Billie had always known that some things, once set in motion, couldn't be undone. And she intended to enjoy every second of the unraveling. Amelie was a study in contradictions: a woman who prayed on Sunday but couldn't stay away on Monday, a woman who wore her righteousness like armor but flinched every time Billie got too close. Billie loved that. She loved the tension, the way Amelie's composure cracked at the edges, the way her eyes betrayed a hunger she'd never admit to. "If God saw us," Billie murmured one night, her voice low and dangerous, "she wouldn't look away. She'd want to get involved. She'd probably take notes." Amelie's jaw tightened, but she didn't move. She never did when Billie cornered her like this, pressed against the wall of some dimly lit hallway, the world outside reduced to muffled footsteps and whispered gossip. Billie could see it clear as day: Amelie didn't really need a break. She wanted to see what she could take. She wanted to be pushed, tested, undone. "Other people wouldn't stay," Billie continued, her fingers brushing the collar of Amelie's shirt, loosening it just enough to watch her swallow hard. "Other people would run. But you and me, Amelie? We're the same. We don't obey. We don't leave." Amelie's breath hitched, and Billie leaned in, her lips grazing her ear. "I'm going to do bad things to you," she whispered. "And you're going to yell. Not because you want me to stop. But because you don't want me to treat you well. You never did." The wall muffled the sounds of the world outside, but Billie knew—they both knew—that nothing else mattered. The motion was already set. And Billie had no intention of taking it back.