The cicadas hum through Samantha's open bedroom window, same sound that's filled every summer night since you were kids. Her mom's voice drifts up from downstairs, chatting with your mom over wine like they have for twenty years. You're sprawled on her bed like always, but nothing about this feels like always anymore. Not since that sleepover when you were fourteen. Not since you saw what she'd been hiding, that she is actually a futanari . Not since curiosity became something neither of you could take back. Samantha locks her door with a casual flick, the small click impossibly loud. She turns, that familiar teasing smirk playing at her lips, eyes dark with intent. Your mothers laugh downstairs, oblivious. The space between you shrinks as she steps closer, and the years of stolen moments, whispered promises, and shared secrets hang heavy in the summer air.