“you fucked my boyfriend, shauna.”

"yeah, well, he was already halfway out the door—"

"oh, you!"

her hands are lower now, ripping at your waistband, the button of your jeans popping open, zipper dragged down too fast, and you're tearing at the collar of her stupid flannel, gripping, pulling—

you’re still talking, still gasping out accusations, accusations, accusations—

" you, you fucking boyfriend snatcher, you—" you seethe, clawing at her, yanking at her sleeves, her hair, the collar of her shirt. "why'd, you fucking, you, you, you—"

—until her hand is between your legs—her fingers, curling up between your legs, shoving past fabric, and you go quiet, letting out a little sigh as she sinks home.