Family Business

By: MirageMaven

I’m lying on my bed, sprawled out like a starfish, with my earbuds blasting some random playlist I threw together last week. It’s Friday afternoon, school’s out, and I’ve got exactly zero plans. The ceiling’s starting to look way too familiar—cracks and all—and I’m half wondering if I should just count them again to kill time. My phone’s resting on my chest, vibrating every now and then with notifications I don’t bother checking. Honestly, I’m fine with the nothing. It’s peaceful, in a lazy sort of way.

Then it buzzes again, harder this time, and I glance down. Connor’s name lights up the screen. I smirk a little, shifting one earbud out just enough to hear myself think, and swipe to answer. The music fades as his voice crackles through instead.

“Yo, Eli, you there?” Connor’s tone is casual, like always, but there’s a little edge to it, like he’s got something up his sleeve.

“Yeah, man, I’m here,” I say, keeping my voice chill, even though a tiny part of me is already hoping he’s about to save me from this boredom. “What’s up?” I lean back against my pillow, staring at that same damn ceiling crack, waiting for him to spit it out. Please, dude, just say you wanna hang or something. Anything.

Connor’s voice picks up a little, like he’s trying to sound offhand but can’t quite hide the excitement. “Hey, so there’s this basketball game tonight at the college—you know, where Riley goes. She’s cheering and all that. You wanna come with?”

I sit up a bit, propping myself on my elbows. A basketball game? That’s something. Way better than staring at my ceiling all night. “Yeah, dude, I’m in,” I say, keeping it cool, though my brain’s already spinning. Connor and I go way back—like, sandbox days back—and I’m still kinda stoked we’re tight even after graduation hit. High school’s done, but we’re not. That’s rare, right?

“Sweet,” Connor says. “Mom’s gonna swing by your place to grab you, then she’ll drop us off at the college. Riley’s stuck driving us back after, so we’re set.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Cool, works for me.” I’m already picturing it—crowded bleachers, the buzz of the game, and yeah, Riley. She’s been around forever, mostly because she was the one with the car back in the day. She’d drive us to the mall or wherever, but the second we got there, she’d ditch us like we were contagious. Off she’d go, flipping her hair, leaving me and Connor to fend for ourselves until she had to pick us up again. I never minded too much, though. I mean, I’ve had this dumb crush on her since, like, forever.

Riley’s got that whole bratty cheerleader vibe nailed—sharp tongue, big attitude, the works. It fits her, especially since she’s legit a cheerleader now for the college teams. That’s probably why Connor even brought up the game. She’ll be there, all decked out in her uniform, doing her thing on the sidelines. My stomach does a little flip just thinking about it, but I shove that down quick. No point in getting weird about it—she’s Connor’s sister, and I’m not that guy.

I pull the earbuds out completely and toss them on the bed, swinging my legs over the side. “What time’s your mom coming?” I ask, already glancing around for a clean shirt.

“Like, an hour or so,” Connor says. “Get ready, man. It’s gonna be fun.”

“Yeah, for sure,” I reply, grinning to myself. A night out with Connor, a game to watch, and Riley in the mix? Beats doing nothing any day. I hang up and start digging through my dresser, trying not to overthink the fact that I’ll be seeing her again. Just a game. Just hanging out. That’s it.

I lean forward a bit, running a hand through my hair. “So, how long till your mom swings by to grab me?” I ask, trying to sound like it’s no big deal, even though I’m already itching to get out of the house.

Connor pauses for a sec, like he’s doing the math in his head. “Uh, like an hour, maybe less. She’s just finishing up some stuff, but she’ll text when she’s on her way. You good with that?”

“Yeah, plenty of time,” I say, glancing at the clock on my nightstand. An hour’s enough to throw on something decent and not look like I’ve been marinating in my room all day. “Just don’t let her forget me, man.”

Connor laughs. “No chance. She’s hyped to see you anyway—keeps saying you’re the only one of my friends who doesn’t trash her car.”

I smirk. “That’s ‘cause I’ve got manners, dude.” Truth is, I’ve always liked Connor’s mom—she’s cool, the type who’ll blast music and crack jokes the whole ride. Plus, it’s nice knowing she’s the one getting us to the game. Riley might be the ride home, but I’m not banking on her being thrilled about it. Probably gonna act like it’s a huge favor, per usual. Still, I can deal with that later. For now, I’ve got a night ahead of me, and I’m not about to waste it.

I pull the phone away from my ear after Connor and I wrap up the call with a quick “See ya soon, man.” Tapping the screen to hang up, I let out a small breath and slide off the bed, my feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. The game’s not some big deal, but I figure I might as well look half-decent—you never know who’s gonna be there, right? Plus, maybe a tiny part of me wants to not totally fade into the background if Riley happens to glance my way. Not that she will. Probably.

I shuffle over to my closet, flicking through the hangers. Something stylish, but not try-hard. I grab a pair of dark joggers—comfy but sharp enough—and a bulky hoodie that’s got a little logo on the chest. It’s casual, but it works. I tug them on, checking myself in the mirror quick. Good enough. Then I head to my desk, snag the cologne bottle I barely use, and give it a couple sprays—nothing crazy, just enough to not smell like I’ve been hibernating. The sharp, woodsy scent hits me, and I nod to myself. Solid.

Bathroom’s next. I splash some cold water on my face, waking myself up a bit, then scrub quick with a towel. Toothbrush in hand, I give my teeth a solid once-over, following it up with a swirl of minty mouthwash. I swish it around, spit, and take a deep breath—fresh, clean, not gonna knock anyone out with bad breath. I catch my reflection again and smirk. “You’re fine, dude,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head at how much effort I’m putting in for a random Friday night.

Back in my room, I grab my phone and shove it in my pocket, then tug the hoodie’s drawstrings tight for a second before letting them hang loose. I’m ready—or at least as ready as I’m gonna get. Now it’s just a waiting game till Connor’s mom rolls up.

I flop onto the couch in the living room, grabbing the remote and flicking the TV on. Some random game show’s playing—people yelling about trivia I don’t care about—but it’s fine. Just noise to fill the space while I wait. I kick my feet up on the coffee table, scrolling my phone every few minutes, but mostly I’m just zoning out. Time drags, but I’m not in a rush. Connor’s mom will get here when she gets here.

After about 45 minutes, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out—her text lights up the screen: Here, kiddo. I smirk, hit the power button on the remote, and the TV goes dark. Grabbing my keys, I head out the front door, locking it behind me. Sure enough, there’s the van idling at the curb, headlights cutting through the early evening gloom. It’s the same one I’ve ridden in a million times—dings on the side and all.

I jog over, sliding the back door open with a quick yank and hopping in. The familiar smell of air freshener and old fast-food wrappers hits me as I pull the door shut with a thud. I settle into the backseat, stretching my legs out a bit.

“Yo, Eli!” Connor twists around from the front passenger seat, grinning at me like he’s already hyped for the night. His hair’s a mess, per usual, and he’s got that look like he’s ready to talk my ear off the whole ride.

“Hey, man,” I say, nodding back with a half-smile, still buckling my seatbelt.

“Eli, good to see you, hon,” Connor’s mom chimes in, her eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror. She’s got that mom-vibe going—warm but no-nonsense—and I catch her checking to make sure I’m clicking the belt in place. “All set back there?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” I say, giving the strap a little tug to prove it. She nods, satisfied, and turns her attention back to the road as the van rumbles to life, pulling away from the curb. Connor’s already launching into some story about something dumb he saw online, and I lean back, letting the night start to roll.

The van hums along for about 30 minutes, Connor rambling the whole way about some viral video he can’t stop laughing at while I nod along, half-listening, half-watching the streetlights streak by outside. His mom chimes in every now and then, tossing in a sarcastic comment that makes us both crack up. It’s easy, familiar—like every ride we’ve ever taken with her.

Eventually, the van slows, pulling into a packed parking lot near the college gym. She swings close to the entrance, tires crunching on the asphalt, and shifts into park. “Alright, boys, you’re here,” she says, turning her head just enough to flash us a smile. “Have fun, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Connor’s already unbuckling, popping his door open. “Thanks, Mom. See ya!” he calls, hopping out onto the pavement.

I unclip my seatbelt and slide the back door open, stepping out into the cool night air. “Yeah, thanks for the ride,” I add, giving her a quick wave.

“Anytime, Eli. You two behave—tell Riley I said hi!” she replies, her voice trailing off as I shut the door. The van’s taillights flare red for a second before she pulls away, leaving us standing there by the entrance. The buzz of the crowd filters out from the gym doors ahead, and I shove my hands in my hoodie pockets, glancing at Connor.

“Ready for this?” he says, grinning as he starts walking toward the noise.

“Born ready,” I shoot back, falling into step beside him. The night’s just getting started.

We push through the gym doors, the noise hitting us like a wave—shoes squeaking on the court, people chattering, some pre-game music thumping in the background. There’s a security table just inside, a couple of bored-looking guys in polo shirts checking bags and tickets. I hang back a step as Connor takes the lead, strolling up like he owns the place.

“Yo, I’m Riley’s brother,” he says, all casual, leaning on the table. “She’s on the cheer squad. We’re good to go, right?”

One of the guys glances up, flipping through a clipboard. “Riley… yeah, here she is. Connor, right?” He nods, then looks at me. “And him?”

“He’s with me,” Connor says, jerking a thumb my way. “Friend of the family.”

The guy shrugs, barely interested. “Alright, you’re clear. Go on in.” He waves us through, and that’s it—no tickets, no hassle. We scoot past, and I shoot Connor a sideways look as we head deeper into the gym.

“Didn’t know your sister’s cheer gig got us VIP treatment,” I say, half-joking. It’s kinda weird they just let us waltz in like that, but I’m not about to complain. Free’s free.

Connor grins. “Yeah, she’s been at it since she started here. Family gets the hookup. Been coming to these things for a while now.”

I just nod, letting it slide. Makes sense, I guess—Riley’s a student, and Connor’s been here before. He knows the drill. I stick close as he weaves through the crowd, past a concession stand pumping out the smell of popcorn and hot dogs. The gym’s bigger than our old high school one, but not by much—maybe a step up, with taller bleachers and a shinier floor. The stands are filling up fast, but not packed yet. Connor heads straight for a spot halfway up, claiming a chunk of bench with a clear view of the court.

“Here’s good,” he says, dropping onto the seat and stretching his legs out. I slide in next to him, scanning the place. The teams are warming up down below, and off to the side, I spot the cheer squad stretching and chatting. Riley’s gotta be in there somewhere, but I don’t stare too hard. Not yet, anyway.

Connor and I are just kicking back on the bleachers, tossing random small talk back and forth—mostly him going on about some guy on the team who’s supposed to be a big deal, while I nod along, only half-tuned in. The gym’s getting louder, the warm-up drills picking up pace. Then Connor’s eyes flick toward the sidelines, and he perks up. “Oh, there’s Riley. C’mon, let’s go say hi and tell her about the ride thing.”

I glance over, catching a glimpse of the cheer squad, and nod. “Yeah, sure.” We both stand, and I trail him as he cuts through the stands, dodging a few people grabbing seats. He’s been here before, so I just follow his lead, hands shoved in my hoodie pockets. We hit the edge of the court, right near where the cheerleaders are milling around, stretching and chatting.

Connor doesn’t hesitate. He cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Hey!” at the closest cheerleader—a girl with dark hair who’s mid-stretch. She turns, squinting at us, then breaks into a grin and waves when she clocks Connor.

“Yo, can you grab Riley for me?” he shouts over the noise. She gives a quick thumbs-up, then jogs off down the sideline. A second later, she’s back, flashing another thumbs-up like some kind of signal.

And then Riley struts into view. I can’t help but watch as she moves down the sideline, all confidence and swagger, like she owns the damn place. Her cheer uniform’s sharp—tight skirt, cropped top, and I notice the word “Captain” stitched across the chest in bold letters. Captain? I didn’t even know she was the captain. My eyebrows lift a little, but I keep my face neutral. She’s got this vibe—dominant, no question—like she’s used to people moving out of her way. It’s hot, honestly, but I’d never say that out loud.

She finally stops near the stands, close enough that I can see the look on her face, and it’s pure “What now?”—lips pursed, one hand on her hip. Classic Riley. Her and Connor’s whole deal is straight out of some cheesy movie—him always poking at her, her always two seconds from snapping. Right on cue, Connor grins like he’s about to enjoy this way too much.

“Hey, sis!” he calls, leaning forward a bit. “Just wanted to let you know you’re driving us home after the game. Mom dropped us off, so you’re stuck with us.”

Riley’s eyes narrow, and I can practically hear the sigh she’s holding back. I just stand there, trying not to look too awkward, waiting to see how this plays out.

Riley’s eyes flick over to me for half a second, her face still locked in that annoyed, flat expression. It’s quick, but I catch it—she knows I’m here. I raise a hand in a small, awkward wave, not sure if it’s the right move or if I just look like an idiot. She doesn’t react, just shifts her gaze back to Connor like I’m not even worth the effort.

“Fine, whatever,” she finally says, her voice dripping with that signature Riley exasperation. “Where are you guys sitting anyway?”

Connor points up toward the stands, gesturing vaguely. “Over there, like, halfway up near the left side. You’ll see us.” He’s still got that grin, totally unfazed by her attitude.

Mid-sentence, another cheerleader pops up from her stretch a few feet away, her eyes locking on Connor. She straightens, tossing her hair back, and waves at him with a slow, “Hiii,” that drags out way too long, loaded with this flirty, suggestive vibe. I blink, caught off guard, and Connor’s grin somehow gets wider.

Riley whips her head around, zeroing in on the girl like a hawk. Her stare’s ice-cold, sharp enough to cut through the gym noise, and the cheerleader freezes mid-wave. Without a word, Riley’s glare does the talking—pure authority, no room for argument. The girl’s face drops, and she dives back into her stretch so fast you’d think she’d been caught stealing. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. That’s Riley for you—Captain, through and through.

She turns back to Connor, not even acknowledging what just happened. “Halfway up, left side. Got it. I’ll find you after. Don’t make this a whole thing.” Then she spins on her heel, already strutting back toward the squad, clearly done with us for now.

Connor turns to me, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Alright, let’s go sit down,” he says, already starting back toward the stands. I nod and follow, weaving through the growing crowd as we climb back to our spot halfway up on the left side. We settle in, and for a while, we just kill time—Connor scrolling his phone, me messing with the drawstrings on my hoodie, both of us tossing out random comments about nothing. It’s easy hanging with him, always has been. I’m not huge into sports, honestly—basketball’s fine, but I’m here more for the vibe and the company than the game itself.

Still, my eyes keep drifting down to the sideline where Riley’s at. She’s warming up with the squad now, stretching and chatting, probably firing them up for the game. I catch myself watching her more than I mean to—how she moves, all sharp and confident, barking orders like she’s been doing this forever. It’s hard to look away.

The game kicks off about 30 minutes after we sit down, the buzzer blaring through the gym. First quarter rolls by, then the second, and I’m only half-paying attention to the court. Every time the cheer squad jumps up for a chant or a routine, my focus snaps to Riley. She’s front and center, leading every move, her voice cutting through the noise. She’s got this energy—bright, loud, almost electric—that’s nothing like the annoyed, snappy Riley I’m used to. Out there, she looks… happy? Maybe. It’s weird to think about. Is she actually into this, or is she just playing the part so well I can’t tell the difference? Either way, she owns it—hair flipping, hands on hips, that captain swagger dialed up to ten.

Connor nudges me at one point, smirking. “You good, man? You’re staring pretty hard down there.”

I shrug, playing it off. “Just watching the show, dude.” He laughs, and I force my eyes back to the game for a bit, but it’s no use—Riley’s got my attention, whether I admit it or not.

The game’s cruising toward halftime, and I’m still half-watching the scoreboard, half-tracking Riley and the squad. Our team’s killing it—big lead, crowd’s hyped, the whole gym’s buzzing. Then the cheerleaders line up on the sideline, clapping in sync, and I figure it’s just another routine. No big deal, right?

They start chanting, voices sharp and loud, cutting through the noise:

"Dribble, shoot, we’re on fire,
Watch us play, we’ll take you higher!
Your team’s weak, we’re in control,
We’ll run the court and take that goal!"

I’m nodding along, kinda impressed—they’ve got this cocky energy that matches the score. Riley’s out front, leading it like she’s commanding an army, all fierce and focused. Then it keeps going:

"So get ready, here’s the plan,
We’re about to show you who’s the champ!
You’re sitting down, we’re standing tall—"

They hit that line, and suddenly all the cheerleaders spin around, backs to the crowd. I blink, not sure what’s coming, and then they drop the last bit:

"Now smell our butts as we win it all!"

Before I can even process it, they bend forward in unison, flipping their skirts up. My jaw drops as they shake their panty-covered asses right at us, the gym erupting into a mix of cheers, laughs, and a few gasps. I’m frozen for a second, caught way off guard. Riley’s right there in the middle, owning it, that captain patch on her uniform glinting under the lights as she shakes it like it’s no big deal.

I glance at Connor, who’s cracking up beside me, clapping like it’s the best thing he’s seen all week. “Dude, they’ve been working on that one!” he yells over the noise, totally unbothered that it’s his sister down there. Meanwhile, I’m still reeling—this is not what I expected from Riley or any of them. It’s bold as hell, and I can’t tell if I’m more shocked or… something else. My face feels hot, and I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie pockets, trying to play it cool while the crowd keeps roaring. Halftime’s gonna be wild after this.

I’m still sitting there, heart thumping a little too hard, trying to shake off the image of Riley—Riley—bending over like that, her cheer skirt flipped up, panties on full display. It’s burned into my brain, and I’m not sure what to do with it. I shift in my seat, tugging my hoodie down like it’ll hide how rattled I am. The gym’s still buzzing from that stunt, and I’m just… yeah, I need a minute.

A few minutes later, the second quarter wraps up, and the buzzer blares for halftime. People start shuffling out of the stands, heading for the concession stands or the bathrooms, a wave of chatter and footsteps filling the air. I’m still zoned out when some guy a few rows down yells, “Hey, Connor!”

Connor’s head snaps up, and he spots the dude waving at him. His face lights up like it’s Christmas. “Oh, shit, it’s Jake!” he says, already half-standing. He turns to me, grinning. “Yo, Eli, I’m gonna go catch up with him real quick. You good here?”

I nod, probably too fast. “Yeah, man, go for it.” Truth is, I could use the breather. That cheer routine’s still looping in my head, and I’m not ready to play it cool with Connor yapping in my ear. He claps me on the shoulder and squeezes past, disappearing into the crowd climbing the bleachers.

Down on the court, the players start filing off toward the locker rooms, the cheerleaders trailing behind them—except one. Riley. She’s still out there, adjusting her hair or something, and then she turns, scanning the stands. My stomach flips when her eyes land on me. She’s looking right at me, no mistake, and she raises a hand, beckoning me down to the sideline with a quick, sharp wave. Like she’s not asking, she’s telling.

I hesitate for half a second, then stand, my legs moving before my brain catches up. I weave through the people heading up the bleachers, dodging elbows and muttered “excuse me’s,” my pulse kicking up a notch. What does she want? Is this about the ride? Something else? I hit the bottom of the stands and step onto the court, walking toward her.

She’s waiting there, arms crossed, that captain vibe still radiating off her. I stop a couple feet away, shoving my hands in my pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Uh, hey,” I say, trying to sound normal despite the way my voice wants to crack. “What’s up?”

Riley’s standing there, arms still crossed, looking at me like I’m supposed to already know what’s going on. “I’m starving,” she says, blunt as ever. “I didn’t eat before I got here.”

I blink, not sure where this is going. “Uh, okay,” I say, my voice flat, waiting for the rest.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “I want the foot-long chili cheese dog from Mark’s,” she adds, nodding toward the concession stands like I’m her personal errand boy.

I get it now, but my brain snags on one thing. “Wait, am I supposed to pay for it?” I ask, scratching the back of my neck.

Her eyes narrow, and she snaps, “Oh my God, Eli, seriously? After all the times I drove your two dumbasses everywhere when you were younger? Ten bucks is nothing compared to that.” Her tone’s sharp, that bratty edge cutting through, and I can tell she’s not in the mood for pushback.

She’s got a point, though. All those mall trips, fast food runs, while Connor and I argued in the backseat—it adds up. I nod quick, hands up like I’m surrendering. “Yeah, alright, fair enough.”

Riley eases off a little, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Good,” she says, then mutters, “At least you’re not as worthless as my brother.” It’s half a jab, half a compliment, I guess. Before I can even process it, she’s back in charge mode. “Bring it back here. And hurry up.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say under my breath, nodding again before turning toward the crowd. She doesn’t hear it, but I catch the faintest smirk on her face as I go. I weave through the halftime chaos—people clogging the aisles, kids darting around, the smell of popcorn everywhere—aiming for the concession stand labeled “Mark’s.” My heart’s still racing a little, partly from her snapping, partly from just… her. I shake it off. Chili cheese dog. Ten bucks. Sideline. I can handle that.

After a few minutes of dodging people, I spot “Mark’s” up ahead, the sign glowing faintly above a small counter. The line’s short—lucky break—and I step up, shifting my weight as I wait. When it’s my turn, I lean in a bit and say, “Uh, one foot-long chili cheese dog, please.”

The worker, some guy with a stained apron and zero enthusiasm, nods and gets to work. He grabs a thick bun—bigger than any I’ve seen—and then reaches for the hot dog. My eyes widen as he pulls it out. This thing’s a monster—way thicker than any jumbo dog I’ve ever come across, and it’s a legit foot long. He drops it into the bun, and the bread practically swallows it, leaving all this extra space around the sides. I’m starting to get why Riley wanted this one.

Then he grabs a ladle and starts scooping chili—big, heaping scoops, one after another—drenching the hot dog until it’s swimming in it. The smell hits me, rich and spicy, and I’m half-impressed, half-intimidated by the sheer size of this thing. It’s not just a snack; it’s a project. After the chili’s piled on, he grabs handfuls of shredded cheese—literal handfuls—and sprinkles it across the top. The heat from the chili melts it almost instantly, turning the whole mess into this gooey, dripping beast.

He slides it across the counter in a flimsy paper tray, and I hand over a crumpled ten from my pocket. “Thanks,” I mutter, grabbing it carefully so it doesn’t collapse on me. I turn back toward the court, weaving through the crowd again, the weight of this absurd hot dog pulling at my hands. Riley’s waiting, and I’m not about to keep her starving any longer than I have to.

I hustle back to the court, the chili cheese dog balanced in my hands like it’s some kind of fragile masterpiece. The crowd’s still thick, but I manage to slip through, hitting the sideline where Riley’s waiting. She’s got that same impatient look, arms crossed, tapping her foot. I hold the tray out to her, and she snatches it quick, giving it a once-over before scoffing.

“They really skimped this time,” she mutters, just loud enough for me to catch it.

I blink, thrown off. Skimped? This thing’s a beast—chili dripping over the edges, cheese melting into a gooey mess, the hot dog itself thicker than my arm. What’s she comparing it to? I don’t even know how to respond, so I just stand there, watching as she turns toward the locker room tunnel. She takes a massive bite—then another—tearing into it like she hasn’t eaten in days. By the time she disappears into the tunnel, half the damn thing’s gone, and I’m left staring after her, jaw slack. How does someone even do that?

Shaking my head, I turn and trudge back up the bleachers to our spot. The gym’s still buzzing, but I feel like I just witnessed something unreal. I drop into my seat, slouching back, replaying it all—Riley’s strut, that insane cheer stunt, the way she demolished that hot dog. My brain’s a mess, and I’m not sure if I’m more impressed or weirded out.

About five minutes later, Connor slides back into the seat next to me, still grinning from whatever catch-up session he just had. “Yo, you good, man?” he asks, nudging me with his elbow. “You look like you saw a ghost or something.”

I force a laugh, sitting up a bit. “Nah, just… your sister, dude. She’s something else.” I don’t even know how to explain it, so I leave it at that, hoping he doesn’t press.

Ten more minutes drag by, and the third quarter kicks off with a blare of the buzzer. I’m back to watching Riley, but it’s different now—less dazed, more curious. She’s out there doing her thing, leading the squad through their routines, all sharp moves and loud chants. The game hums along—players hustling, crowd cheering, nothing wild. Just standard basketball stuff. I’m still not into it like Connor is, but Riley’s got my attention locked, especially after that chili dog scene.

The fourth quarter rolls in, and it’s more of the same. The clock ticks down, the score stays lopsided in our team’s favor, and the cheerleaders keep the energy up. Then, with just a few minutes left, something shifts. The squad’s idle on the sideline, catching their breath, when a couple of the girls start pinching their noses. One coughs, then another. Even Riley reacts—she clamps both hands over her nose and steps away from the group, her face scrunching up like she’s smelled something awful.

I lean forward, squinting. No way. One of them must’ve let one rip—silent but deadly, judging by how fast it’s spreading. Riley’s practically retreating, waving a hand in front of her face, and I can’t help but smirk. After that “smell our butts” stunt at halftime, this feels like some kind of cosmic payback. I’m too far to catch the stench myself, but her reaction’s enough—whatever it is, it’s bad, and it’s gotta be one of the other girls. She’s not even trying to hide how pissed she looks, and I’m just sitting here, quietly enjoying the chaos.

The cheerleaders settle down after a minute, the nose-pinching and coughing fading as they pull it together for one last routine. Riley’s back in charge, barking out the chant, and they nail it—sharp, loud, wrapping up the game on a high note. The buzzer blares, and the players erupt, our team celebrating the win with fist bumps and yells. They jog over to shake hands with the other side, all sportsmanlike and sweaty, while the crowd starts filing out, a slow shuffle of chatter and footsteps heading for the exits.

Down on the court, it clears out quick—players disappearing to the locker rooms, cheerleaders scattering, staff sweeping up. Connor and I stay put in the stands, though. No point in moving when Riley’s our ride. I lean back, arms crossed, watching the gym empty out while Connor scrolls his phone beside me, muttering something about the score.

“Guess we just chill till she’s ready,” I say, glancing at him.

“Yeah, she’ll come grab us when she’s done,” he replies, not looking up. “You know how she is—takes her sweet time when she wants to.”

I nod, my eyes drifting back to the sideline where Riley was last. She’s probably in the locker room by now, changing or whatever. After everything tonight—the cheers, the chili dog, that fart chaos—I’m kinda curious what she’ll say when she shows up. For now, though, we’re stuck waiting, the gym growing quieter around us.

About ten minutes tick by, the gym mostly empty now except for a few stragglers and the hum of the overhead lights. Then Riley pops up at the end of our row, hands on her hips. “Let’s go, dipshits,” she snaps, her voice cutting through the quiet like a whip.

She’s swapped the cheer uniform for thin leggings and a tight long-sleeve shirt, the college’s name splashed across the chest with “Cheerleading” in smaller letters underneath. It hugs her frame, and as she turns to lead the way, I can’t stop my eyes from dropping. After that halftime stunt—seeing her ass in just underwear—my brain’s locked onto it now. The leggings don’t help, clinging tight, and I’m hyper-aware of every step she takes. I shove my hands deeper into my hoodie pockets, trying to keep my face neutral as we follow her down the bleachers.

Connor’s ahead of me, oblivious, already yapping about the game. “That last shot was insane, right? Dude’s got range.” Riley doesn’t even glance back, just keeps walking, her stride all business. I trail behind, stuck somewhere between feeling like a creep and just… noticing. She’s always had this pull, but tonight’s cranked it up to eleven. I shake my head a little, forcing my eyes up to the back of her head instead. Gotta chill—dipshit or not, I’m not about to get caught staring.

We step out into the cool night air, the parking lot mostly cleared out now, just a few cars scattered under the flickering lights. Riley leads us across the asphalt toward a lone baby-blue, two-door coupe parked off to the side. It’s sleek and petite, a sporty little thing—way different from the old clunker she used to drive us around in. This one’s more modern, not brand-new but definitely a step up, with sharp lines and a vibe that matches her.

“Shotgun!” Connor yells, darting ahead. I don’t care much—backseat’s fine by me—and just shrug as we reach the car.

Riley clicks the key fob, the locks popping up with a chirp, and she swings the driver’s door open. She leans in, flipping the seat forward with a quick tug, and nods at me. “In you go,” she says, her tone flat but expectant. I duck down and squeeze into the backseat, the space tight and snug. It’s weird—there’s only one seat back here, dead center, not the usual two. I figure it’s so whoever’s stuck back here doesn’t get crushed if the front seats slide all the way back. Still, it’s cramped, my knees brushing up against the center console between the front seats as I settle in.

Riley slides into the driver’s seat, pulling her seat back into place, and Connor hops in beside her, slamming his door shut. She closes hers, and suddenly we’re all packed in, no more than three feet apart in this tiny-ass car. It’s like being stuffed into a tin can—cozy, but not exactly comfortable. My legs are wedged against the console, and I shift a bit, trying to find a spot that doesn’t feel like I’m folding in half.

Riley fires up the engine, the low rumble vibrating through the seats, and glances in the rearview mirror. “Buckle up, dipshit,” she says, catching my eye for a split second before looking ahead. I fumble for the seatbelt, clicking it in, while Connor’s already messing with the radio, oblivious to how close we all are in here. It’s gonna be a long ride home.

Riley shifts the car into gear, and the little coupe purrs as it rolls out of the parking spot, gliding toward the lot’s exit. The ride’s smooth at first, streetlights flashing by, Connor still fiddling with the radio while I’m wedged in the back, knees jammed against the console. It’s quiet for maybe a minute—then Riley decides to unleash chaos.

I don’t notice it at first, but she must’ve locked the windows ahead of time, because when I hear her take this big, dramatic breath, I’m not ready for what’s next. A loud, sloppy fart tears out of her, echoing in the tiny car like a gunshot. The sound’s wet and obnoxious, and the smell hits almost instantly—thick, sour, like that chili cheese dog’s staging a violent comeback.

Connor jolts in his seat, whipping around to glare at her. “Riley, what the hell?!” he yells, already reaching for the window button, but it doesn’t budge. He jabs it again, harder. “Unlock this, you psycho!”

I’m frozen in the back, eyes wide, trying not to breathe as the stench fills the cramped space. She’s trapped us in here. Riley just smirks, glancing at Connor like she’s won something. “Deal with it,” she says, all smug, then cranks the wheel to turn onto the main road, totally unbothered. I’m stuck, knees pinned, lungs burning, wondering how long I can hold my breath before I pass out. This car’s a warzone now, and she’s the damn general.

Barely a minute passes, and Riley’s at it again. She shifts in her seat, lifting the asscheek closest to Connor and me, and another fart blasts out—longer this time, a deep, gurgling rip that sounds like it’s been brewing since halftime. She lets out a loud, “Oh, fuck yeah, that was a good one,” sighing with this smug relief, like she’s proud of it.

Connor’s losing it, slamming his hand against the window button over and over. “What the hell, Riley?!” he shouts, voice cracking with desperation as he claws at the door. The smell’s worse now—hot, meaty, like the chili cheese dog’s been weaponized. I’m gagging in the back, pressing my sleeve to my nose, but it’s no use—this car’s a gas chamber.

Riley cackles, tossing a glance at Connor. “Blame Eli—he’s the one who got me that chili cheese dog at halftime.”

Connor whips around, glaring at me through the haze. “Really, man?”

I throw my hands up, voice muffled behind my sleeve. “I didn’t know this would happen! She just said she was hungry!” I’m defending myself, but it’s weak—nobody could’ve predicted this.

Riley’s still laughing, sharp and mean. “You paid for that chili cheese dog too, Eli, and now you get to smell it coming out.” She smirks in the rearview mirror, catching my eye for a second before focusing back on the road. I sink lower in the backseat, trapped between my knees and the stench, wishing I’d stayed home counting ceiling cracks instead. This ride’s a nightmare, and she’s loving every second of it.

Connor twists toward the window, burying his nose and mouth in his sleeve, trying to block out the lingering stench. After a bit, it fades—just enough that he drops his arm, breathing cautiously like he’s testing the air. I’m still pinching my nose, eyes watering, when I catch Riley shifting again. She leans to one side, one hand slipping off the steering wheel, and I watch, half-dreading, as it slides down toward the back of her leggings.

Her fingers disappear under the waistband, right beneath her ass, and she tenses up. A muffled pffft rumbles out, trapped in the fabric, and my stomach flips. She pulls her hand out slow, fingers clenched tight like she’s holding something precious. I’ve never seen this side of her—wild, unhinged, straight-up gross—and yeah, it’s messed up, but there’s this weird part of me that’s… into it? I shake my head quick, trying to shove that thought down deep where it belongs.

Riley glances at Connor, smirking like she’s got a plan. “Hey, dipshit,” she says, sharp enough to snap his head around. The second he turns, she strikes—her hand flies open, slamming against his face, pressing whatever she’d cupped right under his nose. Connor flails, yelling into her palm, “Riley, what the fuck?!” He’s thrashing, trying to shove her off, but she’s got him pinned for a solid few seconds, cackling like a maniac.

That fart must’ve been a monster—way worse than the ones that hit the car before, concentrated and brutal. He finally breaks free, gagging, practically climbing the window to escape. I’m stuck in the back, nose still pinched, caught between horror and this stupid, confusing spark of adrenaline. She’s a terror, and I’m just along for the ride—literally.

Riley’s laughter fills the car, sharp and relentless, as Connor’s still reeling against the window, coughing like he’s been poisoned. She finally catches her breath and grins, all casual. “That was nothing,” she says, brushing it off like she didn’t just gas us out. Then her tone shifts, a sly edge creeping in. “You remember that chick who said ‘hi’ to you earlier, Connor? The one with the flirty little wave when I was talking to you?”

Connor, still recovering, squints at her. “What? Yeah, I guess. Why?”

Riley smirks, leaning back in her seat as she steers. “Had to punish her. Team captain’s gotta keep order, right? So after the game, I got some of the girls to hold her down on the locker room bench. Pinned her good—then I sat on her face and just… unloaded.” She lets out a short, smug laugh, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

My jaw drops, fingers still pinching my nose, but I can’t hide the shock—or the weird rush that hits me. Connor’s head snaps up, eyes wide. “You what? Riley, that’s insane!”

She shrugs, unbothered. “She needed to know her place. Can’t have her drooling over you in front of me like that. Plus, after that chili cheese dog, I had plenty to work with.” She shoots me a quick glance in the rearview mirror, smirking again, like I’m in on it somehow.

I’m speechless, stuck in this tiny backseat, knees jammed against the console, brain spinning. Riley’s always been a force, but this? This is next-level. Part of me’s horrified, part of me’s… something else, and I’m not sure what to do with any of it. Connor just groans, slumping against the door. “You’re a freak, you know that?” he mutters, but she’s already laughing again, owning it completely.

I finally loosen my grip on my nose, the air in the car settling enough that I can talk without choking. My mind’s still spinning from Riley’s last story, but something clicks, and I lean forward a bit, knees bumping the console. “Wait, so that thing on the sideline—before the game ended, when all the cheerleaders were coughing and covering their noses… that was you, Riley?” I pause, frowning. “But you were covering your nose too.”

Riley busts out laughing, nodding like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard all night. “Yeah, that was me. Oh my God, that one was terrible.” She wipes at her eye with one hand, still steering with the other. “I had to play it off, though—couldn’t just stand there owning it in front of the whole crowd. So I acted like it wasn’t me, all grossed out with the rest of ‘em. Worked like a charm.”

Connor groans louder, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re disgusting. How do you even live with yourself?”

“Easy,” she shoots back, grinning. “I’m the captain—I do what I want.” She throws me another quick look in the mirror, like she’s daring me to say something else. I just sit back, half-stunned, half-amazed. She’s a master at this—farting chaos and covering her tracks, all while running the show. I don’t know whether to laugh or hide, but I’m definitely not forgetting tonight anytime soon.

Riley’s voice cuts through the car as we roll up to a familiar intersection, the engine humming low. “We’re getting close—where am I taking you, Eli? Your place or ours?”

I shift in the cramped backseat, knees still pressed against the console, and think for a sec. It’s late, and honestly, after everything tonight, crashing with them sounds better. “I’ll probably just spend the night at your place,” I say, keeping it casual.

Riley doesn’t miss a beat, flicking on the blinker and turning down the road toward their house. “Fine by me,” she says, her tone neutral but with that edge she always carries. Connor grunts from the front, still slumped against the window like he’s recovering from her earlier assault.

“Cool, man,” he mutters, glancing back at me. “You can take the couch or whatever.”

I nod, settling back as the car cruises down the quiet street, the baby-blue coupe’s headlights slicing through the dark. Riley’s driving steady now, no more chaos—for the moment, anyway. I’m just glad to be headed somewhere I can stretch out and process this insane night. Their place it is.

The house looms up on the left, a familiar two-story silhouette against the night sky, and Riley slows the car, easing it into the driveway. The second she parks, Connor’s out like a shot—door slamming behind him as he bolts for the front door and vanishes inside. Guess he’s had enough of Riley’s chaos for one night. I’m still stuck in the back, waiting for her to flip the seat forward so I can climb out, but she’s not moving yet. Instead, she’s digging around in the center console, fishing for whatever—keys, phone, who knows.

I sit there, knees crammed against the console, figuring she’ll get to it when she’s ready. Except she doesn’t. When she’s done rummaging, she shifts fast—way too fast for me to clock what’s coming. She kicks her feet up, squatting on the driver’s seat like some kind of ninja, and before I can blink, she throws her ass back between the front seats, aiming it dead at my face.

“Riley, what—” I start, jerking back, but there’s nowhere to go in this tiny car. She’s got this one locked and loaded, and I’m trapped. Her ass unleashes a fart that makes every other one tonight look like a warm-up act. It’s wet, sloppy, a five-second barrage of splattering, sputtering horror that fills the car with a stench so thick I can taste it in the first second. My hands fly up, useless, as the smell—chili, cheese, and pure evil—chokes me out.

She giggles, all smug and wicked, and says, “That’s my thanks for the chili cheese dog, Eli.” Then she pops the driver’s door open, hops out, and slams it shut quick, sealing me in with her masterpiece. I’m coughing, gagging, but it gets worse—she doesn’t even flip the seat forward. She just leaves me there, stranded in the backseat of this fart-filled coffin.

I lunge for the seat lever myself, fumbling with it, but it’s jammed or something—definitely not made for someone stuck back here to figure out. Screw it. I abandon that plan and twist around, deciding my only shot is climbing through the gap between the driver and passenger seats. It’s tight—ridiculously tight—and I’m thrashing, elbows banging against the console, legs tangling as I try to haul myself forward. The whole time, I’m breathing hard from the effort, sucking in lungfuls of that rancid air, my eyes watering, nose burning.

Finally, I squeeze through, half-falling into the driver’s seat. I grab the handle, yank it, and the door swings open. I shove myself out, tumbling onto the grass next to the driveway, landing hard on my side. Gasping, I roll onto my back, chest heaving, staring up at the night sky. Then I hear it—Riley’s laughter, sharp and nonstop. I tilt my head and see her standing there, just off the driveway, watching the whole pathetic show like it’s her personal comedy special.

She’s still cracking up as she strolls over, clicking the key fob to lock the car. “Night, dipshit,” she says, slamming the driver’s door shut before sauntering toward the house, leaving me sprawled out on the grass, wrecked and reeking. I just lie there for a second, catching my breath, wondering how the hell tonight turned into this.

After a minute of lying there, the cool grass soaking into my hoodie, I finally drag myself up. My head’s still spinning, and I brush off the dirt and blades clinging to me, feeling like I just lost a war I didn’t sign up for. With a sigh, I shuffle toward the front door, defeated, and step inside their house.

The familiar smell of it—wood floors, faint laundry detergent—hits me as I kick off my shoes and leave them by the door. I’ve been here a million times over the years, crashing with Connor, raiding their fridge, whatever. His family’s always been cool about it—help yourself, they’d say—so I don’t think twice as I head straight for the kitchen.

I grab a glass from the cabinet, the same spot it’s always been, and pull open the fridge door. The filtered water pitcher’s right there, and I pour myself a full cup, the cold hitting my hand through the glass. Dropping into a chair at the kitchen table, I take a slow sip, then another, letting the water wash away the taste of Riley’s chaos still lingering in my throat. The house is quiet now—Connor’s probably upstairs, and Riley’s… wherever she goes to recharge her reign of terror. I just sit there, staring at the table, trying to piece together how this night went so sideways.

I’m still nursing my water, the glass sweating in my hand, when Connor strolls into the kitchen, a folded towel tucked under his arm. He spots me at the table and nods. “Hey, man, I’m gonna hit the shower and probably crash after,” he says, yawning as he leans against the counter. “Long night, you know?”

“Yeah, no kidding,” I mutter, taking another sip. I’m a little bummed—he’s bailing already, and I’m not even close to tired. My brain’s still wired from everything, but it’s not a big deal. I’ll figure something out. “Cool, go for it. I’ll just… chill or whatever.”

He smirks, probably catching the flat tone in my voice. “You’ll live. Couch is all yours if you wanna crash later.” He claps the towel against his hand and heads out, footsteps fading up the stairs.

I lean back in the chair, staring at the half-empty glass. The house feels quieter now, just the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards. Not tired, but stuck here anyway. I’ll find something to do—TV, phone, whatever. Night’s not over yet, even if Connor’s tapping out.

I’m still slouched at the table, swirling the last bit of water in my glass, when Riley strides into the kitchen. She’s swapped out the leggings and long-sleeve for something totally different—men’s boxers, loose and hanging low on her hips, the kind with a fly a guy would use to pee without dropping them. Up top, she’s got on a sports bra—or maybe one of those push-up ones, I don’t know the difference—tight and black, showing off more than I’m used to seeing from her.

She doesn’t even glance my way at first, just heads straight for the fridge like I’m not there. The boxers shift as she moves, and I catch myself staring for a second before snapping my eyes back to my glass. After everything tonight, I’m not sure if I’m ready for whatever this version of Riley’s about to bring. I take a quick sip of water, trying to act normal, waiting to see if she’s gonna say something or just keep pretending I’m invisible.

Riley rummages through the fridge for a sec before pulling out a blender bottle, the kind with a snap-on lid and a little mixing ball inside—perfect for shakes. Whatever’s in it is a dark, murky green, thick enough that it doesn’t slosh when she moves. She shuts the fridge door with her hip and turns, leaning back against the counter right across from me. The boxers hang loose, the sports bra—or whatever it is—sits snug, and she’s all casual, like this is just another night.

She pops the lid open and takes a long, loud slurp, the thick green stuff sliding down slow. I glance up from my glass, and her eyes are locked on me—steady, unblinking, like she’s studying me while she drinks. It’s unnerving, that stare, especially after everything she’s put me through tonight. I shift in my seat, thumb brushing the condensation on my cup, and try to play it off like I don’t notice. But I do. She’s got me pinned with that look, and I’m not sure what’s coming next.

Riley pulls the blender bottle away from her mouth, the dark green sludge clinging to the rim, and keeps her eyes locked on me. “What’s up?” she says, her tone flat but pointed, like she’s testing me.

I glance up from my glass, caught off guard, not really sure what to say. “Uh, not much, I guess,” I mumble, shrugging a little. It’s lame, but it’s true—Connor’s off showering, I’m just sitting here with water, and after the night we’ve had, I’m not exactly brimming with conversation. Her stare doesn’t let up, though, and I fidget with the cup, waiting to see if she’s gonna push it or just let it drop.

A few seconds tick by, her eyes still boring into me, and then Riley shifts. She leans sideways, one hip jutting out as she squints an eye like she’s focusing hard. Before I can even brace myself, a fart rips out of her, bouncing off the wooden cabinet under the counter with a high-pitched vrrrrt. It’s sharp, quick, and echoes in the quiet kitchen like a little trumpet blast.

I freeze, glass halfway to my mouth, staring at her. She doesn’t flinch—just straightens up, takes another slurp of her green shake, and keeps watching me like nothing happened. My brain’s stuck between laughing and bolting, but I just sit there, caught in her weird, silent challenge. Riley finishes slurping her shake, the thick green mess barely moving in the bottle as she lowers it. She smirks at me, still leaning against the counter. “I can tell they skimped on that chili cheese dog,” she says, all casual. “I’m not farting nearly as much as I usually do when I get one of those.”

I blink, my glass hovering near my lips, completely thrown. She’s serious? After everything tonight—the car, the sideline, that last kitchen blast—I can’t wrap my head around her thinking she’s less gassy. I’m still reeling from what she’s already unleashed, and now she’s saying this is light work? My stomach twists just imagining it.

She grins wider, giving the blender bottle a little shake. The dark sludge inside barely budges, clinging to the sides. “This should help, though,” she says, nodding at it. “Kale, broccoli, spinach, apples, milk, navy beans. Probably some other stuff I forgot about too.” Her eyes flick back to me, that smug look daring me to react.

I set my glass down slow, trying to process that list. Every single thing in there sounds like a fart factory on its own, and she’s mixed them all together like some kind of gas grenade. “Uh… yeah, that’ll do it,” I manage, voice weak. She just keeps smiling, like she knows exactly what’s coming—and I’m starting to think I should’ve gone home instead.

Riley tilts her head a little, still gripping that blender bottle. “So, what’re you and Connor doing tonight?” she asks, her voice casual but with that edge that keeps me on guard.

She takes another loud slurp of her shake, the thick green goop sliding up the straw, while I sit there figuring out how to answer. I shrug, resting my hands on the table. “Uh, Connor’s taking a shower now, then he’s crashing,” I say. “He’s done for the night. Me… I’m not sure what I’m doing after that.”

Her eyes stay on me, sharp and steady, as she swallows the mouthful. I wait, half-expecting her to throw out some sarcastic jab or worse, but she just stands there, leaning against the counter, letting the silence hang. My fingers tap the side of my glass, and I wonder what’s brewing in that head of hers—especially with that fart fuel she’s chugging.

Riley cuts through the quiet, still holding that blender bottle. “I’ve got a TV in my room if you wanna hang out,” she says, all nonchalant. “Got a video game console in there too.”

I look up at her, eyebrows lifting, caught off guard. Riley? Video games? I never pegged her for that—cheerleading, bossing people around, sure, but not kicking back with a controller. It’s intriguing, and part of me’s already leaning toward saying yes. But then my brain flashes back to the car—that wet, five-second assault right in my face—and I hesitate. She’s a walking gas bomb tonight, and I’ve already taken one point-blank. Hanging out in her room sounds like a gamble.

Still, there’s this weird spark flickering in me, something I can’t quite pin down. Did I… like that? The thought’s confusing as hell, and I shove it aside, not ready to unpack it. I sit there, fingers drumming on the table, debating. TV, games, Riley—it’s tempting, but I’m weighing it against the risk of getting fumigated again. She’s watching me, slurping that shake, waiting for an answer, and I’m stuck in my own head, torn.

Riley breaks the silence, pushing off the counter with a little shrug. “I’ll take that as a no then,” she says, already heading toward the hallway, her boxers swishing faintly as she moves.

I snap my head up, and before I can stop myself, “Wait,” slips out of my mouth. It’s automatic, no thought behind it—just pure instinct.

She stops mid-step, turning back to face me, one eyebrow raised like she’s mildly curious. She doesn’t say anything, just waits, her blender bottle dangling in her hand.

I freeze, stuck in the chair, not even sure why I stopped her. My brain’s scrambling, caught between that weird spark and the memory of her gas attack. But now that she’s looking at me, I feel like I’ve gotta commit. “Sure,” I say, the word tumbling out before I can overthink it more.

Riley smirks, just a flicker, then turns away again. “Let’s go then,” she tosses over her shoulder, already walking off down the hallway like it’s settled. I shove my chair back, grab my glass to dump the last of the water in the sink, and follow her, half-wondering what I just signed up for.

I trail Riley down the hallway, her footsteps light on the hardwood, until she stops at a door and swings it open. She steps inside, and I follow, feeling the shift from the quiet house to her space. She lingers by the door just long enough for me to get in, then shuts it behind me with a soft click.

I take a quick look around. Her room’s… not what I pictured. It’s clean, tidy, but plain—way less girly than I’d expected from someone like Riley. No pink throw pillows or frilly curtains, just a bed with a dark comforter, a small desk in the corner, and a TV perched on a simple stand with a game console hooked up underneath. A few cheer trophies line a shelf, but that’s about it for flair. It’s nice, functional, more like a crash pad than some decked-out princess lair. I don’t know why, but it fits her—straight to the point, no nonsense. I stand there, hands in my pockets, waiting to see what she’s got in mind.

Riley strides over to her bed and hops onto it, landing with a little bounce before settling against the headboard. “Sit down,” she says, nodding toward the edge of the mattress like it’s no big deal.

I hesitate for a split second, then shuffle over and perch on the corner, feeling awkward as hell. My hands rest on my knees, and I’m not sure where to look—her, the TV, the floor. She’s sprawled out, totally at ease, picking at her nails like we’re not in this weird post-fartpocalypse moment.

“What do you wanna do?” she asks, her tone casual, eyes flicking up from her fingers to me for a second before going back to her picking.

I shrug, still adjusting to being in her room. “Uh, I dunno. Whatever you’re up for, I guess. Games? TV?” I’m throwing it back to her, hoping she’ll take the lead so I don’t have to figure out how to navigate this.

Riley slides off the bed with a little wiggle, heading straight for a closet across the room. She pops it open, and I lean forward a bit, curious what she’s digging for and how it ties into whatever we’re doing next.

My eyes land on a media shelf inside—rows of video games, cases stacked tight, spanning a bunch of different consoles. Some old-school stuff, some newer titles, all lined up like she’s been collecting for years. It’s impressive, and I’m already itching to check out what she’s got. But then something else snags my attention, pulling me out of game mode.

Next to the shelf, there’s three tall stacks of small glass canning jars—each one shorter than a soda can, all empty, lids screwed on tight. They’re packed in neat towers, dozens of them, glinting under the closet light. I blink, totally thrown. Why the hell does she have that many canning jars? Empty ones, no less. My brain scrambles for a reason—crafts? Storage? Some weird cheer thing?—but nothing clicks. I glance at her, then back at the jars, confused as hell but not sure if I should ask yet.

I can’t hold it in anymore—the jars are too weird to ignore. “Hey, uh, what’re all those jars for?” I ask, nodding toward the closet.

Riley doesn’t even flinch, answering fast like it’s the most normal thing ever. “It’s how I make money,” she says, still rummaging through the game shelf, her back to me.

I frown, totally lost. “Wait, how do you make money with them?” My voice comes out a little higher than I mean it to, curiosity overriding any chill I’m trying to play.

She turns around then, facing me fully, her expression deadpan but with that sly glint in her eye. “I sell fart jars,” she says, like she’s telling me she babysits or something.

I stare at her, brain short-circuiting. “What… what do you mean by ‘fart jars’?” I ask, leaning forward a bit, not sure if she’s messing with me or if this is about to get even stranger than tonight already has.

She crosses her arms, smirking now. “Exactly what it sounds like, genius. I fart in the jars, seal ‘em up, and sell ‘em. People buy ‘em. Good money, too.” Her tone’s so matter-of-fact it almost makes me doubt I heard her right—but I know I did. I just sit there, mouth half-open, trying to process that Riley, cheer captain and gas machine, has turned her talent into a side hustle.

I sit there, still processing, my brain tripping over itself to catch up. “So… you fart into jars and sell them?” I say, repeating it slow like it’ll make more sense out loud. “Like, why do people even buy them?”

Riley shrugs, leaning back against the closet frame, that smirk still playing on her lips. “Yeah, pretty much. I fart in ‘em, seal ‘em tight, ship ‘em out. And why? Hell if I know—some people are just into weird shit. Collectors, fetish folks, whatever. They pay, I deliver. Easy cash.” She says it like it’s no different from selling old clothes or something, totally unfazed, while I’m still sitting there, wide-eyed, trying to wrap my head around the fact that her farts are a literal business.

I tilt my head, curiosity getting the better of me, and decide to dig a little deeper. “So, are those all filled?” I ask, nodding toward the stacks of jars in her closet, my voice a mix of disbelief and genuine intrigue.

Riley glances back at them, then shakes her head with a small laugh. “Nah, those are empty—waiting for orders. I don’t just sit around farting into jars for fun. I fill ‘em when someone buys one. Keeps ‘em fresh, you know?” She quirks an eyebrow at me, like she’s daring me to keep asking, and I’m still half-stunned, picturing her running this bizarre little operation out of her room.

I lean forward a bit, still hooked on this wild rabbit hole. “Okay, but, like… does the fart smell even last?” I ask, my tone a mix of skepticism and fascination. It’s so bizarre I can’t stop myself from prying more.

Riley grins, clearly enjoying my confusion. “Oh, yeah, it lasts,” she says, nodding confidently. “If you seal it up quick, that stink stays trapped in there for weeks—sometimes longer, depending on how potent it is. People want the real deal, not some weak-ass air. I’ve had customers message me saying they can still smell it months later if they don’t open it.” She crosses her arms, looking almost proud, like she’s cracked some secret science of fart preservation. I just stare, mind blown, trying to picture someone cracking open one of those jars and actually wanting what’s inside.

I shift on the bed, still grappling with this whole thing, but I can’t resist another question. “So… how do you feel about people, like, actually sniffing your farts?” I ask, my voice a little hesitant, half-expecting her to brush it off.

Riley doesn’t miss a beat, her grin widening as she leans forward slightly. “Honestly? It’s hilarious,” she says, her tone dripping with amusement. “I mean, I’m just doing my thing—eating chili dogs, blending up kale and beans, whatever—and people out there are paying to get a whiff of it. It’s kinda powerful, you know? Like, I’m sitting here making bank off something everyone else does for free. Plus, it’s not like I’m meeting these weirdos in person. They get their jar, I get my money—win-win.” She shrugs, totally at ease, like the idea of strangers obsessing over her gas is just another day at the office. I’m left staring, caught between shock and this weird respect for how unbothered she is by it all.

I tilt my head, the gears still turning, and figure I might as well go all in. “Okay, so… how much do you actually make from this?” I ask, genuinely curious now about the cash behind her fart empire.

Riley smirks, leaning back against the closet frame, and gives me a look like she’s about to drop a bomb. “You’re not gonna like the answer,” she says, her voice teasing but with a hint of truth. She pauses for a beat, letting it hang, and I brace myself, already half-guessing it’s more than I’d ever expect from something this insane.

Riley’s smirk doesn’t fade as she leans forward, clearly enjoying my reaction before she even answers. “I paid for college already—whole thing, done, about a month ago,” she says, all matter-of-fact. “And I only started this two months back.”

My jaw drops. I’m frozen on the bed, staring at her like she just said she won the lottery. “You’re kidding,” I manage, voice weak. College? Paid off? In two months? From farts? My brain’s short-circuiting, trying to do the math, but it’s too insane to process.

She laughs at my shock, shaking her head. “Nope, dead serious. Saw this other girl online doing it—making a big stink, literally. She was charging, like, outrageous prices, hundreds a pop. I thought, ‘I can do that better.’ So I hung out in her chats, her groups, whatever, dropping hints I was selling jars—faster, cheaper, and with my cheerleader thing, I could play it up, give ‘em the whole bratty captain vibe they’re into. Got banned eventually, but it didn’t matter. Word spread, and people started hitting me up. Now I’ve got a waiting list.” She shrugs, like it’s just another hustle, but I’m still stuck on the fact that her gas paid for a degree before she even graduated.

Riley’s eyes light up, like a switch flips in her head, and she straightens up from the closet frame, looking at me with this sudden spark. “Hey, you wanna help me with something?” she says, her voice pitching up with excitement. “I’ll even pay you for it.”

I squint at her, skeptical as hell after everything she’s just laid out. “Uh… what do you need help with?” I ask, keeping my tone cautious. My mind’s racing—fart jars, college paid off, and now she’s roping me in? I’m half-curious, half-worried I’m about to get dragged into something I’ll regret. She’s grinning now, and that’s not exactly reassuring.

Riley leans in a bit, her grin turning mischievous as she lays it out. “Okay, so people are always skeptical about the fart jars, right? They think they’re fake—some scam or whatever. Which, fair, I get it. But I’ve got an idea for a video to shut ‘em up and prove it’s real.”

I nod slowly, following along. It makes sense—people dropping cash on something like that would want proof it’s legit. But I’m still not seeing my part in this, and my guard’s up. “Alright… so where do I come in?” I ask, eyeing her warily.

Her grin widens, and she doesn’t miss a beat. “I already film myself filling the jars—shows I’m actually doing it, adds value, makes it personal. I write the date and time on the lid right after sealing it tight, all on camera. But for this one, I wanna kick it up. I’ll fart into a jar, seal it, and then hand it to you. You take a big whiff—right there on video—so everyone can see the disgust on your face when it hits you. Real reaction, no fakes. That’s the proof they want.”

I stare at her, my stomach flipping. She’s serious—dead serious. Me, sniffing one of her farts, on camera, for her customers to gawk at? After tonight’s gas attacks, I know exactly what I’d be signing up for. But she’s dangling cash, and that spark from earlier—the weird one I can’t quite shake—is flickering again. I’m caught between backing out and wondering if I’m crazy enough to say yes.

I lean back, rubbing the back of my neck, still processing her plan. No way I’m jumping in blind—not after tonight. “Alright, how much are you willing to pay me for this?” I ask, half-expecting some lowball number to match the absurdity of it all.

Riley doesn’t hesitate. “A thousand bucks,” she says, straight-up, no pause.

I laugh, a quick bark, thinking she’s screwing with me. “Yeah, right.” But her face doesn’t crack—no smirk, no twitch, just that same dead-serious look locked on me. My laugh falters, and I blink, realization sinking in. “Wait… you’re not joking?”

She shakes her head, arms crossed. “Nope. Thousand dollars, cash, for one video. You sniff, you grimace, I post it. Done.” Her voice is all business, like she’s offering me a job mowing her lawn, not inhaling her fart on camera for her weird-ass customers. I’m sitting there, mouth dry, the number bouncing around my head. A grand’s real money—crazy money—for something this nuts. I’m torn, stuck between the cash and the sheer insanity of what she’s asking.

I sit there, still reeling from the number, my brain trying to catch up. “Hold up,” I say, squinting at her. “You’re making that much from these jars that you can just toss me a thousand bucks like it’s nothing?”

Riley smirks, leaning back against the closet frame again, clearly enjoying how floored I am. “Oh, yeah,” she says, all casual. “I told you, I paid off college in two months. These jars? They go for a couple hundred each, sometimes more if I play up the cheerleader angle or throw in a custom video. I’ve got people bidding against each other for ‘em sometimes. A thousand to you is pocket change compared to what’s coming in.” She shrugs, like it’s just math, not some wild hustle built on her farts. I’m staring, my jaw loose, trying to wrap my head around the kind of money she’s pulling—and why anyone’s paying that much to begin with.

A thousand bucks is too much to pass up, no matter how nuts this is. I mean, I already took one of Riley’s farts straight to the face tonight just for her kicks—might as well get paid for the next one. I swallow hard, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll do it,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

Riley’s grin sharpens. “Good, ‘cause my belly’s rumbling,” she says, patting her stomach lightly. My gut twists at that—she’s ready to go now? I’m a little shook, but the cash keeps me grounded. A grand’s worth a grimace or two. I shove the nerves down and focus on that.

She strides over to her bed, grabbing her phone off the charger with one smooth motion. Then she crouches down, pulling a box out from underneath. I watch as she starts unpacking stuff—tripods, a couple of sleek-looking lights, cables—and sets it all up like she’s done it a hundred times. She plugs everything in, flips a switch, and the lights flare to life, casting a bright, even glow across the room. Filming lights. Professional ones. It hits me how serious she is about this hustle. The setup’s legit, way more than I’d expect from someone just screwing around.

But looking around, it’s weird—her room’s still so plain. No giant wall-mounted TV, no fancy entertainment center, just that small screen on a basic stand and her games stuffed in the closet. You’d think with the money she’s pulling, she’d have flashier stuff, but it’s like she’s keeping it low-key on purpose. Maybe she’s saving it, or maybe she just doesn’t care about the flex. Either way, it’s another layer to this whole Riley puzzle.

She finishes adjusting one of the lights, then glances at me, phone in hand. “You ready?” she asks, all business now, her tone saying we’re doing this whether I’m braced or not. I nod, standing up, my heart picking up speed as I try to psych myself up for what’s coming.

Riley steps into the lit-up corner of her room, the glow from the filming lights catching her sports bra and boxers just right. She holds up her phone, angling it like she’s done this a thousand times, and taps the screen to start recording. She pauses for a few seconds, letting the moment settle, then launches into her act with that brash confidence I’m way too familiar with by now.

“Hey, fart sniffers and fart deniers!” she says, her voice loud and taunting, staring straight into the camera. “Pay attention, deniers, ‘cause today I’m proving my farts are real. Got a special guest with me, and he’s gonna sample a fresh one straight from one of my jars. And just to make y’all even more jealous, this guy’s already been hotboxed by my farts and took one right to the face.”

My face heats up, and I shift awkwardly behind her, staying out of the shot for now. I’m silent, but inside, I’m cringing hard—she’s really putting it all out there, no filter, telling her weird-ass audience about the car ride and that driveway disaster. Embarrassment creeps in, mixing with the surreal vibe of standing in her room, about to sniff a fart for cash. I shove my hands in my pockets, trying to look unbothered, but my stomach’s doing flips as I wait for her to pull me into this.

Riley pivots smoothly, her tone still bold as she keeps talking to the camera. “Alright, let’s get into what’s fueling this fart I’m about to drop in the jar,” she says, smirking like she’s letting the audience in on a secret. “First off, I had a massive chili cheese dog earlier—greasy, cheesy, the works. Total gut-buster.” She reaches for her blender bottle on the counter, holding it up for the camera before taking a loud, deliberate slurp of the dark green sludge. “And this? This is the real kicker—kale, broccoli, spinach, apples, milk, navy beans, and probably some other stuff I forgot. Trust me, this mix is lethal.”

She sets the bottle down with a little clink, then glances at me, still keeping me nameless for the video. “Yo, grab a jar from the closet,” she says, nodding toward the stacks.

I nod, stepping over to the closet like it’s no big deal, though my pulse is picking up. I reach up, snagging a small canning jar from the top of one of the stacks, and walk back to her. I hold it out, and she takes it smoothly, turning to the camera with a grin. She gives the empty jar a playful shake, letting it catch the light as she shows it off. “See this? Brand-new, ready for action,” she says, her voice dripping with that cheerleader swagger, hyping it up like it’s a prize. I stand back, hands in my pockets again, watching her work and bracing for what’s next.

Riley glances at me, holding out her phone with a quick, “Here, you film me.”

I hesitate for a second, caught off guard, but grab it anyway, my fingers fumbling a bit as I get a grip. I’m not exactly a pro at this, but I nod and lift the phone, aiming it at her while trying to keep it steady. She’s already moving, twisting at the jar’s lid. It sticks for a moment, but she pops it off with a grunt and sets it aside on the counter. Then she places the empty jar on the floor, right in the middle of the lit-up area.

“Alright, fart sniffers and deniers, get ready,” she says to the camera, her voice all taunting bravado, like she’s about to drop a mic instead of a fart.

I’m focusing hard, keeping the phone level as she turns around. Then, without warning, she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her boxers and yanks them down, baring her ass completely—to the camera, to me. My breath catches, and I’m stunned. It’s… perfect, and for a split second, my brain blanks. But I shake it off quick, snapping back to reality. A thousand bucks, Eli—don’t screw this up.

Riley starts squatting down over the jar, her movements slow and deliberate. I lower the phone to keep her in frame, tracking her ass and the jar below it. I’m so locked in on getting the shot right that I drop to the floor, lying flat to angle the camera just right, making sure both her and the jar are perfectly centered. My heart’s pounding—not just from the money now, but from how wild this is, how she’s owning it without a shred of hesitation. I steady my hands, filming like my life depends on it, ready for whatever she’s about to unleash.

I’m flat on the floor, phone steady in my hands, zeroed in on the shot. The camera catches everything—Riley’s ass lowering until her skin presses against the rim of the jar, smooshing slightly around the edges as she settles into place. I inch the phone closer, careful not to shake it, framing it so the jar takes up most of the shot, but the top of the frame is all Riley—her ass planted firmly on the jar’s opening, sealing it tight. My pulse is hammering, but I keep my focus, making sure every detail’s crisp for her video. She’s dead still for a moment, and I know something’s about to go down. I hold my breath, keeping the camera locked, ready for it.

Riley’s asscheeks tighten, clenching hard, and then it hits—a massive fart explodes into the jar, the glass warping the sound into this sharp, resonating brrrrt that’s almost metallic. It’s loud, way louder than I expected, and it just keeps going, a long, wavering blast that shifts in pitch like it’s got a mind of its own. I’m still filming, phone steady, catching it all. The jar’s walls start to fog up, moisture beading on the inside, proof this thing’s real as hell—no way you fake condensation like that. My eyes widen, but I don’t flinch, keeping the camera locked on her ass and the jar, the evidence building with every second of that endless, rumbling fart.

The main fart finally tapers off, echoing in the jar for a split second, but Riley doesn’t budge. She’s still squatting, ass pressed to the rim, and I can see her tense up again. She lets out a little grunt, and a sharp, tiny fart rips out—quick and high-pitched, like a punctuation mark. Then she grunts again, and another one squeaks free, same deal. Four more times, she pushes, each grunt followed by a short, snappy burst, like she’s squeezing out every last bit she’s got. The jar’s fogging up even more, the camera catching it all—her clenched cheeks, the faint tremble of the glass, the whole unreal scene. I’m still flat on the floor, phone steady, holding the shot tight, half-amazed at how she’s just… going for it.

Riley gives a couple more grunts, her body tensing like she’s trying to coax something else out, but nothing comes. She’s still perched on the jar, ass sealed against the rim, and reaches for the lid she’d set aside earlier, gripping it tight. I keep the camera steady, catching her every move.

She pauses for a few seconds, eyes narrowed like she’s strategizing the cleanest way to pull this off. Then, in one quick motion, she lifts her ass off the jar and slams the lid on, twisting it shut with a fast, practiced turn. The fogged-up glass swirls with condensation, and she secures the cap tight, locking in whatever nightmare she just unleashed. I’m still filming, flat on the floor, making sure to get the jar and her hands in frame as she seals the deal, her focus razor-sharp.

Riley twists the lid on tight, then scoops up the jar, holding it up to the light. The glass is fogged over, beads of moisture clinging to the inside, rolling down in little streaks. She tilts it, inspecting her work with a smirk. “That was a steamy one,” she quips, her voice low and taunting, like she’s proud of the chaos she’s captured.

Her eyes flick over the jar one more time, then lift to the camera—right at me, behind the phone. She locks in, giving this slow, seductive stare that’s all confidence and control. It’s intense, like she’s daring me to feel something, and a shiver shoots through me, my grip on the phone tightening. I’m still filming, heart pounding, caught between her gaze and the foggy jar in her hand, not sure if I’m more stunned by her or what I just witnessed.

Riley’s still holding the foggy jar, her seductive stare shifting back to the camera as she speaks directly to her audience. “Alright, fart deniers, the moment of truth is finally upon you,” she says, her voice dripping with confidence, like she’s about to shut down every skeptic in one move.

She reaches out, her hand brushing past me to grab the phone. Her fingers cover the lens for a second, the view going dark as she says, “Yo, stand over where I am now.” Her tone’s all business, snapping me out of my daze.

I let go of the phone, handing it over, and push myself up from the floor, my knees a little stiff. My stomach’s twisting—I’m nervous as hell about being on camera, especially for this. I walk around the filming lights, stepping into the spot she was just in, the glow warm on my face. Riley moves past me, taking her place behind the lights where I’d been filming, now holding both the phone and the jar. She’s got everything under control, aiming the camera at me like I’m the main event now. I stand there, hands shoved in my pockets, trying not to look as freaked out as I feel, waiting for her next move.

Riley angles the phone, her voice bold as she addresses the camera. “Here’s my special guest, folks. He’s about to experience this fart fresh from the oven,” she says, a sly edge to her words.

I catch myself smirking a little, finding it kinda funny that she’s comparing her fart to something baked, like it’s a damn cookie or whatever. It’s absurd, but I don’t know—her confidence makes it almost amusing. I’m clueless that her audience, the ones who’ll watch this, are gonna lose their minds over that line for totally different reasons.

She stretches out her arm, holding the jar toward me, the phone capturing every move—her hand, the foggy glass, the moment hanging heavy. I step forward, swallowing hard, and take the jar from her, my fingers brushing hers for a split second. It’s still warm from her, and I grip it tight, standing there under the lights, ready—or at least trying to be—for what’s coming next.

Riley nods at me, her voice calm but commanding. “Whenever you’re ready,” she says, stepping in a bit and adjusting the phone to frame just my head and the jar in the shot.

I hold the jar in both hands, staring at it for a few seconds, the foggy glass catching the light. My heart’s pounding, knowing what’s inside and what I’m about to do. I grip the lid, fingers hovering, not twisting it open yet—just holding it there, bracing myself. The lights feel hot on my face, Riley’s camera steady on me, and I can feel the weight of her audience waiting through that lens. I take a shallow breath, trying to psych myself up for the thousand-dollar sniff.

I tighten my grip on the jar, my knuckles whitening as I decide to just go for it—quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid. No point dragging this out. My fingers twist the metal screw band, the faint grind of it turning against the glass threads filling the quiet. The band loosens and comes off with a soft clink, and I toss it aside onto the floor, not caring where it lands.

The metal lid’s still sealed tight to the jar’s rim, though, suctioned on from Riley’s handiwork. I tilt the jar, picking at the edge of the lid with my thumbnail, working to break the seal. My heart’s hammering, knowing the second I pop this thing, there’s no going back. Riley’s got the phone trained on me, the lights glaring, and I can feel the moment closing in. I pry harder, the lid resisting for a second before I feel it start to give.

I steel myself, fingers still on the lid, knowing if I’m gonna earn that thousand bucks, I’ve gotta commit. No half-assing it—Riley’s audience wants the real deal, and I’m not about to shortchange her video. The lid’s got the tiniest gap now, just enough to tease what’s inside. I bring the jar right up to my face, close enough that my nose is practically touching the rim, and with a quick flick, I pop the lid off completely.

My nostrils are right there, waiting at the gap as the seal breaks, and Riley’s fart floods out, raw and unfiltered. The smell hits like a punch—thick, sour, a mix of chili cheese dog and that green smoothie from hell. It’s intense, way worse than I braced for, and my eyes water instantly as I take a deep, deliberate sniff to sell it. I’m fighting the urge to gag, my face twisting, but I keep the jar close, letting the camera catch every second of my reaction. This is what she’s paying for, and I’m earning every cent.

I pull the jar back a couple times, my instincts screaming to get it away from my face as the stench claws at my nose. I’m fighting hard not to gag out loud, my throat tightening with every whiff. My face betrays me, though—contorting, eyes squeezing shut, lips twisting as the smell hits like a freight train. It’s brutal, way worse than I could’ve imagined, but I’m not backing down. Each time I move the jar away, I force it back to my nose, taking another deep sniff, determined to earn that thousand bucks. No shortcuts.

Riley’s cracking up now, her laughter sharp and unrestrained as she keeps the phone trained on me. “Oh my God, look at you!” she says between giggles, clearly loving the show. My face is a mess—tensing, flinching—but I keep going, jar right under my nose, giving her and her audience exactly what they want. Every sniff’s a battle, but I’m not quitting, not with her laughing and that cash on the line.

The air coming off the jar is hot and damp, like a tiny, disgusting sauna blasting me with every sniff. It’s intense, clinging to my face, making my skin feel clammy as I keep the jar close. I’m still battling the urge to gag, my face twisting with every hit, but I push through, knowing Riley’s getting it all on camera.

After about a minute, the smell finally starts to fade—just a little at first, then enough that I can breathe without my eyes watering. It’s wild to think she packed that jar so full of her gas that it lasted this long, like she turned it into a damn fart grenade. I lower the jar slowly, my nose still burning, and glance at Riley. She’s still filming, grinning like she just won a bet, clearly stoked with how it played out. I’m wiped, but I did it—earned that grand, no question.

Riley lowers the phone a bit, still grinning, and looks at me. “So, how was it?” she asks, her tone teasing but curious.

I meet her gaze, my nose still tingling from the ordeal, and don’t hold back. “That was one of the worst things I’ve ever experienced,” I say, dead serious. “I’m never gonna forget that smell. Ever.”

She bursts into giggles, clearly delighted, then swings the phone back up to face the camera. “You hear that, folks? He says they’re unforgettable. One jar’ll give you a memory that lasts a lifetime!” Her voice is all sales-pitch swagger, milking my reaction for her audience.

With that, she flashes a quick smirk at the camera. “Alright, that’s it—bye for now!” she says, then taps the screen to stop recording. The lights are still glaring, but the room feels quieter now, like the air’s shifted. I’m still holding the empty jar, my face probably looking as wrecked as I feel, while Riley’s already flipping through her phone, checking the footage with a satisfied nod.

Riley sets her phone down on the dresser next to her bed, then yanks open one of the drawers and pulls it out completely, placing it on the mattress. She steps back to the dresser, reaching into the gap where the drawer used to be. Her hand scrapes along the underside of the dresser’s top, and there’s a faint rustle, like paper shifting. Then, with a sharp tug, the unmistakable sound of Velcro ripping apart cuts through the room.

She pulls out a thick envelope, the kind you’d see in a bank heist movie, and flips it open. Inside’s a fat stack of hundred-dollar bills—way more than I expected her to just have lying around. She counts out ten of them with quick, practiced flicks of her fingers, then turns and holds them out to me. “Here,” she says, all casual, like she’s handing me change for a coffee.

I take the bills, my fingers brushing the crisp paper, still half-stunned that this is real. A thousand bucks, just like that, for sniffing her fart on camera. I shove the money into my pocket, the weight of it grounding me as I try to process the night. Riley’s already tucking the envelope back into its hiding spot, like it’s just another day in her weird, gassy empire.

I pull my hand out of my pocket, the thick stack of hundreds brushing against my fingers, still feeling surreal. Riley’s already grabbing the empty drawer from the mattress, sliding it back into the dresser with a soft thud that clicks it into place.

“Thanks,” I say quietly, my voice a little rough from everything that just went down.

She glances over her shoulder at me, then starts gathering the cables and lights. I nod toward the setup. “You want help cleaning up the filming stuff?”

She pauses for a second, looking at the tripods and lights scattered around, then shrugs with a small smirk. “Yeah, sure. Grab those two lights over there,” she says, pointing to the stands near the closet. “Just fold ‘em up and toss ‘em in the box under the bed.”

I move over, starting to collapse the stands, feeling the weird mix of exhaustion and adrenaline settling in. The room’s quieter now, the intense glow from the lights dimming as we shut them down one by one. It’s almost normal—like we didn’t just film the most insane thing I’ve ever been part of. Almost.

We finish packing away the last of the lights and tripods, sliding the box back under her bed. The room feels dimmer now, just the soft glow from her bedside lamp cutting through the quiet. Riley hops onto her bed without a word, scooting over to lean against the wall, legs stretched out, totally relaxed in her sports bra and boxers.

I hesitate at the edge of the mattress, that shy awkwardness creeping back in now that the chaos is over. My pocket’s heavy with the cash, but sitting on her bed feels… different. Intimate, almost. I lower myself onto the corner anyway, soft and careful, like I’m afraid to take up too much space. My hands rest on my thighs, and I stare at the floor for a second before glancing at her.

She’s just watching me, head tilted slightly, that familiar smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. The room’s quiet except for the faint hum of the house, and I’m hyper-aware of how close we are, the weird energy from everything tonight still buzzing between us. I don’t say anything yet—just sit there, waiting to see if she’ll break the silence first.

Riley shifts on the bed, turning her attention to her phone. She pulls it out, holds it landscape, and taps open the video we just shot. The screen lights up her face with a soft glow as she watches it back, keeping the volume low so it’s just a murmur between us.

I can’t see the screen from my angle, but I catch the way her expression changes—focused, almost proud. She’s not just checking for mistakes; she’s reviewing it like a pro, making sure the lighting hits right, the framing’s tight, the audio’s crisp. Every time my face contorts on-screen or the jar fogs up, her lips twitch into a small, satisfied smirk. She’s clearly taking pride in the quality—good angles, clear sound, no shaky shots. It’s obvious she’s built this into something polished, something her fans actually pay for.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just rewinds a couple spots, nods to herself, then lets it play out. The room stays quiet except for the faint, muffled sounds from the phone—her voice hyping the audience, the sharp brrrrt of the fart into the jar, my own strangled reaction. When it finishes, she taps pause, exhales through her nose like she’s pleased with the product, and sets the phone down on the comforter between us.

“Solid,” she says simply, mostly to herself, but loud enough for me to hear. Then she glances at me, one eyebrow lifted. “You did good, by the way. That face? Pure gold.”

I shift a little on the bed, the awkwardness easing just enough for me to crack a small grin. “Honestly? I’m more proud of my filming,” I say, half-joking, nodding toward where the setup had been. “Those low angles? Cinematography gold.”

Riley snorts, looking up from her phone with an amused smirk. “Okay, fair. I can’t get those shots on my own—tripod’s good, but it’s not that good.” She sets the phone down completely now, leaning back against the wall. “So… thanks. Seriously. Video’s gonna slap because of you.”

Her tone’s lighter than usual—no sarcasm, just straight. It catches me off guard a little, and I feel my face heat up again, but in a different way this time. “Yeah, uh… no problem,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. The room feels quieter, the weird tension from earlier shifting into something else I can’t quite name. I glance at her, and she’s just watching me again, that faint smile still there, like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do next.

Riley’s lounging against the wall, legs stretched out, when she suddenly goes quiet for a beat. Then she looks over at me, that smirk softening into something sharper, knowing.

“You know,” she says, voice low and casual, like she’s commenting on the weather, “I always knew you had a crush on me.”

The words hit like a brick. My stomach drops, heat rushing straight to my face. I freeze, mouth half-open, no idea what to say. All those years of trying to play it cool—hiding stares, laughing off jokes, acting like I didn’t care—gone in one sentence. She just lays it out there, no hesitation, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I finally manage a weak, “What?” even though I heard her perfectly. My voice cracks a little, betraying me.

She lets out a soft laugh, not mean, just amused. “Come on, Eli. You weren’t exactly subtle.” She tilts her head, eyes locked on mine. “The way you’d look at me when I drove you and Connor around. How you always got quiet when I walked into a room. Tonight, too—filming my ass like you were directing an Oscar shot.”

I swallow hard, face burning now. There’s no escape; she’s seen right through me this whole time. Part of me wants to bolt, but I’m glued to the bed, caught between embarrassment and this rush from her finally saying it out loud. She’s not mocking me—just stating a fact, owning the moment like she owns everything else.

I rub the back of my neck, looking down at the comforter. “I… yeah. Okay. Maybe,” I mutter, barely audible.

She doesn’t push it further. Just watches me, that faint smile still there, like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do now that the secret’s out. The room feels smaller, charged, and for once, I’m the one who doesn’t know what’s coming next.

I sit there, the heat still burning in my face, but her calling it out like that flips something in me. I can’t just let it hang—I need to know. I look up at her, forcing my voice steady even though my heart’s pounding. “So… how do you feel about it? Me having a crush on you, I mean.”

Riley’s smirk fades a little, turning into something softer, more thoughtful. She pulls one knee up, resting her arm on it, and studies me for a second like she’s weighing her words.

“Honestly?” she says, voice quieter than before. “It’s kinda cute. Always has been.” She pauses, tilting her head. “I noticed it years ago, and yeah, it flustered me at first—Connor’s little friend staring like that. But it never creeped me out or anything. If it had, I would’ve shut it down quick.”

She shifts a bit closer on the bed, the mattress dipping slightly. “Tonight… seeing you still get all flustered, but then stepping up anyway—filming, taking that hit for the video, not running when things got weird…” A small laugh escapes her. “It’s hot, Eli. The crush isn’t one-sided anymore. I like that you’ve always seen me, even the parts most people don’t.”

Her eyes hold mine, direct and unflinching. “So yeah… I like it. I like you looking at me like that.” The corner of her mouth lifts again, playful but genuine. “Question is, now that it’s out there… what are you gonna do about it?”

I’m completely frozen, like the air’s been sucked out of the room. Riley—Riley, the college cheer captain, the girl who’s always been untouchable, the one every guy at school (and probably half the college) drooled over—is sitting here in her sports bra and boxers, telling me the crush isn’t one-sided anymore.

In my head, she’s always been the fantasy girl from some dumb movie: the stunning, confident cheerleader who ends up with the star quarterback, the guy who’s 6'4", built like a tank, already scouted for the pros. That’s her world—big parties, loud crowds, guys who command every room they walk into. Not… me. Not Connor’s quiet best friend who spent years stealing glances and pretending I didn’t care.

And yet here she is, legs stretched out on her bed, looking at me with that half-smirk, saying she likes that I’ve always seen her. That tonight turned her on. That she likes me.

My heart’s slamming against my ribs so hard I’m sure she can hear it. I try to speak, but my throat’s dry. I swallow once, twice, then finally manage a low, “You’re… serious?”

She doesn’t laugh or roll her eyes. Just nods, slow and deliberate, her gaze steady on mine. “Dead serious, Eli.”

The room feels too small again, but this time it’s not from fear or embarrassment. It’s something else—something warm and electric that’s been building all night under the chaos and the gross-out stunts. I shift closer on the bed, not much, just enough that our knees almost touch.

“I’ve wanted this for years,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… never thought you’d look at me like that.”

Riley’s smirk softens into a real smile—small, but genuine. She reaches out, her fingers brushing my arm lightly. “I’m looking now.”

And just like that, the space between us disappears.

I glance down at her fingers resting lightly on my arm, warm and real, then back up to her eyes. My mouth goes dry again. “I… uh… I don’t know what to do,” I admit, the words coming out quiet and honest. It’s the truth—I’ve spent years imagining this moment in a hundred different ways, but none of them prepared me for Riley actually wanting me back.

She doesn’t pull her hand away. Instead, her thumb brushes once across my skin, slow and deliberate, sending a jolt straight through me.

“You don’t have to know,” she says softly, scooting a little closer so our knees finally touch. “We can figure it out together.”

Her face is only inches from mine now, that familiar confidence still there, but gentler—no teasing, no bratty edge. Just Riley, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room. My heart’s racing so hard I’m sure she can feel it through my arm.

I take a shaky breath, lean in the last bit of space between us, and kiss her—tentative at first, testing, half-expecting her to laugh or pull back. But she doesn’t. She kisses me back, firm and sure, her hand sliding from my arm to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair.

Everything else—the jars, the video, the wild night—fades out. It’s just us, finally, after all these years.

We pull apart slowly, just enough that our foreheads are still almost touching. My heart’s hammering so loud I swear she can hear it. I search her face, suddenly hit with this wave of doubt—years of wanting this, and now that it’s real, I’m terrified I screwed it up.

“Was… was that good?” I ask, voice low and uncertain, barely above a whisper. I hate how insecure I sound, but I can’t help it.

Riley’s eyes soften, a small, genuine smile curving her lips. She doesn’t laugh or tease. Instead, she brushes her thumb along my jaw, keeping her hand at the back of my neck.

“Yeah, Eli,” she says quietly, her voice warm. “That was really good.”

She leans in again, slower this time, pressing a softer, lingering kiss to my lips—like she’s confirming it, erasing any doubt. When she pulls back, her eyes are locked on mine, playful but kind.

“Stop overthinking it,” she murmurs, the corner of her mouth lifting. “You’re doing just fine.”

I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, the tension melting out of me. She shifts closer, tucking herself against my side, her head resting lightly on my shoulder. I wrap an arm around her, tentative at first, then tighter when she doesn’t pull away.

For the first time all night, everything feels… right. No chaos, no cameras, no jars. Just us.

I swallow, the kiss still lingering on my lips, and the room feels warmer than it did a minute ago. I glance at her, heart still racing, and decide to just say it.

“Can we… just lay next to each other for a while?” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to, almost shy again.

Riley’s smile is small and real. She doesn’t tease me this time. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “We can do that.”

She shifts over toward the wall, making space, and lies down on her side, facing me. The mattress dips as I lower myself beside her, careful, like I’m afraid to break the moment. I settle on my side too, facing her, close enough that our knees brush and I can feel the warmth coming off her skin.

For a while, neither of us speaks. The house is quiet—Connor’s probably asleep by now, the rest of the world shut out. Just the faint hum of the heater and our breathing.

Riley reaches over slowly, sliding her hand into mine. Her fingers lace through mine, firm but gentle. I squeeze back without thinking.

She scoots a little closer until our foreheads almost touch again. I can smell the faint trace of her shampoo, something clean and citrusy, cutting through the lingering chaos of the night.

“You okay?” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I whisper back. “Really okay.”

Her thumb strokes the back of my hand once, twice. Then she tucks her head under my chin, curling in just enough that her cheek rests against my chest. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, holding her there, and for the first time in forever, everything feels simple.

We stay like that, breathing together, the world outside the bed fading away. No rush. No need to say anything else.

Just us.

I let the quiet stretch for a few seconds, her head still tucked under my chin, her breathing slow and even against my chest. The question’s been bouncing around in my head since she softened up, and I finally can’t hold it back.

I pull back just enough to look at her. “So… is this gonna be you all the time now?” I ask, voice low, a little uncertain. “This… soft Riley? Or should I brace myself for the bratty one I’ve known forever to come roaring back?”

Riley lifts her head, propping it on her hand, elbow digging into the pillow. Her eyes narrow with that familiar glint, and the corner of her mouth twitches upward into a slow, dangerous smirk.

“Oh, Eli,” she says, drawing my name out like she’s savoring it. “You think one good kiss turns me into some sweet little angel?”

She reaches up, flicking my forehead lightly with her finger. “The bratty Riley? She’s not going anywhere. She’s the default setting.” Her smirk widens. “But…”

She leans in closer, her voice dropping to a murmur, lips brushing my ear. “If you’re lucky, and you play your cards right, you’ll get this version sometimes too. The one who actually likes you.”

Then she nips my earlobe—quick, sharp—before pulling back and flopping onto her back beside me, arms stretched overhead, grinning at the ceiling like she just won something.

“Better get used to both,” she adds, glancing sideways at me. “Because you’re stuck with the full package now.”

I exhale a laugh, tension easing out of me, and roll onto my back too, staring up at the ceiling with her. Yeah. I can live with that. Both Rileys. All of her.

I reach over, finding her hand again, and lace our fingers together. She squeezes back without looking, and we just lie there, side by side, the night finally quiet.

We’re lying there, fingers laced, my thumb tracing slow circles on the back of her hand, when Riley suddenly shifts. Without a word, she lifts both legs straight up into the air, feet pointed toward the ceiling, boxers stretching tight across her hips.

I barely have time to register what’s happening before a massive fart erupts from her, long and deep, rumbling out into the quiet room like thunder rolling through. It’s loud, unapologetic, and the smell hits a second later, warm, heavy, unmistakably Riley after that smoothie and everything else she’s eaten today.

My eyes go wide, but I don’t pull away. I just stare at her legs still up in the air, then down to her face. She lowers them slowly, settling back against the pillow, and catches my stunned look with the most satisfied, wicked little grin.

“Bratty Riley checking in,” she says, voice low and amused, giving my hand a playful squeeze. “Told you she’s not going anywhere.”

I burst out laughing, I can’t help it, the absurdity and the confidence of her hitting me all at once. The laugh shakes my chest, and she starts laughing too, the sound mixing with the lingering echo of the fart in the small room.

When we finally quiet down, she scoots closer again, tucking her head back under my chin like nothing happened.

“Get used to it,” she murmurs against my shirt, fingers tightening around mine. “Both versions love keeping you on your toes.”

I press a kiss to the top of her head, still smiling. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I’m still chuckling into her hair, arm wrapped around her shoulders, when the full wave of that massive fart finally rolls over us. It’s thick, warm, unmistakably foul—like chili cheese dog mixed with fermented greens—and it settles in the small room like a blanket.

I wrinkle my nose, pulling back just enough to look down at her. “You’re disgusting,” I say, voice half-laughing, half-groaning, shaking my head against the pillow.

Riley tilts her face up to mine, eyes sparkling with pure mischief. “Yeah,” she admits, not even pretending to be sorry. “But you’re still holding me.”

She snuggles closer, pressing her cheek back to my chest like the smell is just part of the package deal. I feel her grin against my shirt.

I let out a dramatic sigh, tightening my arm around her anyway. “Guess I am,” I mutter, kissing the top of her head again. “Guess I’m stuck with the disgusting version too.”

She laughs softly, the vibration humming through me, and laces her fingers with mine over her stomach.

“Good,” she whispers. “Because disgusting Riley gives the best cuddles.”

The smell lingers, awful and intimate, but I don’t move. I just hold her tighter, breathing her in—fart and all—and realize I wouldn’t trade this weird, perfect moment for anything.

I hold her for a while longer, her breathing slow and steady against my chest, the room quiet except for the occasional creak of the house settling. At some point, I realize the rhythm of her breaths has turned into soft, gentle snores—barely audible, kinda cute in a way I never expected from Riley.

I smile to myself in the dark, staring at the ceiling. How the hell did I get here? This afternoon I was bored out of my mind on my bed, hoping Connor would call about anything to do. Next thing I know, I’m at a basketball game, buying chili cheese dogs, getting gassed out in a tiny car, filming the wildest video of my life, pocketing a thousand bucks… and now holding Riley—Riley—while she sleeps in my arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s insane. Perfect, ridiculous, impossible insanity.

My thoughts are drifting when it happens again: a low, drawn-out fart slips out of her, long and effortless, the kind that just rolls free in deep sleep. I feel the gentle tense of her body against mine as she unconsciously pushes it out, then relaxes completely again, still snoring softly, totally oblivious.

I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud. Of course. Even asleep, she’s still 100% Riley—bratty, unfiltered, and somehow making it endearing.

I pull her a little closer, pressing my face into her hair to muffle my quiet chuckle. The smell wafts up, familiar and foul, but I don’t even care anymore.

Yeah. This is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Farts and all.

I don’t even realize I’m falling asleep—just the steady rise and fall of Riley’s breathing, her warmth against me, the lingering funk in the air somehow fading into the background. My eyes close, and everything goes soft.

Then—thud.

My body jolts awake as I hit the carpeted floor, a dull ache spreading across my shoulder and hip. Nothing broken, just that sharp surprise of impact. I blink in the dim light, disoriented, heart racing as I push myself up on my elbows.

Riley’s face appears over the edge of the bed, hair tousled from sleep, peering down at me with a mix of amusement and impatience.

“Get out of my room,” she says, voice low but firm. “Go sleep on the couch.”

I rub my arm, still half-dazed, confusion flooding in. “Wait—what? Why?” I glance around for my phone or a clock, trying to piece together how long I was out. “What time is it?”

She checks her phone on the nightstand, the screen lighting her face. “Like 3:47 a.m.,” she whispers. Then her eyes narrow, serious now. “Connor and Mom can’t know about us being all lovey-dovey. Not yet. If they wake up and see you sneaking out of my room in the morning, we’re screwed.”

I stare up at her for a second, the rejection stinging a little even though her reasoning makes sense. She’s still Riley—bratty, guarded, protecting whatever this is before it’s even fully started.

I nod slowly, pushing myself to my feet. “Yeah… okay.”

She softens just a fraction, reaching down to ruffle my hair quick and rough. “Don’t look so hurt, dipshit. Couch is comfy. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

I grab my phone from the floor where it must’ve fallen with me, and head for the door, glancing back once. She’s already rolling over, pulling the covers up, but I catch the tiniest smirk before she buries her face in the pillow.

I slip out quietly, closing the door behind me, and pad down the dark hallway toward the living room. The couch is waiting, and even though I’m back to square one in a way, that thousand bucks is still in my pocket, and Riley’s words—“We’ll figure out the rest later”—echo in my head.

I flop onto the couch, pull a throw blanket over me, and stare at the ceiling.

Yeah. Later sounds pretty damn good.

I pass out hard on the couch, the blanket tangled around me, exhaustion hitting like a truck after that adrenaline spike from hitting the floor. Everything from the night blurs together, and I’m out cold in seconds.

A few hours later, faint music pulls me awake—some upbeat pop track playing low, like someone’s trying not to wake the house. I blink groggily, confused, rubbing my eyes as I sit up a bit. The room’s still dark, but I glance toward the window and see the sky starting to lighten, a soft gray-blue creeping in. Sun’s not up yet—probably 5 or 6 a.m., max.

I lie there for a minute, letting the music wash over me, some catchy chorus I half-recognize. Then something cuts through it—louder, sharper. A fart. But not Riley’s style—no deep rumble or wet slap. This one’s raspy, strained, like it fought its way out and maybe even hurt a little coming.

I freeze, then slowly peek over the backrest of the couch toward the kitchen. The light’s on low over the stove, just enough to silhouette her: Connor and Riley’s mom, dancing lightly to the quiet music, totally oblivious that I’m here. She’s in pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt, swaying her hips as she moves around the counter—probably prepping coffee or breakfast.

Those shorts are wedged deep, riding up so high I can see the lower curves of her asscheeks spilling out. I’d forgotten how much she’s got back there—not tight and perky like Riley’s, just… a lot. Full, heavy, the kind of big, soft ass that moves when she dances. I duck my head quick, face heating up, feeling like a total creep for even noticing. But it’s right there, impossible to miss.

I sink back down under the blanket, heart thudding, staring at the ceiling and trying to pretend I’m still asleep. The music keeps playing, her soft humming mixing in, and I just lie there, wide awake now, wondering how this house keeps finding new ways to throw me off balance.

I take a slow, deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart and pretend I’m still asleep. Just act natural, Eli. Don’t get caught staring at Connor’s mom’s ass at five-whatever in the morning.

Then I hear it—that thick, unmistakable slurping sound. My eyes flick open wider, and I carefully peek over the back of the couch again.

Lisa (yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s her name) has a blender bottle in her hand now, same style as Riley’s, filled with that exact dark-green sludge. She’s swaying to the low music, taking long pulls from it like it’s a morning protein shake instead of pure concentrated chaos.

She pauses mid-sip, shifts her weight, and her pajama shorts—already wedged deep—pull even tighter. Her asscheeks spread slightly around the fabric, and right from the crease, another fart rips out. This one’s deeper than the last, a low, bubbling growl that seems to swell her cheeks for a split second before it tears free. The sound echoes off the kitchen cabinets, and she doesn’t even flinch—just keeps sipping her shake like it’s part of the routine.

I drop my head back down, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling.

No shit. She’s drinking the exact same gut-bomb smoothie Riley chugged last night. Which means this house is about to become a full-on gas warfare zone by breakfast.

I pull the blanket up over my face, muffling a quiet, disbelieving laugh. Of course Riley got it from somewhere. This family’s genetics are apparently built for chemical warfare.

I lie there, listening to Lisa hum and dance lightly in the kitchen, occasional rumbles punctuating the music, and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to casually walk in there and say good morning without dying of second-hand embarrassment—or worse, getting caught in the crossfire.

I lie there under the blanket, eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying to force myself back to sleep and ignore the early-morning kitchen symphony. But then I hear it—soft, rapid clicks, like nails tapping on glass. Phone screen.

I risk another careful peek over the couch back.

Lisa’s still swaying lightly, blender bottle in one hand, phone in the other. The music pauses abruptly. For a split second the kitchen goes quiet… and then a new sound starts: faint ambient noise—like a low hum of a fridge or distant traffic—and right after it, the exact same upbeat pop song that was playing live a minute ago begins again, perfectly synced.

My stomach drops.

Then comes the thick, unmistakable slurping sound—the green sludge going down—followed immediately by another raspy, strained fart that rips out of her, cheeks spreading just like before.

It’s identical. Too identical.

My brain catches up fast: she’s not just dancing and drinking her shake. She’s recording it. There’s a camera set up somewhere in the kitchen—probably on a tripod or mounted out of sight—capturing the whole routine: the early-morning dance, the shake, the farts, everything.

Just like Riley.

I sink back down, pulling the blanket higher, heart thudding.

This isn’t just a family trait. It’s a family business.

Riley didn’t invent the fart-jar empire out of nowhere. She learned it from her mom. Lisa’s in on it—maybe even the original. Same smoothie recipe, same confident performance, same casual, unapologetic delivery.

I stare into the dark under the blanket, half-horrified, half-awed.

This house isn’t just gassy.

It’s a full-blown production studio.

I freeze under the blanket, barely breathing, praying she’ll finish her video and head back upstairs. Everything’s quiet except the low ambient track and the occasional slurp.

Then it hits: that sharp, unstoppable tingle in my nose. Pollen, dust, the lingering fart haze; whatever it is, my body decides right now is the perfect time to betray me.

No. No no no—

I clench my eyes shut, pinch my nose, try every trick I know to kill it. The tingle builds, merciless. In a panic I yank the blanket up, bunching it hard over my face like a makeshift muzzle, pressing as tight as I can.

It doesn’t work.

A loud, muffled “HMPH-CHOO!” explodes into the fabric, still way too obvious in the silent house.

Lisa spins around fast, startled, blender bottle in hand. “Connor?” she calls out, confused, voice carrying through the living room.

I’m curled into a ball under the blanket, heart slamming against my ribs, praying the floor swallows me whole. No escape now. I’m caught red-handed (or red-faced) spying on Connor and Riley’s mom filming her own morning fart routine.

I slowly lower the blanket just enough to peek out, face burning hotter than the kitchen stove light. “Uh… it’s me. Eli,” I croak, voice hoarse from the sneeze and sheer embarrassment. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. I, uh… crashed on the couch last night.”

Lisa blinks, processes, then relaxes a fraction—though one eyebrow stays arched. She sets the blender bottle down, turns the music off with a quick tap on her phone, and gives me a knowing little smile that somehow feels even more dangerous than Riley’s.

“Morning, Eli,” she says, totally calm. “Didn’t realize you stayed over.” Her eyes flick to the blanket, then back to me. “Enjoy the show?”

I want to die right there on the carpet.

I stay dead silent, blanket pulled up to my chin, staring at Lisa like a deer in headlights. My brain’s scrambling for any normal explanation—“I just woke up,” “I didn’t see anything,” “allergies”—but nothing comes out. The words stick in my throat, and I just freeze, cheeks burning hotter with every second.

Lisa watches me for a beat, that knowing smile still playing on her lips. She doesn’t look angry or embarrassed—just amused, like she’s used to catching people off guard. She wipes the rim of the blender bottle with her thumb, sets it down, and leans a hip against the counter.

“Relax, Eli,” she says, voice low and warm, almost conspiratorial. “You’re not the first person to wake up to my little morning routine.”

She glances toward the hallway, making sure we’re still alone, then back at me. “Riley told me you helped her with a video last night. Good money, right?”

I nod slowly, still mute, the thousand bucks suddenly feeling like it’s glowing in my pocket.

Lisa chuckles softly. “Family tradition,” she says, giving a little shrug that makes her pajama shorts shift again. “I started it years ago. Paid for this house, Riley’s cheer stuff, Connor’s gaming setups… all of it. She’s just carrying the torch now.”

She pushes off the counter, walking over to turn off the stove light. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. And mine’s safe with you, yeah?”

I finally find my voice, raspy and small. “Y-yeah. Of course.”

She smiles—genuinely this time—and nods toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s brewing. Help yourself when you’re ready. And maybe… pretend you’re still asleep for a few more minutes. I’ve got one more take to nail.”

She winks, turns the music back on low, and resumes her light dance like the conversation never happened.

I sink back under the blanket, heart still pounding, staring at the ceiling.

This family is going to be the death of me. Or the best thing that ever happened to me.

Maybe both.

I stay buried under the blanket, peeking just enough to track her progress without getting caught again. Lisa does two more takes (each one with the same slurping, swaying, and perfectly timed raspy farts), adjusting her angle slightly each time like she’s chasing the ideal shot. Finally, she stops the recording, taps her phone a few times, and turns toward the living room.

“You can come out now, Eli,” she calls, amusement clear in her voice. “I’m done.”

I fold the blanket back, sit up slowly, and shuffle into the kitchen, trying to act like I wasn’t just hiding like a kid caught stealing cookies. The second I cross the threshold, though, it hits me.

It’s not a smell. It’s a wall.

Thick, hot, heavy air punches me right in the face, like walking into a steam room that’s been marinating in fermented greens, and pure, concentrated mom-fart essence. Riley’s gas last night was bad (car-hotboxing, face-farting bad), but this? This is next-level. Mature, aged, weapon-grade. My eyes water instantly, my throat tightens, and my head gives a sharp throb like someone just flicked me between the eyes.

I stagger back a step, hand flying up to cover my nose and mouth. “Jesus—Lisa,” I choke out, voice muffled.

She turns around, leaning against the counter with a coffee mug now in hand, looking way too pleased with herself. “Potent batch this morning,” she says casually, taking a sip. “Kale was extra fresh.”

I wave a hand in front of my face, trying to clear a path that doesn’t exist. “Riley’s were… like party poppers compared to this,” I mutter, blinking hard.

Lisa laughs—warm, unbothered, totally owning it. “Practice makes perfect, honey. Twenty years of fine-tuning.” She nods toward the coffee pot. “Pour yourself a cup. It’ll help cut through the fog. Or just open a window if you’re gonna be dramatic about it.”

I’m still half-bent over, but I manage a weak laugh and shuffle toward the coffee, eyes streaming, wondering if this family’s secret superpower is turning innocent vegetables into biochemical warfare… and if I’m really ready to keep dating into this bloodline.

I take the mug she hands me—black coffee, no cream, no sugar, dark as motor oil—and force down a cautious sip. It’s scalding, bitter, and strong enough to strip paint, but she’s right: the sharpness slices straight through the fog in my head and the lingering haze in the air. My eyes stop watering almost immediately, and I feel my brain kick back online.

I pull out a chair at the kitchen table and sit, cradling the mug, trying not to stare too obviously while Lisa tidies up her blender bottle and wipes down the counter. The silence stretches just long enough to get awkward, so I finally ask the question that’s been burning since the revelation hit me.

“Does Connor know?” My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “About… all this?”

Lisa pauses, sponge in hand, then glances over her shoulder with a small, knowing smile. She rinses the sponge, sets it aside, and turns to lean back against the counter again, arms loosely crossed.

“No,” she says simply, shaking her head. “Connor has no idea. Thinks Mom just has a sensitive stomach and Riley’s got a mysterious part-time job that pays ridiculously well.” She chuckles under her breath. “He’s oblivious. Always has been.”

She takes a sip from her own mug, eyes flicking to me over the rim. “You’re the first outsider who’s ever stumbled into the full picture. Riley must trust you a lot to let you help her last night.”

I feel my face heat up again, but this time it’s not from the gas cloud. I nod, staring into my coffee. “Yeah… guess she does.”

Lisa’s smile softens, almost maternal. “Keep it that way, Eli. Family secret. And if you’re sticking around my daughter…” She raises an eyebrow, playful but pointed. “You’re gonna need a stronger stomach than most.”

I huff a small laugh, taking another sip of the jet-fuel coffee. “Working on it,” I mutter.

She pushes off the counter, ruffling my hair as she walks past—exactly like Riley did last night. “Good boy. Pancakes in twenty. Try not to die of shock before then.”

I sit there at the table, coffee burning my tongue, the kitchen still faintly humming with her leftover perfume, and realize I’m in deeper than I ever imagined.

And I’m not even a little bit scared anymore.

I sit there nursing the coffee, letting it burn away the last of the haze, when Lisa turns to the cabinet above the counter. She stretches up on her tippy toes to reach the top shelf, her oversized T-shirt riding up just enough to show more of those wedged pajama shorts. Her ass bounces a little with each adjustment—full, soft, shifting as she balances—and right on cue, another fart slips out. It’s low and drawn-out, raspy like the others, bubbling free without a single pause in her movement. Normal. Totally normal in this house now.

She grabs the box of pancake mix, drops back to her heels with a satisfied little sigh, and closes the cabinet. Then she turns to me, box in hand, that same amused, knowing smile on her face.

“So,” she says casually, tilting her head. “How was that one?”

I nearly choke on my coffee, setting the mug down quick to avoid spilling. My face heats up again, but I’m past the point of pretending I didn’t notice.

“Uh… strong,” I manage, voice a little hoarse. “Like… championship level.”

Lisa laughs—full, warm, no embarrassment at all—and sets the pancake mix on the counter. “Good answer. Takes years to get that kind of resonance.” She winks, turning to grab a bowl from a lower cabinet. “You’ll get used to it if you keep hanging around my daughter.”

I take another sip of coffee, hiding a grin behind the mug.

Yeah. I think I will.

I sit there with the coffee mug halfway to my lips, frozen again, as Lisa turns to grab something from a lower cabinet. She bends over slow, reaching deep inside, and her pajama shorts—already wedged to hell—pull even tighter. Her ass seems to grow, swelling out, full and heavy, cheeks spreading and bouncing slightly with the motion. The fabric disappears completely between them, and it’s like the whole thing takes up my entire field of vision.

I can’t look anywhere else.

My eyes are locked, brain short-circuiting. It’s not tight and perky like Riley’s—Lisa’s is bigger, softer, the kind of ass that’s earned every inch over years, and right now it’s dominating the kitchen like a damn monument. The way it moves when she shifts her weight, the little jiggle as she straightens up with a mixing bowl in hand… I’m staring like an idiot, coffee forgotten, face getting hot all over again.

She stands back up, totally oblivious (or maybe not), and sets the bowl on the counter. I finally snap my gaze down to my mug, pretending I’ve been fascinated by the coffee this whole time, heart thudding loud enough I’m sure she can hear it.

Get it together, Eli. You’re dating her daughter. Stop staring at her mom’s ass.

But damn. This family really doesn’t play fair.

I sit there a second longer, coffee mug warm between my hands, watching Lisa whisk the pancake batter with smooth, practiced strokes. The words feel heavy in my mouth, but I can’t just let them sit there forever.

“Lisa?” I say, soft enough that it almost gets lost under the quiet clink of the whisk.

She doesn’t turn around, just hums a low “Mm-hmm?” in acknowledgment, still focused on the bowl.

I swallow. “Would you… mind if Riley and I became a… thing?” My voice cracks a little on the last word, and I immediately wish I’d phrased it better, but it’s out now.

The whisk slows, then stops entirely. Lisa sets it down, wipes her hands on a dish towel, and finally turns to face me, leaning back against the counter with her arms loosely crossed. For a moment she just studies me—no smirk, no teasing, just quiet evaluation.

Then the corner of her mouth lifts, warm and genuine.

“Eli,” she says, voice soft but steady, “I’ve watched you trailing after my daughter like a lost puppy since you were kids. You’re polite, you’re kind to Connor, you don’t flinch when this family gets… unconventional.” She gestures vaguely at the air, like the lingering haze is evidence enough. “And last night Riley let you into the biggest secret we’ve got. That doesn’t happen unless she trusts you completely.”

She steps closer, reaching out to pat my cheek lightly—maternal, but with that same confident energy Riley has.

“If you two want to be a thing?” She shrugs, smiling fully now. “I’m not gonna stand in the way. Just treat her right, don’t break her heart, and maybe invest in some nose plugs.”

She winks, turns back to the stove, and starts pouring batter onto the griddle like the conversation never happened.

I sit there, chest lighter than it’s been all morning, a stupid grin creeping onto my face as the smell of pancakes finally starts to win the battle against everything else in the kitchen.

Yeah. I can definitely do this.

My grin fades as a thought hits me, heavy and unavoidable. I stare into the black coffee, swirling it slowly.

“But…”

Lisa notices immediately. She flips the last pancake onto a plate, turns off the burner, and leans back against the counter again, wiping her hands on the dish towel. Her eyes settle on me—curious, patient, waiting.

I open my mouth, close it, try again. I don’t want to sound like a complete pervert, but there’s no clean way to say this.

“I’d be thinking about you too, Lisa,” I finally manage, voice low. “Your… butt. Your farts. All of it.”

The words hang there, raw and honest. My face is on fire, but I keep going because backing down now feels worse.

“I just… I want to have both you and Riley.”

The kitchen goes perfectly still. Even the faint sizzle from the griddle dies out.

Lisa doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look shocked. She just studies me for a long moment, head slightly tilted, like she’s turning the confession over in her mind.

Then she exhales through her nose, a soft, almost amused sound, and pushes off the counter. She walks over, slow and deliberate, until she’s standing right in front of me. Close enough that I can smell the faint trace of coffee on her breath and the lingering warmth of her morning routine in the air between us.

“Eli,” she says quietly, reaching out to tip my chin up so I have to meet her eyes. “You’re sweet. And you’re honest. I like that.”

She pauses, thumb brushing once along my jaw before dropping her hand.

“But Riley’s my daughter. And what you’re asking… that’s a door that doesn’t open easy. It’s not just about what I might want in a moment of fun. It’s about her. About us. About trust.”

She steps back, folding her arms loosely.

“If this is ever going to be more than a wild thought in your head, it starts with talking to Riley. Not me. She gets to decide what she’s comfortable sharing—if anything. And if she ever says yes to something like that…” Lisa’s mouth curves into a small, knowing smile. “Then we’ll have a very different conversation.”

She turns back to the counter, plating the pancakes like the moment never happened.

“For now, eat your breakfast. And maybe keep those fantasies to yourself until you know what my daughter wants.”

She slides a plate in front of me—stack of pancakes, butter melting in the center, syrup on the side.

“Welcome to the family, Eli,” she adds, voice warm again. “It’s complicated. But you’re handling it better than most would.”

I pick up my fork, face still burning, but something in my chest settles.

Yeah. Talk to Riley first.

Everything else can wait.

I dig into the pancakes, fork cutting through the stack with a soft scrape. They’re perfect—fluffy, golden, butter pooling in the center, syrup soaking in just right. The first bite hits my tongue, sweet and warm, and for a minute I let it pull my focus completely. Chew, swallow, another bite. The coffee’s bitterness balances the sugar, and the normalcy of breakfast almost tricks my brain into forgetting the insanity of the last twelve hours.

Almost.

While I eat, my mind’s running laps.

Riley. The girl I’ve crushed on forever, who last night kissed me back, curled into my arms, and then kicked me out of her bed at 3 a.m. to keep things secret. Who runs a fart-jar empire that paid for her college in two months. Who might—might—be open to something real with me.

Lisa. Her mom. Who’s sitting across the kitchen island right now, sipping coffee, casually filming her own morning gas routine like it’s a yoga vlog. Who has the same confidence, the same unapologetic energy, the same… everything that’s been driving me crazy since I walked in last night. Who just heard me admit I fantasize about both of them and didn’t slap me, didn’t freak out, just told me to talk to Riley first.

Both of them.

I stab another piece of pancake a little harder than necessary.

This isn’t some movie fantasy. This is real life, in this real kitchen, with real pancakes and a real family that turns their digestive systems into a lucrative business. And somehow I’m sitting in the middle of it, pocket full of cash from sniffing one daughter’s fart on camera, while eating breakfast cooked by the mom whose ass I can’t stop noticing.

I take a slow sip of coffee, eyes on my plate.

Lisa’s words echo: “If you’re sticking around my daughter… you’re gonna need a stronger stomach than most.”

Yeah. And maybe a stronger sense of reality.

But as I finish the last bite, wipe my mouth, and glance up to see her humming softly while loading the dishwasher—hips swaying just a little—I know one thing for sure.

I’m not going anywhere.

Not yet.

I’m way too deep in this delicious, ridiculous, gassy mess to walk away now.

I finish the last bite of pancake, set the fork down, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. The words have been sitting on my tongue since Lisa’s little “family tradition” comment, and after what I just admitted (and her surprisingly calm reaction), I figure I might as well go for it.

“Lisa…” I start, voice a little hesitant but steady enough. “Do you need any help with, like… content?” I meet her eyes, trying to keep it cool. “I’ve already had an acting role.”

I nod toward the spot where her camera must be hidden. “You know… proof-of-concept stuff. Reactions. I handled Riley’s pretty well. Made good money, too.”

Lisa freezes for half a second, coffee mug halfway to her lips, then lowers it slowly. Her eyebrows arch, and that familiar amused smile creeps back in—slow, deliberate, like she’s sizing up whether I’m serious or just running on post-pancake bravery.

She sets the mug down, folds her arms, and leans a hip against the counter again.

“Eli,” she says, drawing my name out the same way Riley does when she’s about to tease me. “You’re offering to be my on-camera fart-sniffer?”

I feel my face go nuclear, but I don’t back down. “I mean… yeah? If you need it. I’ve already survived both of you. Figure I’ve got the experience now.”

She lets out a low, warm laugh, shaking her head like she can’t quite believe this conversation is happening in her kitchen at six in the morning.

“You’re bold. I’ll give you that.” She pushes off the counter, walks over, and stops right in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head up a little. “And you’re cute when you’re trying to negotiate your way into trouble.”

She reaches out, ruffles my hair again—firmer this time—and then taps my cheek lightly.

“Tell you what. I don’t usually bring outsiders into my stuff. But since you’re already in deep with Riley, and you didn’t run screaming after this morning…” She glances toward the hallway, making sure we’re still alone, then looks back at me, eyes glinting. “We’ll talk pricing later. For now, keep surviving my daughter. If you’re still around in a month and she hasn’t scared you off, maybe I’ll let you audition.”

She straightens up, turns back to the sink, and starts rinsing plates like she didn’t just leave me dangling with a “maybe.”

I sit there, pulse racing, a stupid grin fighting its way onto my face.

Foot in the door: achieved.

Now I just have to survive Riley finding out I asked her mom for a gig sniffing her farts.

Worth it.

I glance at the clock on the oven—6:42 a.m.—and reality hits me like a brick. “Oh shit,” I mutter, pushing back from the table. “I should probably get home…”

Lisa looks over from the sink, drying her hands on the towel. “You need a ride?”

I shake my head quick, standing up. “Nah, I’m good. Fresh air will probably do me good.” I force a little laugh, like I’m not still recovering from the kitchen’s biochemical haze.

She quirks an eyebrow, that knowing smile creeping back in. “Suit yourself. But I’m still pretty gassy.”

I freeze mid-step toward the door. The memory of her morning routine—and Riley’s car ride from hell—flashes through my head. “You know what? On second thought… a ride sounds great.”

Lisa laughs, full and warm, tossing the towel onto the counter. “Smart boy. Van’s unlocked in the garage. I’ll be out in a minute.”

She heads down the hallway, hips swaying, those pajama shorts doing absolutely no favors for my focus. I can’t help but watch her ass as she goes—full, soft, shifting with each step. I shake my head, grab my phone and keys (pretty much all I brought), slip on my shoes by the door, and head through the kitchen into the garage.

The van’s sitting there, familiar from a hundred rides growing up. I hop into the front passenger seat, buckle up, and wait, the garage cool and quiet.

A minute later, the door opens again and Lisa steps out—still in the same oversized T-shirt and wedged pajama shorts, purse slung over her shoulder. She swings open the driver’s door, plants one foot inside, then pauses. Her ass cocks toward me, perfectly aimed, and a flat, hollow-sounding fart rumbles out for a solid few seconds—deep, echoing slightly in the garage.

She wafts it my way with a little wave of her hand, then drops into the seat with a giggle. “Get some of that one,” she says, shutting the door and starting the engine like she didn’t just blast me point-blank.

I fan the air in front of my face, coughing out a laugh. “Message received.”

She backs out of the garage, still grinning, and we pull onto the street as the first real light of morning starts creeping in.

This family’s gonna kill me.

But damn if I’m not along for the ride.

The ride’s short—just a few quiet minutes through familiar streets, the morning light starting to brighten the neighborhood. Lisa pulls the van slowly along the curb in front of my house, flips on the hazards, and reaches into her large purse. She pulls out a small birthday-themed gift bag—bright paper with balloons and streamers—and holds it out to me.

“I kept forgetting to give you your gift for your last birthday,” she says, casual as ever.

I blink, confused. My birthday was months ago, and I definitely don’t remember her owing me anything, but I take the bag anyway. “Uh… thanks, Lisa. For the ride and the gift.”

She shrugs, that playful smile tugging at her lips. “Just don’t look inside until 8 a.m.”

Now I’m really confused. I glance at the bag, then back at her. “Okay… why?”

She just taps the steering wheel lightly. “You’ll see. Lisa knows best.” Her tone’s teasing, but there’s a glint in her eye that tells me not to push it.

I nod, figuring whatever’s going on in this family, she probably does know best. “Okay. I won’t open it till 8 a.m.”

I slip out of the van, turn back to wave. “Bye, Lisa. Thanks again.”

“Bye, sweetie,” she calls, giving me a little wave before pulling away, hazards clicking off as she disappears down the street.

I head up the walkway, waving one last time, then let myself inside. The house is quiet—parents probably still asleep. I kick off my shoes and go straight upstairs to my room, setting the mysterious birthday bag on the dresser. It’s light, whatever’s inside doesn’t weigh much, and I’m dying to peek, but… 8 a.m. I promised.

I decide to kill time with a shower. Strip down, scrub off the night—sweat, lingering traces of last night’s chaos, the faint reminder of Riley curled against me. By the time I’m done brushing my teeth, toweling my hair, and throwing on fresh boxers and a T-shirt, the clock on my phone reads 7:50 a.m.

Ten minutes.

I flop onto my bed, staring up at the same ceiling I was staring at yesterday when Connor called and turned my whole world upside down. The cracks in the plaster look exactly the same, but everything else feels different. I’m so lost in replaying the night—Riley’s room, the video, the kiss, the pancakes, Lisa’s offer—that I almost forget I’m waiting.

Then my phone buzzes on the nightstand.

I grab it. A text notification… from Lisa.

I tap it open.

Lisa: It’s 8AM! 🎉

Below the message, a little loading wheel spins—she’s sending something else. A photo? A video? My pulse picks up as I wait, staring at the screen, the birthday bag sitting innocently on the dresser across the room.

Whatever’s coming next, I’m strapped in. This family doesn’t do normal surprises.

A little tone chimes as the media finishes loading—a video thumbnail pops up on my screen: Lisa holding her phone, smiling right at the camera, a big play button circled in the center.

My pulse quickens, thumping hard in my ears. I don’t even know why—nerves? Excitement? After everything, a video from her feels loaded. I glance at the birthday bag, but screw it. I tap play.

The video starts. Lisa’s face, that warm mom-smile beaming at the lens, morning light filtering through some window I don’t recognize. Unfamiliar room—maybe a home office or guest space? She walks over to something off-screen, sets the phone down against a stack of books or whatever, propping it up. Then a scrape—nails on wood, like a dresser top—and she plops a jar right in the center of the frame. Empty, lid off, waiting.

I hit pause, heart slamming now. “No way…” I mutter to myself, voice barely a whisper. My eyes dart to the bag. This time I don’t hesitate—I bolt off the bed, snatch it from the dresser, and dig inside. Cool glass meets my clammy fingers, sending a jolt straight through me. My heart nearly explodes in my chest. I yank it out—a small canning jar, identical to Riley’s stacks, with a piece of red craft paper draped over it like wrapping.

I adjust my grip, paper fluttering to the floor, and there it is: the jar, real and heavy in my hand. I twist to check the lid. Handwritten in sharpie: 6:48 AM. Today. This morning.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, tossing the empty bag aside like it’s radioactive. I leap back onto the bed, jar clutched tight, setting it down beside me like a trophy. Phone in hand, I hit resume.

Lisa turns around on-screen, her ass filling half the frame—barely contained by those pajama shorts, hovering at the top edge. I nearly choke on air as she hooks her thumbs in the waistband and yanks them down. Her bare ass comes into full view, cheeks parting slightly. It’s not Riley’s tight, perky perfection—there are bumps, a little dimpling from cellulite, the realness of a mom who’s lived life, not some filtered college girl. But it’s real. I’ve seen glimpses in person, but now? All of it, unfiltered, inches from the jar on camera.

She squats down, settling her full weight onto the open rim. Her ass forms around it, cheeks smooshing out, the glass digging deep into her skin like it’s made to fit. Sealed tight.

Then she fills it. That glassy, resonant brrrrt echoes—deeper than Riley’s, more mature, like a bassline to her daughter’s pop track. It drags on forever, unwavering at first, then fighting the seal. The sound shifts—squealing, pressurized, like plugging an air hose with your thumb and watching the leak scream past your finger as the pressure builds. Wet edges creep in, the jar fogging hard, moisture beading inside.

Ten seconds later, it tapers with a final sputter. Lisa sighs—deep, relieved, like she just finished business in the bathroom and feels ten pounds lighter. Her hand snakes down between her legs from the front, grabbing the jar to keep the seal as she stands. The other hand snags the lid. She’s fast—years of practice showing. Snap, twist, sealed in half a second flat. Viper strike.

I’m mesmerized. The fart itself, her smooth efficiency, the jar right here next to me on the bed—warm from my grip, labeled with this morning’s time. Proof.

Video keeps going. She grabs a marker, scribbles on the lid—exact same handwriting as mine—holds it up to the camera with a proud smile. “Special edition for Eli,” she says off-screen, voice muffled but clear. Then her face twists—slight disgust as she waves a hand in front of her nose. “Stinky,” she says, fanning it away with a laugh before blowing a kiss to the lens. Fade to black.

The lid matches. She showed the signing, the reveal—like a limited-edition autograph on a collector’s item. Hot as hell.

I set the phone down, staring at the jar. Heart still racing, I pick it up again, turning it in my hands. Open it? Now? Lisa’s text feels like permission, but… damn. This is her gift. Her personal fart, captured fresh, just for me.

I glance at the clock—8:02 a.m. Rules are rules.

My thumb hovers over the lid. Pulse pounding. Yeah. I’m doing this.

I lie back on the bed, the jar cool and heavy in my hand, heart pounding so hard it’s all I can hear. I bring it up slowly, hovering it just under my nose, the sealed lid staring back at me like it’s daring me. I’m nervous—hell, almost scared. This isn’t Riley’s college-girl chaos. This is Lisa. Mature, potent, the original recipe.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to hype myself up. “You’ve got this,” I mutter, like I’m about to jump off a diving board. “You already survived the kitchen cloud. One jar. Come on.”

Thumb on the lid. Twist.

The seal breaks with a soft hiss, and the smell slams into me like a freight train—thick, hot, earthy, with that deep, fermented bite only hours of brewing in a real gut can produce. My stomach clenches hard, a violent retch surging up my throat. My whole body recoils, eyes watering instantly, but I fight it. I force the jar back to my nose and pull again—deeper this time, like an addict chasing the next hit.

It burns. God, it burns—lungs, sinuses, every inch of me screaming no. But I don’t stop. I sniff again. And again. Harder. The smell floods me, overwhelming, intimate, completely hers. My vision blurs, tears streaming, but there’s this rush underneath the disgust—electric, unstoppable.

I keep going, lost in it, until suddenly my body seizes. A wave crashes over me, sharp and blinding. I climax—hard—no touch, no warning, just the raw intensity of it all pushing me over the edge. My back arches off the bed, a choked gasp escaping as I ride it out, jar still clutched tight.

When it fades, I collapse back, chest heaving, spent. The jar’s empty now—the fart gone, all of it in my lungs, burning like smoke from a fire I never want to put out.

I lie there, staring at the ceiling again, the same cracks as yesterday. But everything’s different.

I’m in too deep.

Exactly where I want to be.