The noise didn’t just fill the house. It invaded it. Bass lines rumbled through floorboards like distant artillery. The kind you feel before you hear. Windows hummed. Floor joists muttered, like they’d had enough.

By the stairs, a kid looked one breath away from surrender. He’d clapped his hands over his ears and fled like a hostage released from a nightclub-themed hostage crisis.

The floors clung to shoes and memories. Every step tugged at soles like the tile wanted to keep someone--anyone--there forever. Like it was lonely or something. It wasn’t music anymore, just pressure, relentless and low, like weather turning against you. For the newest arrivals, it chewed at their nerves like static through a cracked speaker.

Strings of fairy lights sputtered, casting a woozy glow over a living room crushed under couches and noise. Breathing felt optional. Elbows and red cups collided in a blur of sweat and perfume. Beer spread beneath the crowd like an offering, half-dried and sticky. Every squk of sneakers protested underfoot. Vanilla body spray and old citrus candle wax waged chemical warfare in the air, summoning an unwanted memory: Sarah’s aunt’s beach house. The one that always smelled like Bath & Body Works lost a bet with a fruit stand. Laughter bounced off the walls, tangled with the sounds of a party hitting escape velocity.

Annie, the sorority president, didn’t just stand, she occupied. Spine straight as a steel ruler, black dress so tight it could’ve been spray-painted on. Her hair was flawless; every soft wave caught the light like it owed her money. She looked like a Bond villain crossed with a Vogue spread: lethal, glossy, and absolutely in charge. Her smile--champagne meets arson--sliced through the din like a switchblade. The crowd feared her more than FOMO.

A spoon clanked against a stolen cup, and chatter flatlined. The melody bailed, leaving only bass--deep, bruised, and relentless.

“Alright, you heathens…” Annie barked, ducking a flying Solo cup. “Chill, Chad. This is our anniversary bash. You’re welcome.” Squk. Squk. Annie’s glare froze the culprit mid-step, like a dog caught pissing on the rug.

“This isn’t a party. It’s our annual descent into chaos.” A phone buzzed. Murmurs rippled. “Tonight, I’m the one holding the matches.” The room leaned in. Someone knocked over a cup, but no one looked. What’s she up to? Annie’s plans were the stuff of legend--sometimes iconic, often slightly illegal. This? It was branding-iron memorable.

Sarah hovered by the punch bowl, half-invisible, like she majored in vanishing. Her cup, sticky and red, like melted gummy bears, clung stubbornly to her palm. Her cardigan was buttoned up to the neck. Never mind that the house felt like Satan’s sauna. Same old Sarah, tucked inside her sweater fortress, wondering if anyone had noticed she’d been standing there for--what?--an hour?

It was always like that: walls up, sweaters as armor. After that high school heartbreak, she’d mastered the art of disappearing. As long as she stayed wrapped in cotton and anonymity, she felt safe.

Until Phil.

He'd seen through it from day one. She’d been hunched over Pride and Prejudice in the Student Union, soda the size of her head in hand. “You’ll have to drink that faster if you want to make the Soda Olympics,” he’d said. She’d laughed, real and loud, like something cracked open inside her. Coffee dates followed, then pizza nights, curfew-breaking walks, his hand slipping into hers naturally, like it belonged there, not like some awkward, last-minute accessory. “You’re a gem,” he’d said.

He saw her. Really saw her. Sarah had dreamed of a love like that, honest, steady, real, but never believed it could be hers. That kind of love was for girls with fewer walls, less baggage, and better Wi-Fi. But Phil stayed. Even when she pulled back. Even when she flinched. That scared her more than being alone.

The party raged, but Sarah was background noise. Wallpaper. Her punch had gone flat and warm. Gross. Why did I even come? Same nerves, same hiding. God, am I always gonna be this way? Shoulda stayed in my room.

Amanda swept in, brash, brassy and bold, her chipped bracelet jangling like a warning bell. “Sarah,” she said, voice low and direct, slicing through the noise. “You’re doing this.”

Sarah flinched. “I’m fine,” she muttered. “Really.”

“No way,” Amanda said, leaning in. “You're not hiding tonight. This is your shot.”

Shot? Sarah’s pulse spiked. “Amanda, me? On stage? I’d die. I’d actually die. I can’t even wear a tank top without blushing.”

Amanda’s grin was all trouble. “Exactly. You’re not that girl anymore. Phil flipped your switch last week, and you know it.”

“Amanda!” Sarah hissed, cheeks burning. “Keep your voice down.”

No one knew about that night. The way she'd wanted, asked, and let herself feel. Phil's hands--slow, careful, electric--had lit her from the inside out. He hadn’t just touched her. He’d seen her.

Amanda knew. She’d seen Sarah sneak in at 3 a.m., cardigan slipping off, hair mussed, lit up like a ballpark. “Chill,” Amanda said, waving it off. “Nobody’s listening. Oh, Phil’s here. He asked about you.”

“He’s here?” Sarah turned instinctively. Phil stood by the doorway, red cup in hand, relaxed and laughing, clueless about the chaos Amanda just sparked.

“What’ll he think?” Sarah whispered, picking at a thread on her sleeve.

Amanda snorted. “He’ll lose his mind. Proud as hell. Watching you shine.”

“Really?” Sarah’s voice was small.

“Yeah. Plus, you’ve got the best ass in the whole house. It’s a crime to hide it."

“Shut up!” Sarah laughed, mortified. Her? Best ass? Hidden under cardigans and loose skirts?

Best ass, doe eyes, smile like a secret: Amanda rattled off her assets like she was reciting someone else’s résumé.

“My family would freak,” Sarah mumbled.

“They’re not here.”

“Our pledge class?”

“They’d be shocked. But they’d cheer. Claire’d probably throw confetti.”

“Really?”

“They’d see what I see: a badass stepping up, owning her power.” Amanda softened. “You’re gorgeous, Sarah. Stop hiding.”

"You think I really could?" Her voice was barely a whisper.

Amanda didn’t blink. “I know you can.”

Something shifted. A door creaked open in her chest. Sarah's heart pounded. Annie never even mentioned the contest to her, just Amanda and Jennie. Like Sarah didn’t matter. That hurt more than she cared to admit. They think I’m a joke.

Joining Annie’s contest terrified her, but Amanda’s words echoed Phil’s touch--scary but amazing. A tiny yes stirred, small, shaky, but alive.

Not stripping…revealing. Music throbbing. Lights spinning. Her cardigan falling, not a loss, but a rebirth. They’ll see me.

“I can’t,” she murmured.

“You can,” Amanda said, softer now. “You need to.”

“Good girls don’t do this,” Sarah mumbled, like she was saying it for the last time.

Amanda leaned closer, teasing. “Good girls don’t sneak out of their boyfriend’s bed at 3 a.m., either.”

Sarah gasped. Amanda really went there.

“Remember what you told me, Sarah? Scary but amazing? This is like that, only more so.”

Sarah stared into her cup. The punch was flat and warm. She thought of Phil: his hands, his whisper, how she trembled, but didn’t stop. The way he’d made her feel beautiful because she was her.

“This would feel like that?” she whispered.

Amanda nodded. “Exactly. Phil’s jaw dropping. You, shining like a damn star. Not Punchbowl Girl; woman. Kick that cage open.”

She could see it--blurry, but real. The stage. Her body in motion. The audience breathless. Phil’s eyes wide. Applause. Seen.

“I don’t know…”

“You do,” Amanda said, gently. “You’ve just never believed it.”

Sarah swallowed hard. What if I could? What if this is the moment I stop hiding?

Amanda touched her arm. “Do it for you, okay? Not for me, not for Phil, for you. For Sarah. Because you deserve it.” Sarah exhaled, trembling.

"Come on, you know you want to," Amanda pressed. “Admit it. It'll be fun. Just think about it, okay?”

Sarah hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll… think about it.”

Amanda grinned. “That’s my girl.” And she vanished.

Sarah’s fingers eased off the cup. Not yes. Not yet. But not no. Her skin tingled.

She couldn’t.

She might.

She shouldn’t.

She wanted to.

The crowd buzzed, drunk on drama and riding a high of beer and anticipation. Annie clapped, voice pitched with excitement. “To our anniversary bash!” she shouted, grinning wickedly. “We go big, but tonight’s lit.” The room crackled. Annie’s heel tapped, deliberate. “Not just a party…” she purred. “A Striptease Showdown.”

The audience roared, a wild wave of noise crashing against the walls--hands clapping, feet stomping, bass thumping like a heartbeat in overdrive.

Sarah clutched her cardigan, heart pounding like a drumbeat against her ribs. They were fearless: bold, loud, unashamed. Could she be that girl? The heat of the crowd buzzed through the room, wild and electric, daring her to step into the light.

The audience roared. Annie bit her lip, tossing a glance at Steve. “Here’s how it works,” she said. “One chair. No props. Contestants take it all off. The winner chooses a partner for the night. One rule: you can’t pick your own boyfriend.”

Cheers turned feral.

She rattled off the lineup, six sorority sisters bold enough to bare it all:

Jennie, Sarah’s sorority “big sister,” six feet of blonde, hazel-eyed Amazon confidence. Her body was a linebacker's nightmare: busty, sculpted, and rumored to have once shoulder-checked a frat bro into a kiddie pool. She didn’t walk. She stalked. Her hips said: I own this stage.

Betsy, cute, wild, busty redhead with a mischievous bob, a let’s-make-bad-decisions grin, and a dress that barely counted as clothing. House VP. Loyal to Jack...mostly.

Amanda, Sarah’s brassy roommate, fresh off a breakup, wearing revenge: red crop top, black leather mini, and enough attitude to burn the place down. She wasn’t here to dance. She was here to detonate.

Debbie, a sultry brunette with a reputation like spilled ink: everywhere and impossible to forget. Teased Charlie tonight. Tomorrow? Sparks would fly. People still talked about when she and Jennie swapped partners.

Penny, short, sharp, auburn-haired, fearless. Lived for the spotlight. Zero hesitation. Infectious laugh. Born for this.

“And… uh, me,” Annie added, her cool slipping just long enough for a giggle. The crowd went insane.

Annie's voice cut through the bedlam again: "Let's give it up for our six contestants!”

Sarah’s fingers twisted her cardigan’s sleeve. This is it.

“Seven.” Soft, shaky, firm. Heads turned. Chatter stopped. Quiet, demure Cardigan Sarah stepped forward. Chin up, hands trembling. Amanda’s grin spread slowly, like dawn.

Phil’s beer froze halfway to his lips. Sarah? His Sarah? His jaw dropped. Beer sloshed over his hand. He didn’t even notice.

Annie blinked. “I count six,” she insisted, trying again, repeating the names like facts could stop time.

Sarah climbed onto the stage. Her voice rang out, steadier than she felt. “Seven, Annie. I’m in.”

Annie gawked, gobsmacked. “SARAH?” Her voice hit library-scream pitch. She looked like she’d seen a ghost. Cardigan Sarah? Punchbowl Girl? She pounded her chest, half-laughing, half-stunned. “You sure?” It sounded sweet, but it was a shove: This isn’t you. Go back to the punch bowl. But Sarah wasn’t going anywhere.

Sarah nodded, knees wobbly, hands shaking. But her eyes were fire. Her gut begged her to walk away but her mouth said, “Totally.” No more hiding, no more what if. Tonight, she wasn’t asking. She was claiming. No turning back. Cardigan Sarah? Toast.

The rickety stage creaked beneath her. A can rolled underfoot. The crowd was half stunned, half amused.

“Wait… Sarah? For real?” someone laughed.

Amanda winked. A high-five from across the room. Phil’s grin spread wide--shocked, proud, locked in. She’s got this, his eyes screamed. He knew what it took: mornings over coffee. 2 a.m. porch talks. Walks that went long on purpose. Poems she let slip through cracked armor. Her walls, once steel, now glass. She wasn’t his gem to uncover anymore. She was blazing.

For me. For him. For us.

She was here, burning bright. And even he hadn’t seen this coming. Then, just for a second, his smile faltered slightly. The heat, the sweaty crowd, the spotlight, Annie. Could she really do this?

Too late. Sarah was up there, and she wasn’t backing down.

Whispers hit like a bar fight, sharp and chaotic. “Wait…is that--?”

“No freaking way.”

“Cardigan Sarah?” The crowd buzzed like someone dropped a lit match in a bottle of tequila. Laughter, gasps, disbelief. The whole idea was absurd on the face of it.

Annie’s smile cracked, tight and glassy. She’s serious? A few snorts. A stray gasp. Punchbowl Girl? In the Striptease Showdown? This had to be some kind of joke. She’s crashing my party. Stealing my spotlight.

Not Sarah. Not cardigan-wrapped, sweaters-in-July, apologizes-when-you-bump-into-her Sarah. Not in a million years. She wasn’t bold. Wasn’t wild. Wasn’t even invited to enter. Annie hadn’t told her for a reason. Sarah was supposed to pour the punch, blend into the furniture, and stay out of the way. Yet here she was, shaking, upright, and owning space Annie hadn’t offered. I swear to God...

Sarah’s knees wobbled, but her eyes lit up like a fuse. This is my moment. She pulsed with fear and fire, every nerve awake. No turning back.

Annie’s voice cracked as she forced the words out. “Our, um, seven contestants!” Her tone hit like dry ice, cold, brittle, and gone on contact. She’ll choke. She has to.

Then it hit. The crowd erupted. For Sarah. Cheers slammed into her like thunder: wild, unfiltered, real, like a Bronx bar after a Yankees homer. Sarah blinked then straightened. Deep breath. Her eyes blazed. I’m here. Sarah wasn’t fearless. She was terrified and doing it anyway.

Annie’s smirk evaporated, burned off like fog in fire. They’re cheering her? Punchbowl Girl? Her contest, her spotlight, stolen. This was supposed to be her resurrection. Her legend. Not cardigan-girl’s coming out.

The judges flopped into place: Steve, Casey from the baseball team, Charlie (Debbie’s guy, already sweating every time she looked his way), and two frat bros, probably too drunk to judge anything but beer pong. Their names vanished in the roar.

Backstage, the contestants drew numbers. Sarah’s fingers fumbled the folded slip: four. Smack in the middle. Her gut screamed, No, but something louder surged up inside her: heat, resolve, the quiet roar of finally. Of enough. Of I’m doing this. Not for them. For me. “Breathe, girl,” she whispered. Her legs were jelly, but her spine was steel.

Annie leaned in, voice syrupy-sweet and razor-sharp. “Sarah, you don’t have to do this, y’know.” Total BS. It was a shove, dressed up as kindness. A push masked as concern. Scram, Punchbowl Girl. Another jab, trying to knock Sarah out before she even stepped up.

Sarah stared her down. “I need to, Annie,” she said, voice quiet but firm. “I want to.” Her fists clenched, nails biting her palms. I’m not hiding anymore. Cardigan Sarah? Donezo.

Annie’s eyes slit, like, Need to? Who the hell does this chick think she is? “Whatever,” she spat, turning on her heel like Sarah was a fly in her wine.

Amanda grabbed Sarah’s shoulder. “You’re a damn knockout,” she hissed, all fire and pride. Sarah’s chest lit up. Annie caught it. Her jaw clenched. Her glare sharpened. Amanda. Of course.

Debbie sashayed out, owning the rickety stage the instant her heel touched wood. Her red dress clung to her like a second skin, skimming her thighs. Dark hair tumbled over her shoulders, messy, wild, intentional. Her smoky eyes locked on Charlie--judge, boyfriend, caught somewhere between duty and desire. Her hips swiveled slowly and smoothly. Predator mode: engaged. She wasn’t performing. She was hunting.

The sweaty crowd went berserk: whistles, yowls, “Go Debbie!” She soaked it in like champagne. Then she moved: smooth, fluid, utterly in control. “C’mon, Charlie. Watch,” she purred, tracing a nail along her neckline. Straps slid. Her dress hit the floor. Now her black lace bra and panties were center stage.

“Hot damn!” a dude hollered, voice cracking. She spun, ass arched just so. A smug, teasing smile curled across her lips. The crowd roared louder. Her bra flew. Some guy in the back caught it, his fist pumping like he’d just won March Madness. Then came her panties--slow, teasing. She bent low, flashed the crowd, no shame, all power. Gasps rippled. She kicked them aside like confetti and climbed onto the chair, naked and gleaming under flickering lights. She struck a pose--knee up, hands on hips, skin glowing. Charlie looked wrecked. Bullseye! She blew him a sassy kiss, strutting off, her hips swaying like an exclamation mark.

“Damn, Debbie!” The crowd erupted. Girls cheered. Guys hollered. Sarah flinched instinctively. How do I follow that?

Debbie had conquered the stage. Sarah wasn’t even sure she belonged in the building. Her heart thudded like a warning. Her knees shook. Her brain screamed retreat, but her feet didn’t move. You said you wanted this, remember?

Then Penny bounded onstage, a pint-sized dynamo, all curves and chaos, auburn ponytail swinging. Her green mini-dress sparkled dazzlingly under the lights. Her grin could’ve powered the whole building. Tiny but electric, she crackled like live wire. “Let’s go wild!” she shouted, arms flung wide. Cheers shook the rafters. Every move sent her hips and chest jiggling, animated and wild, like a cartoon gone rogue.

The bass hit. Penny twirled too fast, too fun, skirt flying, pink panties flashing. “Oops!” she giggled, winking. The crowd lost it. She flopped into the chipped-paint chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs like a hyper burlesque queen. Then--whooooosh--her dress sailed off, snagged by a frat bro waving it like a battle flag. “Want more?” she teased. Her bra straps slid. Off it came, boobs bouncing free. The room nearly combusted.

“Penny! Penny!” the crowd roared, drunk on glitter and adrenaline. Her panties followed, slow and shameless, full of flair. Her grin screamed Gotcha! Naked as a jaybird, she slung a leg over the creaky chair, ass out, laughing like she’d just pulled the greatest prank in party history. Then--bam!--a freaking cartwheel. She landed in a sweaty, glorious, totally unnecessary split, ponytail plastered to her neck, arms high like she’d just won Olympic gold. “That’s how you do it!” she hollered, waving as she skipped off to deafening cheers.

“Penny’s wild!” some girl cackled. Sarah clutched her number four paper like it might fly away. The stage still shimmered from Penny’s glittery chaos. Sarah stood in the shadow of a human fireworks display. Can I match that? No cartwheels in her. No glitter bra. Just shaking hands and hope.

Betsy sashayed out, red bob bouncing, blue dress hugging her curves, green eyes locked on Jack. “Yo, Jack, you watchin'?” she called, sass cranked to eleven. Sarah’s stomach knotted. So fierce. So sure of herself.

A slow, smoky jazz beat slunk in, thick as molasses. Betsy swayed, hips rolling, hands gliding over her body like she was discovering it for the first time. Her dress dropped, hitting the ramshackle stage. Beer cans clattered somewhere behind her. Underneath, emerald-green bra and panties sparkled under the lights. The crowd drank her in, hooked on her sly grin. They were digging her vibe: slow burn, total control.

“Let’s heat this up,” she purred. Her grin widened as she unhooked her bra, letting it fall, boobs out, bold, unapologetic. She held the moment: beat, breath, stare. Let them look. Cheers swelled. Next came the panties: slow, measured. She bent just enough to tease. Paused. Owned it. The crowd lost their minds. Naked, she slung a leg over the chair’s arm and struck a pose. Sass incarnate. Then a curtsy. She flounced off, kissing Jack hard, on the lips, like she’d just won a prize. He grinned, half-smug, half-dazed, totally hers. The crowd was berserk.

“Betsy’s got game!” a dude yelled. Girls exchanged glances. A few laughed, shocked and impressed.. Sarah’s pulse slammed. Can I bring that fire? Can I be that fierce?

Then it was Sarah’s turn.

Annie sidled up, all syrup and venom. “Last chance to back out,” she hissed. Sarah just smiled and stepped onto the stage. Gonna puke. What the hell am I doing? Her knees wobbled, but her spine? Steel. I’m here. I’m doing this.

The other girls shifted, eyeing Sarah like a riddle. Whispers rippled through the crowd: “Cardigan girl? No way, she’ll bolt."

"Ten seconds, max.”

“She’s out.”

The crowd was sharp, mean. Their taunts slashed. “Here comes the punchline!” a frat boy jeered.

Annie’s frozen smile stretched too tight. “She’ll choke,” she hissed, teeth clenched. This wasn’t her show anymore. This was a mutiny.

Phil’s grin lit up: She’s got this. They don’t know her like I do.

From the wings, Amanda whispered, “Knock ’em dead.”

Claire clutched Jake’s arm in the crowd, eyes blazing. “Go get ’em, sister!” she shouted.

Sarah strode to center stage like a cartoon come to life, cardigan, scarf, gloves, hat, a modest black dress that said church, not chaos. The room hooted. “Knitting club’s that way!”

“Layers at a strip contest?”

“Did she bring her grandma?”

For the first time, Sarah felt whole. Not just adrenaline, belonging. Every sense hummed. Her heart slammed. Click. Click. Click. Her cardigan hit the stage. The crowd gasped.

“Oh my GOD, she just killed Cardigan Sarah!” a girl squealed. Yes, Sarah thought, that was the point.

Sarah yanked her hat off. Her hair spilled wildly. She peeled her gloves off slowly, finger by finger. The scarf dropped. She smiled, shy but blazing. Her black dress hugged every curve: waist, hips, thighs, an ass to die for. Real. Gorgeous.

“Cardigan Sarah’s HOT!” a dude hollered.

Hot? Me? Sarah’s gut buzzed. She reached for the hem of the dress and slipped it off.

A collective gasp. Then chaos--cheers, screams, wild applause.

Black garters.

Phil’s jaw hit the floor. Garters? Where the hell did she get garters? Sarah propped a leg on the rickety chair and peeled a stocking off--slow, sultry, eyes locked on Phil. She tossed it his way. “For you,” she mouthed. Phil snagged it, grinning like it was gold. Holy hell.

The second stocking came off even more slowly. Sarah bent low, ass out, graceful, audacious. Toss. Kiss. Screams.

“Wait, what?--Cardigan Sarah’s got a BOYFRIEND?!” some guy shouted. Yeah. I do. He’s sweet.

She turned, trembling, unhooked her bra, paused, then dropped it. Her boobs caught the lights, round, proud, radiant.

The room detonated. The judges blinked, stunned. Pens scratched furiously.

Sarah turned…so slowly, back to the crowd. She bent with theatrical flair, thumbs in her panties, fingers teasing the waistband. She slid them down inch by inch, ass popping, thighs flexing, pure flair. The crowd went nuclear.

She twirled, waving the panties like a victory flag, eyes blazing. She tossed them to Phil with a wink, then another kiss.

“And…they…DID IT?!” someone shrieked. Yeah. We did. It was amazing.

Phil clutched the stockings and panties like they were sacred artifacts, grinning like he’d won the World Series, Super Bowl, an Oscar, a Tony, all at the same time. Framing these.

Applause rose like a wave cresting. Deafening. Delirious. Real.

Backstage, Amanda blinked.. “I have to go on after THAT?”

Sarah bowed--low, proud, owning it. I did it. I really did it. She hadn’t just undressed. She had arrived. They'd come to watch her fall. She made them rise.

“Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!” A chant. A roar. A coronation. She hadn’t just killed Cardigan Sarah. She’d buried her in silk and confidence.

Debbie whistled, Betsy, Penny, and Jennie clapped, shocked, amazed, impressed. Annie gaped, jaw slack. “I can’t believe she pulled it off,” she mumbled.

At the DJ table, Emily shook her head, curls bouncing. "Sarah? Of all people?" She shook her head. "If Cardigan Sarah can do that, what the hell am I doing back here? I'm in next time."

Then Amanda.

She didn’t walk. She strode. Like the floor owed her rent. Like the room was hers and always had been. She stormed the rickety stage like it was her kingdom. Her red tank top was stretched tight, black leather mini barely clinging to her thighs, one earring gone, the other chipped, glinting defiance--classic Amanda. She had wild hair, scrunched lips, eyes that screamed trouble. Chaos in heels.

“Ready for this?” she shouted, voice cutting through the noise, grinning like she’d already won. The crowd didn’t roar. They howled. They shook the bitchin' walls.

No dainty steps. She danced like a storm--shoulders rolling, hips smacking the beat like a drumline with a grudge, hands on her curves like she’d set herself ablaze. Every beat was a dare, every move a challenge. She didn’t perform. She declared. In one fierce pull, her tank top came off. Gone. She flung it into the mob. Some dude snagged it like a knight with a holy relic, waving it like a battle flag. “Hell yeah!” he hollered.

Amanda winked. “Cute,” she mouthed. Underneath was a black bra, tight and bouncing to the beat. Her hands teased the straps--on, off, pause--then, snap. Tossed like a match onto gasoline. Cheers hit like cannon fire. A bomb. A riot. A war cry.

“Who wants this?” she purred, all heat, all fire. Laughter. Screams. Someone nearly fell off a chair. Amanda hiked up her leather mini, showing a black thong. She spun it like a lasso, slow and wicked. Every eye followed.

Then she spotted Kenny. Her grin softened, just a flicker. Just for a second, she wasn’t fire. She was warmth. Him. She flung it his way. Direct hit. Kenny nabbed it like fate just kissed him on the mouth, eyes wide, like he'd just been hit by lightning.

“Hold that,” she mouthed. Now she stood there: bare, sweat-slick, gleaming. Stage lights burned. Cheers pounded. She spun, hips snapping, claiming every inch of the stage. The moment was hers.

Amanda slung a leg over the creaky chair, center stage, ass out, back arched, hands on hips, then spun, eyes blazing, daring you to blink. She dipped low, cheek brushing wood, then rose -- slow, deliberate, unbothered. This wasn’t a performance. It was a statement. This was Amanda.

Hair flip. Grin. Wink. “Catch ya,” she said, strutting off, scoping for Kenny.

“Amanda’s a damn wildfire!” someone yelled. Girls screamed. Guys lost their minds. Kenny just stood there, thong in hand, looking like he’d just witnessed God and survived. Sarah watched, heart still racing. That’s my best friend.

Next: Annie.

She didn’t walk on. She arrived. Like a queen stepping off a chariot. That black dress--clingy, lethal--moved like silk trained for war. Her hair spilled wildly, like a shampoo commercial crossed with a Bond villain. Her emerald eyes locked the room. The crowd just...fell silent. She didn’t command it. She just expected it.

“Yo,” she said, voice husky, smoky, unimpressed. One glance at Steve. Brow up. Possession confirmed. “Ready?” He gave the tiniest smirk. Hell yeah.

Sarah’s gut twisted. Big leagues.

Annie didn’t dance; she owned. Her hands slid down her hips: surgical, precise. Not seduction, control. Then, with zero ceremony, her dress dropped to the floor. Gasps ripped through the room: red lingerie: brazen, unexpected, so not her usual polish. Bold as hell. Her bra hugged a body that stopped hearts. Annie just stood there, calm as glass, like, So what? Like it was just another Tuesday. No coyness. No giggle. This was hunger, fire, command.

She approached the rickety chair like it was beneath her. She settled in like a queen on a borrowed throne, legs uncrossed like a dare, every movement slow, measured, dangerous. Eyes pinned the room. Look all you want. The crowd leaned in. Someone spilled a drink. No one moved.

“Let’s raise the stakes,” she purred, like steel wrapped in silk. Her bra hit the floor. The crowd went bonkers. Raising the stakes, indeed.

She peeled off her panties slowly, deliberately, like she’d scripted every frame. No fluff. No shimmy. This was strategy in skin. Her ass caught the lights, popped just enough to make them ache, daring the crowd to blink. Even naked, she looked dressed: wrapped in intent, not cloth. She didn’t pose. She chilled there, one leg slung over the tacky chair’s arm, spine loose, smirk locked, like the stage belonged to her. She gave them a long look, like, Go ahead, stare. She spun, hands on hips, smirk locked. “That’s it,” she said, voice dripping swagger. No wink. No bow. Just turned on her heel. Done.

The place detonated. Applause rose like a wave cresting. Deafening. Delirious. Gasps, a rising, reverent hum.

“Annie's a goddamn legend!” a dude hollered. Girls clustered together, whispering fast, shocked-laughing, half-stunned. Dudes sat stunned like they’d just seen the Second Coming in heels. Steve leaned back, grinning like a man who knew lightning always struck his side of the field.

“Unreal,” another guy shouted, dazed.

Sarah stood frozen, stomach twisting. I held my own… right?

Then Amanda’s hand squeezed hers backstage, the buzz still humming from Annie’s vibe: warm, steady, anchoring. Amanda didn’t say a word, but her eyes did. You got this.

And then…thunder.

Not applause, Jennie. Jennie charged the stage like a damn tank, six feet of grit, white dress clinging like it was scared to let go. Her blonde ponytail wagged back and forth. Her hazel eyes burned. "C’mon, let’s go!’ she bellowed, stomping like she was starting a riot. The crowd rose to meet her. Instant. Electric.

Sarah’s breath caught. She’s relentless. She’s not even performing. She’s just… Jennie.

Jennie spun, dress flaring, white panties flashing. Then--rip--the dress was history, yanked like it pissed her off. Underneath that was a white bra, matching panties, soaked, hugging every curve. Her body didn’t flex; it owned.

“Who’s in?” she shouted, her voice low, husky, charged. Then her bra flew off, tits out, no games. The crowd detonated.

No blush, no flutter. Just that grin. Arms up, biceps flexed, her ponytail slicked back like she’d run through a warzone, unbothered, unshaken. She straddled the chair like she meant to pin it. Sharp, slow-burn sexy, utterly unapologetic. Legs wide, sweat dripping, she looked like a statue. She was a damn force, a freight train in lingerie. And then, in a flash, her panties were gone. One kick, into the crowd. Screaming, someone caught them like a touchdown.

Jennie stood there, naked, feet planted, chin high: not asking, not waiting, claiming. A goddess. Then--bam!--she vaulted off, fist pumped, like she'd just won bar fight, the Super Bowl, and a gold medal all at once.

“That’s my girl!” Betsy shrieked, half-crying, half-laughing. Annie blinked, gave a slow, grudging nod. Respect.

Some guy behind the judges' table just lost his mind. “Jennie’s a BEAST!” Girls whooped, buzzing off her fire.

Sarah's stomach twisted backstage. Her body remembered the stage like a bruise. Did I match that? Did I even come close? Did I even belong in the same show?

Amanda leaned closer. “You lit the fuse,” she whispered. “They’re not following Jennie. They’re chasing you.” Sarah blinked, heart thudding. The air was thick with heat and echo. For a moment--just a heartbeat--she let herself believe it.

The lights dimmed.

It was over.

Seven girls stood naked on the rickety stage, sweat dripping, breaths jagged. Someone coughed. A cup hit the floor. The crowd held its breath, beer cans clinking like nervous tells. Sarah stood among them, stomach lurching, Amanda’s arm slung around her shoulder. “Yo, you slayed, girl,” she hissed, all fire and adrenaline. Sarah nodded. But her thoughts spiraled. Jennie was a tank. Annie owned it. Amanda lit the damn place on fire. Me? Her arms trembled. Her legs buzzed. She could still feel the chair under her, phantom heat, the sting of the lights.

Amanda grabbed her hand and lifted it into the air, high above their heads. “They saw you, girl. Not just your skin--you. You lit ‘em up.” Sarah laughed--sharp, breathless, shaking. Not from fear this time. From release. From the crackle of disbelief burning into truth.

The audience buzzed--sweaty, electric, twitchy with anticipation. The judges huddled like gamblers with too much on the line, scraps of paper shuffled like poker chips. Pens scribbled like wildfire, stakes carved in ink. The mic popped and whined like a middle school speaker. The head judge leaned in. His voice cut through the feedback’s screech. “Real close call,” he said, voice cutting through. “Winner is… Jennie!"

The room blew up. Jennie threw her arms skyward, sweaty, grinning, glowing. She locked eyes with Casey. She spun. Pointed at him, rock-star style. The crowd howled.

“Second place goes to… Annie.”

There was polite applause. Respectful, tense. Sarah saw Annie’s jaw twitch: cool, controlled, already rewriting the playbook. Annie nodded stiffly. Her eyes cut like razors. She’s pissed.

“Third…” There was a long pause. “Sarah.”

What? Sarah froze. Blinked. Me? The chant hit like a tidal wave: “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!” Her skin flushed, heart rattling in her ribs. She hadn’t won. But she’d arrived.

Jennie had won, but Sarah was the story.

Jennie snagged the mic, hands slick, chest heaving, drunk on adrenaline. “Before I grab my prize,” she gasped, “these girls? Badass. Knocked it out of the park.”

She turned to the line behind her. “Debbie, that black lace? Damn, girl, you set the bar high! Tore that skirt, strutted like a boss. Legendary. You slayed.” Debbie shimmied, arms up. Charlie went beet red, sinking low like he wanted to melt into the floor.

“Penny, you brought the damn carnival. Thong spin? Wild. Chaos queen! Dudes still shook.” Penny blew a kiss. Somebody howled.

“Betsy, pure class. You were elegance, velvet, quiet fire. That wink at Jack? Smooooth. Sexy as hell, girl.” Betsy giggled. Jack looked like he’d just won a raffle.

“Amanda,” Jennie said, grinning. “A goddamn hurricane. You hit the stage like it owed you money, then just…took the room. No survivors.” Amanda shrugged, her tits bouncing like punctuation. Someone in the back fainted.

“And Annie…” Her tone cooled, deliberate. ”The brains. You planned it. You crushed it. That bra drop to Steve? Ruthless, savage, Queen shit.” Annie smirked, arms folded tight. Game face locked. Eyes sharp as glass.

Then Jennie turned to Sarah. And the room…stilled. “Sarah,” Jennie said, softly, awed. “Holy crap, girl! You shocked us all!”

Shocked? Annie’s teeth clicked. Quiet. Too quiet. She hijacked my show.

Jennie laughed, flabbergasted. “You killed ‘Cardigan Sarah’. Those garters to Phil, that wink, that grin? You didn’t just show up--you blew the doors off.” A beat. "You burned the place down. You’re not just part of the house now. You’re a legend! Never been prouder to call you my little sister."

Sarah’s cheeks blazed. The crowd exploded. Phil practically melted, eyes soft as velvet. The chant rose again, louder, wilder, realer. “Sarah! Sarah! SARAH!”

Amanda leaned in, “Told ya.”

Annie muttered, “She fucked it up.” But Sarah didn’t hear. She didn’t need to. The lights burned. Her legs ached. Glitter stuck to her ribs. And still, she stood tall. I’m not her anymore. I’m me.

“YO!” Jennie bellowed, bouncing like she’d launch into the ceiling. “Where’s my prize?” The room detonated: beer cans clinking, screams ripping through the air.

“Casey, get your ass up here!” Jennie hollered, her smile unhinged with joy. The room howled like a stadium. Claps hit like a storm. The cheers were deafening, rattling the walls and making chests vibrate. A beer can flew. Someone shrieked, for real. Casey swaggered onto the wobbly stage like he’d just scored the game-winning touchdown. Jennie yanked him close, both of them sweaty and grinning. He slung an arm around her. They bowed, arms raised, grinning, goofy and victorious. Then they bounced offstage, waving like rock stars, flashbulbs popping. The crowd lost it. The queen had claimed her prize.

“Jennie’s a damn wildfire!” some guy shouted, voice cracking like a pubescent preacher.

Sarah laughed, still catching her breath, Amanda’s arm slung around her. “You held it down, girl,” Amanda said, smirking. Sarah nodded, heart pounding, buzz rising like a second skin. Jennie’s a beast. Me? Third? Wild. She glanced at Phil, still clutching her stockings like some religious relic. His eyes were soft. Full. Then back to the girls beside her. Naked. Sweaty. Glowing. And she realized: placing wasn’t the prize. Arriving was. Her heart raced. Her feet stayed grounded. I did that. Cardigan Sarah? Poof.

Annie didn’t flinch, but her jaw ticked. Eyes still locked on the stage, where Sarah soaked in the chant like sunlight. “She hijacked the tone,” Annie snapped. “It was supposed to be bold, raw, real show-stopper energy.”

Amanda laughed, sharp and warm. “And she stopped the damn show. You just didn’t think Cardigan Sarah could bring the house down.”

Annie’s arms folded tighter, nails biting her skin. “She turned it into a Hallmark moment with garters.”

“Garters and grit,” Amanda said, grinning. “She stripped and still had the guts to blush. That’s fire, Annie. That’s real.”

Annie rolled her eyes. “You’re acting like she invented the striptease.”

Amanda leaned in, voice low and fierce. “No. She didn’t invent it. But she sure as hell reinvented herself.”

Annie didn’t answer. Her gaze followed Sarah offstage, the crowd still humming her name like a drumbeat. Her frown deepened. This was supposed to be mine.

Amanda, already walking away, tossed one last shot over her shoulder. “Better update the scorecard, Queenie.”

Annie stayed frozen. Applause still echoed, her own name nowhere in it. She exhaled sharply. Fine. Let Sarah have her chant. Next time? She’d write the script. And burn the stage doing it.

Backstage, Sarah was lit, cheeks flushed, body buzzing like she’d been zapped. Her legs were still shaky, but her heart was soaring. The stage lights were behind her now, but her skin still shimmered, her nerves still sang. Everything was too bright, too loud, too alive. No more hiding, no more playing small. She scanned the sweaty chaos, eyes searching for him.

Phil.

He was doggedly fighting his way through the crowd like a salmon swimming upstream in a sea of beer and cologne. But the mob swallowed him. His boys swarmed, every few steps, slapping him on the back like they were trying to break him. “Lucky dog!” one dude bellowed, grinning. He tried to nod, to smile, to be polite, but his eyes were locked on the stage. On the shadow just behind it. On her.

“You pulled THAT off?!” another shouted, his voice heavy with disbelief. World Series-level backslaps nearly knocked him off his feet, trying to crown him king of something he hadn’t even done. They cheered her, but they were congratulating him, as if he’d been the one standing on that stage, transforming vulnerability into fire. All he’d done was believe in her and maybe fall in love faster than he meant to.

“Dude, your girl’s a freaking legend!” Phil kept his head down and shouldered past the next guy. Another backslap.

Another “You lucky bastard!”

Some guy shoved a half-full beer at him like a trophy. “To you, man!” he shouted, laughing.

“She threw her panties at you, man!”

“Lock it down, man--marry her!”

“Cardigan Sarah? That Sarah?! What the hell did you do?” Phil didn’t stop. Didn’t answer. His grin was tight, polite, but didn’t reach his eyes. Because they didn’t get it. They didn’t understand. He didn’t do anything. She did.

She stood there and turned her fear into fire, peeled off more than clothes, and lit the room up. She rewrote who they thought she was and left them scrambling to catch up. And now they were giving him credit for surviving it?

Phil dodged it, hand up. “Nah, save it,” he said. “I’m not the one who...” He trailed off. What was the point?

Phil winced as another guy slapped him on the shoulder. “Total bombshell, man!” Phil grinned, dazed and proud, still pushing through. Her garters peeked from his jacket pocket, tucked there in haste, wrapped in party static like spoils of war, a trophy he wasn’t sure he deserved.

Phil laughed, shaking his head. “Uh, gotta find her,” he muttered, ducking away. He pushed through the sweaty, sticky crowd, floor sticky beneath his sneakers, heart pounding.

“How’d you know, man?” a guy yelled. "Seriously. From cardigans to that? Dude. Respect.” Phil didn’t look back. He just grinned, shoulder-checking some dude by accident as he dodged another slap. Always knew.

"She was always like that," he muttered, more or less to himself. He'd seen it back at the Union, her laugh at his lame Soda Olympics joke, eyes crinkling, head tilted, already half his. "She caught me." And he kept going.

The crowd’s roar still echoed, faint but alive. And it was for her. Sarah felt it, chest swelling, pulse racing. She’d done it. They’d seen her.

“Legend!” some dude shouted, voice cutting through. Sarah’s chest buzzed, her heart thudding in time with the chant. They see me. Not just Cardigan Sarah--the real me. All out. Free. Real as hell. And in that moment every cheer felt like a crown placed right on her head, a symbol of her newfound confidence and acceptance.

Claire pushed through the crowd, eyes wide, teal dress popping. Teal always hit different on her: dark hair, bright eyes, built for mischief. Her heels snagged on the beer-slick floor once or twice, but she powered on. Jake trailed behind, muttering, “That ass,” still dazed from the crowd’s rowdy roar.

“Don’t dream on her too much, babe,” Claire teased, elbowing him without breaking stride. Then she spotted Sarah in the corner with Amanda, who was beaming like she planned the whole thing. Claire lit up. “Hot girl house in the house!” she yelled, arms out like the ultimate hype queen. That pledge nickname still slapped. She wasn’t just a sorority sister, she was Sarah’s sister, period. Teal dress, loud mouth, big heart, always had her back.

Sarah tried to be nonchalant, but she was glowing. Claire grabbed Sarah's arm, pulling her close. “Where the hell was that girl during pledging, huh?” she teased, pride thick in her voice, chipped nail jabbing with a dramatic twirl. "Garters? Winking at Phil? You owned that stage, sister."

Sarah grinned, heart racing. Me? That girl? "She was here, Claire," she said "Just hiding,”

Claire tilted her head, mock-suspicious. “Girl, you’re turning on my boyfriend.”

Old Sarah--Cardigan Sarah, Punchbowl Girl--would’ve folded right then. She’d have stammered “sorry,” and shrunk into the nearest wall. Not now. Not anymore.

“Well, take advantage of it,” Sarah shot back, sharply, owning it.

Claire’s jaw hit the floor, then she cracked up. Amanda doubled over, cackling. The three were a sweaty, chaotic mess, vibing hard, laughing, radiant and wildly alive. No blood between them, just battle scars and loyalty. The three of them--Sarah, Amanda, Claire--weren’t just girls who pledged together. They were fire-forged. Sisters in everything but name.

“Next time, I’m in,” Claire said, eyes flashing trouble. “Gotta get Jake’s eyes back on me.”

Jake jumped in, voice cracking. “I’d pay to see that!” Claire shot him a look, half smirk, half chill. He just grinned, all in.

“You’d slay, Claire,” Amanda added, heaping it on. “Total knockout. You’d own it.”

Still hyped, Sarah let it spill: “It’s such a rush.” She was practically glowing.

Claire’s grin turned sly. “What if we all do it? The three besties burning down the hot girl house. Set the stage on fire.” Laughter popped, a pact locked for later.

“Think you can beat me, Claire?” Sarah grinned, the challenge ringing clear, edge sharp, playful.

“Gonna try,” Claire fired back, snagging Jake’s hand. "You two better watch your crowns.” She threw Sarah a sly look. “For now, I’m gonna go take advantage of this. Thanks.” She winked, dragging Jake off, him stumbling like a dazed pup, still reeling. Their laughter lingered like confetti. Sarah felt weightless, like even the sticky floor and sweaty crowd belonged to her. Seen. Whole. Finally, fully her.

Phil bobbed and weaved, fighting his way through the throng, dodging slaps and hollers, garters stuffed in his jacket like contraband. The floor was tacky with spilled beer, the air still vibrating with cheers. His chest swelled--pride, disbelief, love. His cheeks were flushed, shirt damp, heart pounding.

There she was.

Sarah stood under a flickering, half-dead bulb, wrapped in a ratty robe barely clinging to her shoulders. Her cheeks were flushed rose-petal pink, her hair a gorgeous mess, radiant. Lit from within. Bold. Unstoppable. Not just the girl from the Union anymore. More. So much more.

They locked eyes. Phil’s breath caught in his throat. Damn, she’s everything. Pulse pounding, he stepped closer. “Soda Champ,” he said, voice rough with awe, nodding to the beginning. “Uh, you were fire. You dominated. Killed it. I’m so damn proud of you.” He pulled her into his arms, tightly. “Cardigan Sarah? Finito. You’re a star, babe.”

Sarah laughed, leaning in, soft and startled, trembling hands betraying her glow. Babe. The word hit different now. It didn’t feel cute or ironic. It felt earned.

Sarah’s smile flickered, shy at the edges but blazing underneath. “Was it… okay?” she asked, voice small, nerves peeking out beneath the triumph. I did it. I actually did it. Me.

Phil reached into his pocket, holding up the tangled garters, hose, panties: his bounty, his proof, his trophies. “I’m framing these.”

Sarah’s laugh broke free, wobbly at first, then full and bright. The high of the night softened into relief as she sank into his arms, face pressed against his chest. “I was so scared,” she whispered. Her voice cracked just a little, raw, real, vulnerable, but still laced with triumph.

Phil kissed her forehead, soft and steady. “Could’ve fooled me, champ,” he said. “You rocked that stage, Sarah.”

She looked up and kissed him deeply and fiercely. No performance. No pretending. Just them, holding tight, grounding each other. She pulled back, forehead to his, breath quick, eyes bright. “Guess I’m not ‘Punchbowl Girl’ anymore,” she whispered.

“Hell no,” Phil said, that crooked grin flashing in the neon. “You’re a goddamn star.”

Annie slouched against the bar, bitter and unyielding, one hand wrapped around a wet glass. Ice clinked as she swirled the drink mechanically, detached. Beer cans littered the counter, the floor sticky as sin, a haze of sweat and spilled booze hanging heavy in the air. Jesus, Annie thought, they turned the house into some cheap dive. Who the hell’s gonna clean this up?

Annie's glare could’ve stripped paint off the walls, and maybe Sarah’s skin if she'd gotten closer. Her eyes followed Sarah through the crowd, still glowing, still surrounded. Lips curled in scorn, she muttered to Steve without looking at him. “Punchbowl Girl’s big moment? Won’t last.” Her eyes slit. Her smile was razor-sharp, meant to cut, not charm. Beneath it, quiet fury simmered. She’d given Sarah three chances to fold. Three chances to stay small, stay safe. And Sarah had burned every one. She'd grabbed the damn spotlight like it belonged to her and lit it on fire.

Steve raised an eyebrow as he sipped his beer, but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

Annie’s fingers clenched the glass. “Let her have her curtain call,” she said, voice low, blade-thin. “Stars fall hard. Trust me.” She knew the look in Sarah’s eyes--the way it felt to stand in the fire and be seen. She’d had it once. For a second. Before the world yanked it back. She hated losing, sure. But watching someone else steal her light? That stung deeply, like a brand she couldn’t scrub off. She spun on her heel, smile snapping into place like armor. The floor was slick, but her footing was solid. A plan was already stitching itself together--mean, precise, inevitable. “Gonna fix this,” she muttered, eyes flashing like broken glass. Not tonight. But soon.

And when it came? There wouldn’t be an encore.

She could’ve said it. Just a quick heads-up. “Hey, Sarah, I know it’s not your thing, but there’s a strip contest at the anniversary party. No pressure.”

She’d almost said it. Twice.

The first time, Sarah was folding those stupid cardigans, humming some off-brand Taylor Swift, looking so safe, so small. The second time, Sarah had tripped in heels during pledge week. Everyone had laughed. Annie had smiled too.

She’s not ready, Annie had told herself. She’ll thank me later.

But now?

She watched Sarah glowing under flickering lights, arms around Amanda, the crowd still buzzing her name like a hit song.

She never needed your permission.

The party was still pulsing behind the closed doors, but in the dim hallway just beyond the stage, the chaos softened into a quiet hum. Jennie’s breath was still heavy, her adrenaline a warm buzz. She grabbed Casey’s hand, tugging him close with a grin that lit her whole face. “Ready, pitcher?” Jennie purred.

Casey blinked. “Wait, seriously? You picked me?”

“I aim high,” she said, grabbing his hand like it was already a fait accompli. “You caught my routine, didn’t you?”

“I was one of the judges.”

“Exactly.” Her fingers slid into his. "Judges gotta have perks.”

Casey laughed, squeezing her hand. “Guess I’m lucky tonight.” He followed her behind the creaky door, grin wide, eyes dazed like a rookie who just hit his first home run. The crowd’s roar dimmed behind them, while their own little world was just starting to heat up.

Amanda strutted up to Kenny, her thong dangling from his fingers, grinning like he’d won the damn lottery. “You caught my panties,” she purred, voice low and sultry. “The least you can do is sleep with me.”

Kenny blinked. "Wait, is that... are you serious?"

Amanda grinned. “You really wanna risk offending the gods of airborne underwear?”

Kenny held out his hand, solemn as a priest. “Lead the way, O Sacred Flinger.” By the time Amanda and Kenny made it upstairs, someone downstairs had already cranked the stereo and unearthed the old playlist, the one that always came out at exactly the wrong (or right) time.

Dawn broke over tangled limbs and half-kicked sheets, their laughter still echoing somewhere in the walls. Amanda’s skin glowed with sweat, her grin relaxed, her body sprawled like royalty. Kenny shifted beside her, one arm flung across her waist, the other brushing a loose strand from her cheek. “You’re... kind of incredible,” he said, fingers tracing her temple.

Amanda’s grin softened, but didn’t fade. “Careful,” she murmured, voice low, teasing but quieter now. “I might start thinking you mean it.” Her sly look--lazy, loaded, unbothered--spoke volumes. Next time wasn’t a question. It was a promise. And they both knew it.

Penny, spark, flame, and pure chaos, zeroed in on Jim: big, broad-shouldered frat dude with a lazy grin and a Solo cup wobbling precariously in his hand. Her auburn ponytail swung like a warning flag as she sauntered over. “Ready for a night you’ll never forget?” she cooed, lips curling into a wicked grin.

Jim barely had time to blink. “Hell yeah,” he replied, just before her mouth crashed onto his, fierce and fiery, slamming him back against the sticky wood floor. Buttons popped like fireworks as Penny’s hands moved with confident fire. “You’re trouble,” he growled, hands squeezing her round ass. The door slammed shut behind them. Floorboards creaked with every step, the music muffled now, laughter and whispers drifting through the walls like a secret soundtrack. They went at it for hours, Penny’s spark and momentum leaving Jim in shambles, grinning, half-dressed, and wondering how the hell he’d just fallen headfirst for a hurricane in a ponytail who answered to Penny.

Annie’s eyes locked on Mike, baseball dude, broad, quiet, eyes cutting through the chaos, like he saw too much and said too little. She liked that. Mystery without the mess.

She didn’t flirt. She advanced. She marched over, all steel and swagger.

“Let’s see what you’re made of,” Annie said, voice sharp as cheap whiskey, cool as frost. Her kiss was a challenge--sharp, deep, unforgiving. Before he could even blink, she snagged his hand and dragged him upstairs, her stride commanding, no questions asked, no hesitation. The door clicked shut. “My rules,” she whispered, and meant it. By the time dawn crept through cracked blinds and stretched across scuffed floors littered with their clothes, Annie’s head rested against his shoulder. Her breathing was slow, steady, fingers curled lightly against his chest. Still buzzing. Not broken. Just...still.

Emily, pissed she'd skipped the contest, watched Annie snag Mike and burned. She locked onto Steve--broad, chill, big grin--and she made her move fast. Her curls bounced as she strutted over. “You’re not with Annie tonight?” she asked, her voice lighter than it felt.

Steve shook his head. “Nope.”

“Good.” She stepped in close, heat radiating off her, heartbeat loud enough to hear. “Then you’re mine.”

He raised an eyebrow, but his grin stayed. “You sure about that, Emily?”

She pressed a finger to his lips, eyes fierce. “Bet your ass I am," she said. "I’ve waited long enough. Now or never.”

He didn't say anything. He simply followed. “C’mon,” she urged. They disappeared into a side room, the door creaking shut behind them. “Wanted this forever,” she gasped. It was wild, clumsy, a little sloppy, perfect. “Annie’s loss,” she panted, breath tangled with laughter.

Betsy’s flame-red bob caught the soft glow as she moved toward Jack, the faint scent of her perfume (warm, floral, unmistakably hers) lingering in the air. The plush velvet lounge chairs cradled the dim light, inviting them into a quieter, softer world away from the raucous party. “Keeping those safe, love?” she purred, hips swaying, all curves and fire, every step confident.

Jack pulled her close, the warmth between them matching the room’s cozy embrace. “You were incredible tonight,” he said, voice low. Their kiss was slow, deep, and full of promise. Unrushed, knowing.

Betsy leaned in, whispering just enough to stir the air. “Let’s own tonight.”

Jack smiled, caught in the moment. “Damn, babe,” he grunted, breathless. Betsy’s eyes sparkled with promise as she led him into the shadows. The door closed gently behind them, the outside world fading like a dim echo.

Debbie’s dark waves bounced as she strutted to Charlie, her black lace bra dangling from his pocket like a dare. “Keeping that?” she purred, eyes gleaming, smile sharp as sin.

Charlie, all brawn, dimples, and cheek, tugged her close and kissed her like he meant every second of it: slow, deep, final. “You’re killing me, girl,” he said, voice low and scratched.

The door slammed behind them, muffling the raucous party sounds. The faint scent of spilled whiskey clung to the air, tangled with warm wood and something sharper: Debbie’s perfume, spicy and bold. The rickety bed creaked once, almost like it knew what was coming.

Claire, teal dress clinging in all the right places, moved through the buzzing sorority house like she owned it. Her grin was pure mischief. “Caught you staring,” she said, voice low and teasing.

“Blame me?” Jake rasped, hands on her hips, pinning her lightly against the door. “You’re killing me.”

Her laugh flared, bright, hot, dangerous. “Let’s finish the job.”

Jake grinned, hands already roaming. “You’re lethal in that dress.”

Claire smirked, voice a purr. “Good thing it’s coming off.”

They disappeared down the hall, the door clicking quietly shut. A beat later, Claire’s voice drifted through the muffled noise of the party, smug and unbothered: “Took advantage of it pretty well, huh?” She nipped his jaw playfully.

Jake, breath still shallow, grinned. “Remind me to stare more often.”

Sarah grabbed Phil’s hand, her voice low but sure. “Take me for a ride.” There was a quiet strength in her now, like something had finally clicked into place. No more hiding. No more playing small. They slipped into a private room, squeaky door slamming shut behind them. Before Phil could speak, Sarah kissed him fiercely, a woman claiming her moment. Then again, more gently, her fingers brushing his chest like she was learning him for the first time and somehow again. “Like my show?” she teased, tugging at his shirt, her mussed hair glowing in the dim light. I’m free.

Phil looked at her like she’d just lit the sky on fire. “You burned that stage down,” he said. His hands landed on her waist like she might vanish otherwise, eyes full of stunned pride. The robe slipped from her shoulders like a quiet surrender of fear. No audience, no spotlight. Just truth. She wasn’t performing. She was just… being. She was still catching her breath, but she wasn’t afraid anymore.

Phil held her close, like something precious, grounding her in the chaos she’d just blown wide open. “You’re my star,” he whispered. Sarah leaned in, responding with equal tenderness, equal fire.

They didn’t rush. Every moment was slow, deliberate, shared. Sarah moved with boldness she hadn’t known she had. Her confidence met his awe, their connection deeper than skin, a rediscovery of something old and brand new at once. Her laughter, nervous, then bolder, rose between them like a spark. Her gasps were shy at first, then bolder, spilling out freely as she let go, body and soul. Their lovemaking was slow. Intentional, reverent. She wasn’t acting. She wasn’t proving anything. She was free.

Sarah laughed softly, stunned by her own boldness. "That girl in the Union with the giant soda? She'd never believe any of this is happening."

"That's the girl I fell in love with," Phil said, kissing her deeply, hose and panties clutched like relics. “But damn, I’m loving this you. You're my gem, Sarah.”

Later, wrapped in his arms, Sarah blinked at the faint morning light creeping across the windows, painting rumpled sheets and bare skin. She felt radiant, alive, her spirit unchained. Same girl, only more.

The sorority house was quiet at sunrise, the party’s echo fading like a dream. But in the hush that followed, warmth lingered. Jennie and Casey dozed in a corner, arms tangled, breathing slowly and steadily. Amanda and Kenny lounged on the couch, chipped mugs of coffee in hand, trading hushed laughs that still smoldered with last night’s spark. Penny, still radiant, jotted her number on a napkin for Jim, her eyes glittering with a playful maybe later. Annie and Mike crossed paths with a wink, already slipping into their morning groove.

In the living room’s soft light, creaking floorboards marked the morning like a heartbeat. Sarah stood still, breath catching on the edge of something new. The embers from the contest, and from Phil, still burned brightly. She’d stepped into her own light last night, and it hadn’t dimmed. Amanda leaned against the wall, one sock sagging, sipping coffee like she was plotting something. "So," she teased, eyes sparkling, “how do you like New Sarah?”

Sarah laughed, soft and full. Her doe eyes were bright with something unspoken. “I don’t know her that well yet,” she murmured. “But I think I like her.”

Sarah still wore cardigans sometimes: soft, cozy, familiar, hers, but no longer as armor. No longer hiding. "They look good, Phil,” she’d tease with a glint in her eye. “It’s what I was wearing when we met, remember?” The girl who said no had become the woman who said yes. She was still her, just braver now, bolder, ready for whatever came next. The future felt full of possibilities. Not perfect. Not easy. But it looked possible. And for the first time, it was hers. Sarah stepped into the morning light. She had her own skin now. Sarah was home.