"By the way, your phone's been buzzing," I tell Oran as we separate from the sticky (but really nice) tangle we made together. Even though I tried to put some of my strength in them last night, which is difficult—like passing water between us with my cupped hands—they helped me feel charged up again just now. Sleep helped too.

"Oh shit, I forgot to text my dad last night. I bet my folks have sent me one thousand fucking messages," Oran says. They go to get their phone from the bed they didn't use last night, and I watch for a moment, appreciating how they look from behind, before I stand up and stretch.

I wonder what time it is. There's no clock in the room, and my phone is turned off and wouldn't update to our location automatically even if I turned it on, since I haven't connected to the wi-fi like Oran did. Looking at the sun coming in through the blinds, it seems like midday. I think we got in around midnight, so we slept for a long time.

"Oh my god, it's not just my parents. Why were Sam and Reed texting me?" they mutter.

"They're your friends."

Oran glances at me with an expression I'm not sure of on their face. I'm not great at understanding subtle emotions, but I think they're happy. When I smile a little, testing it, they smile back. That's good.

"Sure, but it's not like the plane fell out of the sky, so what's the rush? That would've been on the news, CCP be damned." They say it as they sit down, naked, on the edge of the other bed and start typing away.

Aren't they cold? I'm cold, and they're skinnier. I find their cardigan from yesterday, unbutton it, and drape it over their shoulders like a blanket. When they're sitting down, they're a little shorter than me, so they look up into my face with their pretty eyes. The rims are dark with the remnants of yesterday's makeup, but they're still bright. I want to paint them again. I used to think about them and sketch their face before we met the second time, but those weren't right. I need them in front of me to capture their specialness.

"Thanks, princess," they say with a grin as I step back. My heart speeds up at the sight. "Go shower. I'll deal with my adoring fans in the meantime."

I nod and gather up my things. We have a small bathroom attached to our guest room, so I head there with my arms full of the travel pouches from my suitcase. My routine always takes longer, so it's best for me to go first anyway.

To my surprise, Oran is still tapping at their phone when I'm done doing my hair and makeup. I walk up and nudge their shoulder while still wearing just a towel.

"Sorry, not done catching up." They glance up at me, then dip back over their phone. They have their DMs open, and I lean over to find that they're messaging Sam. Maybe I should be jealous that they still talk to him, since Oran was a little bit in love with him before me. But it's okay. They love me fiercest, and one day I think I'll love them so much that we melt together, so I don't mind.

A few seconds later, they ask, "You posted our photo, huh?"

"Oh, yeah." I forgot until they mentioned it. "I scheduled it while we were at the second airport."

"It got quite a response, apparently. Sam says people were DMing him trying to figure out if you broke up with him and started dating a girl."

"Pff."

"Yeah. But you may want to log on and deal with it. Or not? Who cares, I guess."

"I'll see what Rory says."

She's the social media manager who helps manage the stupid comments I get, talk to brands for me, and suggest what to do when I run out of ideas. I have more followers in this lifetime, either because I got better at social media or my power makes me hotter now—whichever. There started to be way too much stuff to deal with on my own after a while. But I only pay for her part-time; I'm not that popular. I don't even have accounts outside of Instagram.

"Did you give her a heads up?" Oran asks.

"Mm, I didn't bother. I've mentioned you to her before. She said it's fine since girls are my main followers, and they like me sharing my personal life..."

"No regrets?"

They tip their head, the anxiety they're trying to cover up showing in the way their smile flickers. I wouldn't catch that for everyone, but I've studied them a lot.

They want to be my everything everywhere, even online. It's not like I don't understand that! I just don't think the Violette on my Instagram account counts as me. She's someone I shaped to get attention and money. I like doing it, most of the time, but I care less about social media than I used to when I didn't have anyone else to talk to in real life but Daddy.

"I might regret the comments, but only because they'll be stupid," I say after thinking it over.

"Ha, right. Ignore them for now." Oran favors me with a crooked grin, or maybe it just looks that way from their head tilt. "You going to get dressed?"

"No, I'm going to make trouble," I do a small spin for them, the towel fluttering up my legs as I go.

By the time I stop, they've put their phone down and started chuckling. "Okay, but if you do anything too weird, I don't wanna hear about it."

I poke my tongue out at them. "I'm not gonna. None of them are as good as Daddy." Pausing, I reconsider that statement based on yesterday. "Well, Aunt Jenna is pretty hot. I barely remembered her."

"No kidding. I still can't believe you forgot her whole-ass race, Vi."

I pout. It's mean to remind me. "I'm sorry. She's not in my photo books or on social media, and it's been a while."

"I know, I know." They're smiling like I'm off the hook, but then they add, "For real though, your family's got a preference, huh?"

"A... preference?" I blink.

In response, they poke my stomach through the towel. Their expression has turned mysterious again. It might be because they're teasing me.

"Your uncle, your dad, and you all have Black partners," they remind me.

Hmm. I hadn't thought about that. After all, I only know Oran because of their uncle... But I know that people liking one race or another is a thing—enough men have messaged me talking about having always wanted a submissive Asian girlfriend like me (barf). Sometimes boys at school talked about my looks being better because I'm mixed race, which I didn't like either. Oran knows that feeling, since they're mixed too, even if people tend not to notice straight away. I felt a little stupid when they had to tell me outright, way back when, but I'm not good at that sort of thing. It's hard to look at people's faces, and it shows most in their eyes.

I'm not like the gross guys who want an Asian girlfriend, am I? I frown.

"I like that you're like me but also really different, and I like how you look," I say slowly. "Is that bad?"

"Nah. You don't do anything bad, cutie." With both arms, they pull me forward until they can press their face against the towel covering my chest. Softly, they blow a warm breath over the fabric.

I squirm but don't really try to break away. "I just said I was going to make trouble."

"Fair enough. Guess I better let you handle that. I need a shower badly."

They stand up, swapping our positions, so now it's them who has to lean down to give me a kiss. That's fine. In fact, that's how I like it best.

* * *

Violette's off on her freaky little adventure, and me, who am I without her? Currently, someone filthy. I shrug off the cardigan she sweetly draped over me and shuffle for the bathroom, feeling grody down to the bone.

The juice Violette filled me with sings in my veins, and if I focus, I can hear the faint echoes of thoughts throughout the house. Might be fun to see what I can pick up in the shower. Standing in water amplifies my abilities, so I can access truly next level shower thoughts if I put my mind to it.

The bathroom attached to our room is small but modern, the kind of place you build or buy if you have money-money. Yeah, it's communist here, but you can still be plenty rich in China. I'm not going to pretend to understand the nuances of it, and I don't think the government wants people to know either, but I think it helps that the Li's have wealthy kids who send money back from the decadent west. (Look, I'll take the label. I'm highly decadent.)

This house isn't in the heart of the city but still in prime real estate, which means the modern, sleek bathroom is built to maximize space. There's a tall tub that allows for soaking and showering, plus the tiled floor has a drain for any water that sloshed over. The toilet isn't far from that. The sink is on a slightly raised area with a different tile and a fuzzy bathmat that's still a little wet from where Violette stood as she did her makeup. I sink my toes into the damp impression of her, feeling possessive of even that ghost.

She left the toiletry bags from our luggage on the narrow sink counter, which is where I dig out my own conditioner, the bottle I leave at her house for when I stay over. My hair does not fuck with her products. I still don't need to shampoo for another few days, but conditioning will do me good. I've slept on my hair raw, with nary a silk pillow in sight, like three times in the last two days. I gotta get my curls back in line.

I bare my teeth at the unkempt me in the mirror. My mane looks almost as feral as I feel. Violette launched me into the digital world last night, and now a few thousand people know about me and have a lot of questions. Sam and Reed recognized me—of course they did. Both of them were congratulatory in their ways, Sam genuine, Reed ragging on me for not dressing like a hot girl all the time. In her fucking dreams. And in mine, too, if Violette has her way.

How do I feel about it? Aren't I satisfied I got my way?

I fiddle with the unfamiliar shower until hot water pours out, then climb into the tall tub and let liquid spill over my chest. The drain is stoppered, so the water soon comes up to my ankles, then higher. Instead of thinking about my own feelings, I seek out the others in this house.

You ever played one of those Batman games, the ones where he can see through the walls? It kind of feels like that when I start to pick up the pinpricks of others' thoughts, except instead of orange bodies standing out against cool blue, it's warm murmurings against a backdrop of silence.

Much of what I hear is unclear. There's lots of Mandarin in there, rushing past at a rate I can't hope to follow, but the familiar phonemes of English drift amid the flotsam too. I try to hook on those, like a piece of seaweed catching on a coral.

So boring without my phone.
...to get the VPN login...
...we go to the candy store today!
This fucking guy. What is he doing?
I'm winning! I'm winning! Wait, I—
When are we having lunch?
...can't be happening...

That last one holds me for a moment. The thought flares before it's smothered by something else: overwhelming desire. I guess Violette caught someone, but I don't really want to delve in further. She promised she was just getting them under her spell, and I'm not so desperate for stimulation that I need to spy on that.

Even if I do find the muted sensation of this person's struggling thoughts flattening under her power pretty entrancing.

Who even is it? Impossible to tell when I'm just touching the surface. Maybe one of her uncles or her older aunt. It wouldn't be Eileen because that's my target.

As we established with my embarrassing introduction to brown-eyed brown-everythinged Aunt Jenna, Violette hasn't told me much about her family besides surface details. Whatever is up with her brain, she doesn't remember people or her feelings about them well until they're in front of her. It's a testament to her closeness with Eileen that Violette longed for her at all—a weird and perverse closeness, but that's Violette for you.

That's when a fizz approaches just outside the cluster of others. The front door? I can barely hear, but the quiet sound is too distinct to be ignored. Then, all at once, the mind comes within my range. It sizzles and pops like a hot plate of fajitas. Okay, grander: like lava when it meets the sea. This is someone who bubbles with energy but also burns, burns, burns. I pick up simmering anger and disgust but nothing more. When the voice does draw a little closer, I'm hit by a stream of numbers and letters. They float upward, indistinct and without a pattern, like the ashes of burned fortunes.

I try to pinpoint who it could be from my incomplete intel. Sheena? Her husband? What is he, a mathematician with a murderous streak? Whoever it is, they don't sound like a kid, so I doubt it's a cousin. I wait for more, but the boiling someone lingers frustratingly out of reach. It's a waste to try from this distance. Eventually, I give up and turn off the water.

* * *

An hour later—it took a while to haul myself out of my post-shower bath and fix my hair—I go on the hunt for Violette.

She must have gotten dressed while I was soaking, because I find her in the living room, positively swamped by cousins. Three of them are clustered beside her on the couch while two lean over the back of it. They're cute kids, and now that I know about Violette's Aunt Jenna, I see the melanin she failed to remember in a few of her cousins (I wonder what it's like to live in her world, where such details are forgettable).

There's a lot of chatter and devices being brandished Violette's way while she sits with her phone squeezed tight in both hands. When I clear my throat, she looks up with her doeish blue eyes desperate. I don't need her to say Save me to know it's what she's thinking.

I know basically none of the cousins on sight, though I have a feeling the one with a side shave and teal-gone-green-from-washing hair is Grackle. They're clearly one of the older cousins and are chewing gum as they lean over the back of the couch. They have TikTok open and some random video is adding to the noise.

"Hey, I think you're all overwhelming Violette a little bit," I say. I try to spread a blanket of calm over their thoughts. Like tossing a sheet over a bird's cage to get it to go to sleep, their talk fades into silence as they blink at me in collective non-recognition.

Then one of them, a younger girl sitting next to Violette, points at me. "You're from her last post!"

"Ah, guilty," I say with a grin. "What's up? I'm Oran." Before any of them can ask, I answer one of the unspoken questions they're radiating. "It's O-R-A-N. Not a super common name. I'm Violette's partner."

We were downplaying the dating thing before we got here, but we can rip the bandaid off now that her grandparents have yielded a shared guestroom to us.

There's a wave of "Hey" and "Hi" and "Nice to meet you" from the cousin clump. They were raised to be polite, and none of them seem as guarded as Violette, who is gently smiling at me from the middle of them like a delicate dandelion surrounded by tall grass.

The one I'm pretty sure is Grackle looks at me quizzically. "Oran? Like the Pokémon berry?"

I meet their stare and focus on their thoughts alone, cutting back the rest of the noise. They're trying to clock me, which is always funny from a fellow non-binary person. This I have practice controlling. With a nudge from me, their eyes slide right off my secondary sexual characteristics, and the reluctant acceptance of not knowing sinks in.

"No, like the Irish name," I answer. "My parents don't know anything about Pokémon."

"You use your deadname?"

"Uh, it isn't dead if I like it." I raise an eyebrow. "Some people luck out, you know. And you are...?"

"Grackle," they mutter. They don't say anything else, but I can feel the embarrassed twist of their thoughts as they try to sort out how they should feel about my lack of feeling. Teenagers. (I love being twenty, I get to think "teenagers" all the time now. Twenty-one is going to be even better.)

"I'm Hazel!" says the cousin to Violette's left, the one who recognized me. Her skin's a warm brown and her hair's a little curly, so I assume she's one of Jenna and Bo-Wen's.

Once she gets her introduction out, we're off to the jikoushoukai races. Speaking of, there's quite a few symbols in common between 自己紹介 and 自我介绍, so we probably snagged that tradition from China too, huh?

Hazel's got a mellow older brother named Jin—he spells it out, just like I did—and Grackle has two younger siblings, Louie and Bai Li. Sheena must have taken her husband's name, because otherwise that poor kid is named Bai Li Li, right? Fuck. I will not ask.

I'd heard most of these names before, but it's nice to place them to faces. The cousins barely made it into her photo albums. Now that I've met them, I think I saw Grackle and Jin (the oldest) as babies in pics, but Violette didn't point them out and I didn't pry. She turns quiet when she sees photos of her extended family, and it's not like I'm close with mine, so what was I gonna do, harass her for more information? She's too cute to harass for anything.

Tell that to her cousins, though.

"Violette, why haven't you posted more photos with Oran before? And why is she a boy now?" Bai Li asks. She's the littlest one, so I don't really mind, but Violette frowns.

Hazel interrupts before Violette can defend my honor. "For real though, just look at my account, you'd be really big on TikTok, let me set you up and I swear you'll get a million followers. I've got two thousand and I don't even do anything, like?"

"Hazel does know what she's doing," Jin says supportively.

"Um... I just don't like TikTok," Violette mumbles, and then the chatter begins again.

It's surreal to meet so many of Violette's real-life connections all bundled together like this. She didn't have any friends that weren't online to introduce me to in either lifetime, so as I watch her cousins return to pestering her, I try to process what else I'm feeling. Jealousy because of their casual closeness? Envy because I lost my own raucous extended family? Possessiveness because they don't know her like I do?

Their thoughts are warm and curious, open like the mouths of ever-hungry koi. There's no malice there, other than a little simmer of annoyance from Grackle that I'm not the kind of non-binary they are. They seem like good kids, something I am not at this point, but I can feign both for a bit, for her.

Violette winces as Hazel and Grackle start arguing about some aspect of their favorite app, so I laugh and nudge Bai Li, the youngest, out of the way. I drape one arm over Violette's shoulder and raise the other in a white flag.

"One at a time, y'all are swamping the princess. You can ask her or me anything if you're patient," I tell them authoritatively. The atmosphere quickly shifts to something more manageable. If you exude enough friendly swagger, kids will respect that. I make them give Violette some space. She sighs and relaxes gratefully into my side.

I can't be too jealous of her cousins—even around her family, she needs me.

We get into a good groove from there, and I've even got the nine-year-old, Bai Li, using they/them correctly when lava laps at the edges of my mind again. Moments later, it washes over me like I'm an unsuspecting tourist at the foot of a volcanic eruption.

A woman walks in, and I know her, I know her from Violette's photos, but it's not Sheena.

She was pretty in the past, but for all people tend to fetishize youth, who's fully realized when they're a teenager? Who won't be hotter in ten years when they're older and more experienced? She turns her head toward us and smiles around the long cigarette in her mouth. I catch a glimpse of her white teeth, all the whiter for her red lipstick, biting into the filter. Her hair is long black silk that's tied as tight as a hostage behind her head, her chunky black sunglasses scream D&G in gold at the side, and the chic black suit jacket with matching pants emphasizes the subtle lines of her slim body so perfectly it must be tailored or custom-made. The eyebrows above her sunglasses were shaped with the same knifepoint precision by some well-paid professional. She left her shoes at the door but I'm sure her stockinged feet were in thousand-dollar heels moments ago. She's crafted, molded, draped head to toe in the best money can buy. Have I described her enough that I can linger on one more detail, the one I have been trying not to stare at, because I have my pride?

Underneath her unbuttoned, architectural suit jacket, she's wearing a bone-white blouse, draped and airy, that opens down to right abovd her navel. It reveals her buttery smooth stomach and, higher up, the inner curves of her perky breasts, which must be supported by some garment, but it's hidden so effectively that I can't see past the artifice.

No wonder Violette aches for Eileen. That pretty teenager in the photos built herself into a shrine to opulence. And it's not like Violette would guess the deep well of contempt she simmers with right below the surface.

Eileen just watches us, or at least it seems that way, since it's impossible to say where her eyes are focused with her blackout sunglasses on. Either way, we're all looking at her. The cousins go quiet, their minds sputtering like a campfire in the rain. They know her; they're intimidated.

Ugh, Aunt Eileen? She's not even supposed to be here today, Grackle thinks, so strong it chimes like a bell in my mind.

That was right. Violette said she was coming tomorrow. Did she hear Violette had arrived and come early?

"Yeah, FOK," Eileen says briskly around her cigarette. "I did the math and talked to the client earlier. If you really want to get up my ass about it, call me in a few hours. I'm with family."

She taps at her ear with one French-manicured finger then pinches an earbud out. Nobody dares to say anything, just in case she's still on a call. Those numbers and letters from earlier make sense now: stocks and values. She's the female equivalent of one of those fucking finance bros. I knew that in theory, but seeing her in person, I can tell she's a much deadlier, more compelling varietal.

"Kids," she says, a calm acknowledgment of the cousins. She looks at me, at my arm over Violette's shoulder, and her voice pierces like a bullet through my mind:

Ugly little freak, how dare you touch her?

But she knows better, and with a practiced facade, she turns honey-sweet lifts her arms up. "Violette, it's been too long! Come give me a hug!"

Taking Violette away from me, is she? It works. Violette leaps up and runs across the room to embrace her favorite aunt. It's not like she could know that Eileen took one look at me and wrote off my whole existence. It is with some satisfaction that I can imagine the filthy things Violette is picturing as she squeezes Eileen. Both these girls have their secrets.

Well, well well well. Well. I expected a lot of things from Eileen, but a hissing pit viper wasn't one of them. She hides it well; for all that the cousins are fidgeting nervously around me, they don't have any concrete reasons to sense Eileen's distaste, they just think she's busy and uninterested in children.

"Look at how beautiful you've gotten," Eileen says when she's done hugging Violette. She grips Violette's chin and turn her porcelain-doll face left and right as she inspects her. "And such nice makeup. We'll have to go shopping, won't we? I'll take you to some of my favorite stores tomorrow. Don't worry, I'll do the talking."

"Um, I'm a little better at it than before..." Violette murmurs, and she turns back to me.

Might as well paint a target on my chest, Vi, I think, but I smile as Eileen finally takes her sunglasses off and meets my eyes. Takes a snake to know a snake.

"I've been helping her go out more, yeah. I'm Oran, her partner. They-them, thanks."

"Uh-huh?" Eileen tilts her elegant head down in a single nod. "I'll keep that in mind."

What she really thinks is that I'm a single ant spoiling her picnic with Violette, and she'll brush me off as easily as one.

Grinding that contempt out of her is going to be half of the fun. What will her face look like when she gives in? How will her sweat taste? How hard will it be to make her beg for me?

I'm going to fuck her until she's drooling, I think in a casual way that only registers as unusual a moment after it comes to me.

It's true, it's definitely true, it's just not how I've thought much in this lifetime. That sense of clarity, the certainty that I will claw what I want from this person I barely know, was something that faded out of me along with my anger at the world. But Violette asked for my help, and now that Eileen's here in front of me, she's an excellent target. Exactly the type of arrogant person I like to carve chunks out of until they're so fucked they're begging for me to shape them some more. And when I get her there I'll chisel a little love heart into her skin, Oran + Violette forever, and Violette will thank me for it because she's sick in just the right way. That's my girl.

What an amazing opportunity. Thanks for the food, Eileen.