with you.”
“Babe, you’ve been flirting with me since the first time I called you a stuck-up control freak.”
“That’s not flirting,” Grace huffs.
Wan tilts her head, studying her. “Then what is it?”
Grace wants to argue, she really does. She wants to tell Wan she’s wrong, that whatever this is between them isn’t real, that it’s just the haze of the high, the dim light, the way everything feels a little softer around the edges.
But then Wan’s hand finds her knee, fingers just barely brushing over the fabric of her jeans, and suddenly, Grace can’t remember how to be in control.
The worst part?
She doesn’t want to.
The moment Wan’s fingers graze her knee, Grace’s body betrays her. Her breath stutters, her pulse thrums in her ears, and suddenly, she’s aware of everything—the way Wan is still watching her, the way her own hands feel too stiff in her lap, like they don’t know what to do with themselves.
She should pull away. She should laugh, roll her eyes, say something dismissive, because this is Wan and Wan is—
The person she can’t seem to stop thinking about.
“I think I’m too high for this conversation,” Grace mutters, dropping her head back against the couch.
Wan hums, her fingers still resting lightly against Grace’s knee. “I think you just don’t want to admit that you like me.”
Grace groans, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Oh my God, you’re insufferable.”
From the other side of the room, Nani sighs. “I can’t believe this is happening in my apartment. I sell drugs for a living, and yet this is the most questionable decision being made here tonight.”
Grace peeks through her fingers. “Are you just going to keep providing commentary?”
“Yeah,” Nani deadpans. “This is my entertainment for the evening.”
Wan laughs, low and lazy, and Grace hates how much she likes the sound. It’s always been this way with Wan—infuriating and magnetic all at once.
But this is different. This is new.
Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just that Grace has spent so long pretending she wasn’t looking, pretending she didn’t notice the way Wan’s lips curve when she smirks, or the way she always seems to find an excuse to touch her—just a nudge, a brush of fingers, a hand on the small of her back when she’s pushing through a crowd.
Maybe this has always been happening.
Maybe Grace has just been too stubborn to admit it.
Wan tilts her head, studying her. “You’re thinking too much.”
“Maybe you don’t think enough.”
Wan grins. “That’s why we balance each other out.”
Grace scoffs, but Wan’s fingers press just slightly against her knee, and suddenly, Grace isn’t sure she can breathe right.
She swallows. “I think I should go home.”
Wan leans back, finally taking her hand away, and the absence of her touch is worse than Grace expected. “If that’s what you want.”
Grace stands, ignoring the way her legs feel a little shaky. “I’ll see you later, Nani.”
Nani waves a hand, already pulling out her phone, uninterested now that the show is over.
Wan, however, just watches her, amusement still tugging at her lips. “You sure you don’t want to stay?”
Grace hesitates. Just for a second.
Then she forces herself to turn toward the door. “Goodnight, Wan.”
She doesn’t look back.
Grace makes it all the way to the door before she stops.
Her hand is on the knob, her head spinning—whether from the weed or the way Wan looks at her, she isn’t sure. Maybe both. Probably both.
She should leave.
She wants to leave.
Or at least, she tells herself she does.
But then Nani—who’s been ignoring them for the past few minutes, acting like she’s above it all—drawls lazily from the couch, “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”
Grace turns her head. “Pretend what?”
Nani flicks her lighter, the flame sparking before vanishing. “That you don’t want her. Or me. Or whatever’s happening here.”
Grace chokes. “What?”
Wan just grins. “She’s got a point, babe.”
Grace glares. “I am not your babe.”
Wan shrugs. “Yet.”
Nani sighs, stretching her legs out. “I mean, we could just sit here all night while you pretend to be conflicted, or…” She smirks, tilting her head. “You could stop overthinking for once and come back over here.”
Grace should leave. She should.
But the weed is making everything softer, fuzzier, and the way Wan and Nani are both looking at her—like they already know she’s going to stay—has her pulse thrumming in a way she can’t ignore.
“Jesus,” she mutters, rubbing her temples. “This is a terrible idea.”
Wan pats the couch beside her. “The best ones always are.”
And maybe it’s the high, or maybe it’s the fact that she’s been holding back for too damn long, but Grace sighs, then walks back toward them.
Nani smirks as she moves to sit down. “Good girl.”
Grace glares. “Don’t push it.”
But Nani just grins, and Wan drapes an arm over the back of the couch, fingers brushing against Grace’s shoulder.
“You’re gonna have fun, babe,” Wan murmurs. “Promise.”
And for once, Grace doesn’t fight it.
Grace doesn’t know who moves first.
Maybe it’s her—maybe it’s the weight of Wan’s fingers grazing her shoulder, the smug confidence in Nani’s smirk, the way her body feels warm and slow and wanting in a way she isn’t used to.
Or maybe it’s Wan, shifting closer, the smell of smoke and something sweet on her breath, her voice softer now when she murmurs, “Took you long enough.”
Either way, the moment happens, inevitable and electric—Grace turns her head just slightly, just enough for Wan’s lips to brush against hers, just enough for the tension to snap like a rubber band stretched too tight.
Wan kisses her slow, lazy, like she’s savoring it. Like she knew this would happen eventually and was just waiting for Grace to catch up.
Grace hates that she might be right.
A hand—warm, steady—lands on her thigh, fingers spreading just slightly, and Grace exhales sharply as she remembers that Nani is still there. Watching.
Waiting.
She pulls back from Wan, breath uneven, her heart hammering in her chest.
“I—”
“Relax,” Nani murmurs, voice low, teasing. “You’re thinking again.”
Grace glares at her, but Nani just smirks and leans in, dragging a slow, deliberate kiss along Grace’s jawline, just under her ear, her breath warm against her skin.
Grace shivers.
Wan laughs. “Told you you’d have fun.”
And then Nani’s hand slides up her thigh, Wan’s fingers thread through her hair, and Grace?
Grace finally stops thinking.
Grace doesn’t know where to focus.
Wan’s lips are warm against hers, slow and teasing, like she’s still daring her to let go. Nani’s hands are firm, sliding higher up Grace’s thigh, her breath hot against her neck. It’s overwhelming in the best way—too much and not enough at the same time.
She gasps when Wan deepens the kiss, fingers curling in the fabric of Grace’s shirt. The sensation is dizzying, her body thrumming with something she’s spent too long suppressing.
"You're cute when you lose control," Wan murmurs against her lips, and Grace shudders, torn between wanting to push her away and pulling her closer.
"Shut up," she breathes, but the words lose their edge when Nani nips at her earlobe, laughing quietly.
"Yeah, babe," Nani mocks. "Shut up."
Wan rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue—she just presses closer, lips trailing down Grace’s throat, leaving a slow-burning heat in their wake.
Grace should be embarrassed. She should feel something other than pure, undiluted desire.
But she doesn’t.
All she can do is exhale, let her head tip back against the couch, let herself feel.
Nani’s fingers slip under the hem of her shirt, skimming lightly over her stomach. “You’re still thinking too much.”
Grace exhales sharply. “And you two don’t think enough.”
Wan grins against her collarbone. “That’s why we work.”
And for once, Grace doesn’t argue.
She just gives in.
Grace doesn’t remember the exact moment she stops caring.
Maybe it’s when Wan’s hands slip under her shirt, fingers pressing into her skin, her touch slow and deliberate. Or maybe it’s when Nani tilts her chin up, eyes dark with amusement as she drags her teeth along the sensitive skin just below Grace’s ear, making her shiver.
Either way, there’s no turning back now.
"You still sure this is a bad idea?" Wan teases, her breath warm against Grace’s neck.
Grace exhales, her body thrumming with something between frustration and need. "Shut up."
Nani chuckles, shifting so she’s straddling Grace’s lap, her fingers trailing up her arms before settling on her shoulders. "She likes to be in charge," she muses, glancing at Wan. "But she also likes being told what to do."
Grace opens her mouth to protest, but Wan presses her lips to hers again, swallowing the words before they can form.
The kiss is slow, intoxicating—just like everything else about this moment.
Nani’s hands move, sliding down Grace’s sides, and Grace gasps into Wan’s mouth.
"See?" Nani murmurs against her jaw. "Told you."
Grace hates how easily they’re unraveling her.
Hates how much she likes it.
Wan pulls back just slightly, studying her with a knowing smirk. "Relax, babe. Just let go."
And for the first time in her life, Grace does.
She stops thinking.
She stops fighting.
She just feels.
Grace has never felt like this before—like she’s unraveling and burning all at once. Like every touch, every breath, is drawing her deeper into something she can’t control.
And she doesn’t want to control it.
Not when Wan’s lips are hot and insistent against hers, not when Nani’s hands skim the curve of her waist, slow and deliberate, like she’s taking her time memorizing every inch of her.
“You’re thinking again,” Nani murmurs against her neck, her voice teasing but soft.
Grace shudders. “I—”
Wan bites her lower lip, just enough to make her breath hitch. “No talking.”
Grace doesn’t argue.
She can’t.
Not when Nani’s lips are trailing down her collarbone, not when Wan is tugging her even closer, like she wants to consume her entirely.
It’s overwhelming. It’s too much.
It’s perfect.
Nani’s fingers slip beneath the hem of her shirt, teasing the bare skin beneath. “You sure you want this?”
It’s the first time either of them has asked, the first time someone has given Grace an out.
And she realizes, in this moment, that she doesn’t want one.
So she exhales, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet Nani’s gaze, and she nods.
Wan grins, lazy and knowing. “Good girl.”
And then, there’s no more hesitation.
No more thinking.
No more pretending.
Just the three of them, tangled together in the dim light, giving in completely.
The room is heavy with the scent of sweat, weed, and something sharper—something like regret.
Grace lies between them, tangled limbs, ragged breath, the afterglow of something reckless and inevitable. But the haze is thinning now, and reality is creeping back in like a slow poison.
None of them are supposed to be here.
Not together.
Not like this.
Wan is the first to move, sitting up, running a hand through her messy hair, smirking like she always does. Like she knows something no one else does.
“So,” she exhales, stretching. “What now?”
Nani shifts, rolling onto her side, watching them both with dark, unreadable eyes. “That depends.”
Grace blinks up at the ceiling, her body still humming from the high, from the heat, from everything they shouldn’t have done. “On what?”
Nani’s fingers trail up Grace’s arm, soft and slow—too soft. “On who pulls the trigger first.”
Silence.
The words hang in the air, thick and suffocating.
Then Wan laughs—low and dangerous. “Figures.”
Grace’s pulse spikes. “You’re kidding.”
Nani tilts her head. “Am I?”
She isn’t.
None of them are.
Because this was never just sex. It was never just tension and bad decisions and shared cigarettes in the dim light of Nani’s apartment.
It was always going to end like this.
Wan shifts, her hand sliding beneath the couch cushion, and Grace doesn’t need to see it to know what she’s reaching for.
She reacts on instinct.
The gun beneath the coffee table—Nani’s insurance policy—is cold in Grace’s grip, the weight of it grounding her, steadying her shaking hands.
Wan’s smirk flickers. “Well, shit.”
Nani doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. “You sure about this, babe?”
Grace’s chest rises and falls, her breath shaky. “Are you?”
Nani smiles. “Always.”
Then she lunges.
The gun goes off.
A sharp crack, deafening in the small apartment.
Wan moves fast—too fast—but Grace fires again, and this time, she doesn’t miss.
Wan staggers, pressing a hand to her stomach, dark blood spreading between her fingers. She stares at Grace, eyes wide, more surprised than angry.
“Damn,” she breathes, collapsing against the couch. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Grace’s hands are shaking now, but she forces herself to keep her grip steady.
Nani coughs, a red bloom spreading across her hoodie, but she’s laughing.
Laughing.
Like she knew it would always come to this.
Like she’s okay with it.
“You think you’re leaving here alive?” she murmurs, blood on her lips, but her fingers are still moving, still reaching for the blade strapped to her thigh.
Grace doesn’t hesitate.
She pulls the trigger one last time.
Nani’s body jerks, then stills, her laughter cut off in an instant.
Silence.
Smoke curls from the barrel of the gun, filling the air with something bitter and final.
Grace lets the weapon slip from her fingers, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
The room is still.
Wan’s head lolls to the side, a smirk frozen on her lips even as the light fades from her eyes.
Nani is sprawled across the floor, her hoodie stained dark, her body limp.
And Grace?
Grace is alone.
She closes her eyes, leans back against the couch, and laughs—soft, breathless, empty.
She was always the responsible one. The one with the plan.
But now?
Now, there’s nothing left but the bodies cooling beside her, the scent of blood mixing with smoke, and the knowledge that no one—no one—gets out alive.
Not from this.
Not from them.
The funeral is a disaster.
Three caskets, side by side, each more expensive than the last—because even in death, someone cared about appearances. But no one really mourns. No one sheds a single genuine tear.
Because no one liked them.
Not Wan, with her sharp tongue and reckless smirk. Not Nani, with her half-lidded stares and drug deals in dark corners. And certainly not Grace, the control freak turned cold-blooded killer.
They were a mess. A walking catastrophe. A trio of bad decisions waiting to happen.
And now, they’re gone.
No one gives a speech.
No one wants to.
Instead, people whisper—soft, scathing, vicious.
“She always thought she was better than everyone,” someone mutters about Grace, sipping lukewarm funeral coffee.
“Wan would’ve robbed us blind if she thought she could get away with it,” another says, side-eyeing the casket.
“And Nani? God, I’m just glad she’s not selling weed to my nephew anymore.”
A breeze kicks up, rattling the half-dead flowers someone begrudgingly placed near the headstones. The priest mutters something about redemption, but it’s drowned out by the sound of someone retching.
And then another.
And another.
One by one, the funeral-goers start puking.
Someone stumbles back, hand clamped over their mouth. “What the hell—”
More vomit. More dry-heaving.
An old woman—some distant relative no one actually liked—drops to her knees, violently spewing onto the grass.
The whispers turn into chaos.
“Was it the catering?”
“No, no, I knew they were cursed!”
“They were disgusting in life, of course they’d make us sick in death.”
A few people try to leave, but it’s too late. The stench is everywhere—bile, sweat, bad decisions, regret.
By the time the sun starts to set, the graveyard is ruined—grass stained, dignity lost, the memory of Wan, Grace, and Nani forever associated with one thing:
A funeral so vile that it made everyone vomit.
And maybe, if there’s an afterlife, they’re watching it all unfold, Wan smirking, Nani shrugging, Grace rolling her eyes.
Because of course, even in death, they leave nothing behind but a mess.