𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

SHEATHE

Diana seeks clarity in the bottle.

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That night, Diana tried to find solace in an old friend: wine.

She'd hoped that after one, two, or maybe even three glasses, her stomach would stop doing somersaults and her senses would return.

The somersaulting? After one glass, it stopped.

Her senses, however? Gone without a trace. Missing in action, nonexistent.

She'd sat in the living room staring blankly into her glass, wondering how she could've done things differently.

Well, for one, she could've landed that spin without overcorrecting. And she could've called Brian earlier and slipped out of the building unseen.

But things hadn't gone that way. Brian hadn't come early and instead of sleeping at home on her couch, she'd slept for nearly two hours in her dressing room.

Life had literally catapulted Michael into her path, and she'd only brought him closer, had let him crawl between her legs and touch her thighs, and probably would have allowed him to do more if Brian hadn't knocked.

Diana drank damn near the whole bottle, hoping the self-counseling session would be enough, but when she saw Michael again Monday evening, she realized the only thing that bottle of wine had given her was a headache.

She'd known that the moment they walked outdoors and stopped to admire the red, orange, and pink ribbons painting the sky.

They'd both been late that morning (likely on purpose), which had left them with very little time to talk. As they'd walked down the hallway toward the set, shoulder to shoulder, she'd squeezed his hand.

"A promise is a promise," she'd said, "I'll see you in the evening."

And now, there they were. They'd traveled down a barely utilized wing of Astoria Studios, and had found a small exit door that led out to a small, grassy, enclosed lot. Most of the crew had dispersed for the day, so they'd managed to slip away unnoticed.

Now, with her arms sheathed around her chest, Diana stood there, gazing at him, watching as the sunset shrouded him in an almost divine glow.

She wasn't sure what to say.

Maybe things weren't always a matter of thinking. She didn't have to keep considering how strange it would look for her to be fraternizing with someone she'd known ever since he'd been a boy—and yet, she'd already gone as far as sticking her tongue down his throat and unbuttoning his shirt. Fantastic.

So, she looked at it from another angle: maybe things were actually just a matter of doing. Maybe all she needed to do was light a fire under her own behind and do what she'd been trying to do all along.

But what she'd ended up doing was the exact opposite. She'd reached for his hand, and he'd turned to her, fidgety, stumbling over his words, saying only God knows what, and instead of hushing him with her words, she'd hushed him with her mouth.

It was dangerous, doing it out in the open, but she'd done it anyway, and despite how guilty she'd felt, his lips had been so soft and so exhilarating that she'd nearly forgotten the predicament she was in.

That moment had made it official: her senses were, in fact, gone. And although she knew she couldn't keep this going forever, a small, sweet voice purred from within, goading her to find a way.