Chapter 12: Training
The following week was a quiet study in private curiosity. Riley’s resolve, softened by Jordan’s “together,” turned her research from a grim preparation into something more like browsing a bizarre cookbook. She’d scroll on her phone late at night, the glow painting her face blue in the dark of her childhood bedroom, where her old stuffed owl watched from the shelf with blank button eyes.
Headquarters had settled into a watchful pattern.
“See? It’s exploratory! It’s informational!” Joy said, gesturing to the console where Riley was reading an article about communication. “She’s learning vocabulary. That’s healthy!”
“She’s down a wiki-hole labeled ‘Sexual Techniques,’” Fear corrected, his voice trembling. “One wrong click and it’s fringe kink forums from 2004! The internet is a tar pit of trauma and bad advice!”
“At least she’s not practicing on produce anymore,” Anger grumbled, though he kept a wary eye on the screen. “That was undignified.”
Sadness traced a blue finger along the edge of the console. “She wants to be good for him. It’s a sweet kind of lonely, wanting to give a part of yourself you’re not sure you even have.”
Riley’s feelings were a jumble. Most of what she read felt clinical, or absurdly hyperbolic, written in a language of “rocking his world” and “mind-blowing” results that seemed as plausible as a superhero movie. It created a pressure she consciously shrugged off. Jordan liked her. He’d proven that. This wasn’t about earning his affection; it was about… adding to it. Maybe.
Then, late on a Thursday, she saw the word.
It was buried in a listicle so ridiculous she was skimming it just for laughs—‘10 Things He Wishes You Knew But Is Afraid to Ask.’ Number seven: ‘Titfucking.’
Riley blinked. She read it again. A short, sharp snort escaped her nose. Then a giggle bubbled up in her chest, and before she could stifle it, she was laughing out loud, a real, belly-deep laugh that echoed in the quiet room. She clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking.
The word was so blunt. So stupid. It sounded like a bad punk band or a clumsy insult. Titfuck. It was the least romantic thing she’d ever heard.
“What? What is it?” Fear panicked, scrambling to analyze the text. “Is it a virus? A threat?”
Joy peered at the word. “It’s… anatomical. And colloquial.”
“That’s it,” Anger said, but he was fighting a smirk. “The poets are dead. The romantics are rolling in their graves.”
Sadness tilted her head. “It’s a little sad, isn’t it? Such a cold word for something that might be about warmth.”
But Riley’s laughter was cleansing. It cut through the weird, performative anxiety. This wasn’t a final exam; it was absurd. The idea itself, stripped of its crude label, gave her pause, though. It seemed… less intimidating. A different kind of closeness. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it, but the laughter made room for the thought. Maybe that could be interesting.
The next day, in the safe, sun-drenched clutter of her room, the thought nudged her again. She was getting dressed after a shower, pulling a soft, worn t-shirt over her head. The cotton brushed against her skin. She looked down at her own body, not with criticism, but with a flicker of objective curiosity.
How would that even work?
Tentatively, almost scientifically, she hugged her arms around herself, pressing her chest together. She looked at the faint cleavage, then let her arms drop, shaking her head with another private smile. It felt silly. It was silly.
But later, at Jordan’s house, the thought resurfaced with a new, electric charge. They were on the basement couch again, and the making out had deepened, evolved. His hands were under her shirt, warm on her back, then sliding carefully around to cup her through her bra. His touch was reverent, a little shaky.
Her mind, for once, wasn’t a frantic control room. It was quiet. Observant. She felt the weight of his hand, the rough pad of his thumb brushing over the lace. She thought about the word, and this time it didn’t make her laugh. It made her cheeks flush with a heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment.
She broke the kiss, breathing heavily. Her forehead rested against his.
“What are you thinking about?” he murmured, his voice husky.
She almost said it. The stupid word. It danced on the tip of her tongue. But saying it out loud felt like crossing a line from their comfortable reality into some other, more explicit dimension.
“Just… stuff,” she whispered instead, and kissed him again to hide her smile.
But the idea had taken root. It was hers now. Not the internet’s, not some imaginary cool girl’s. A secret, curious possibility tucked away in the back of her mind.
That night, she texted him. Not about that, not directly. But testing the waters of this new, more direct version of herself.
Riley: What if I wanted to try something… and I didn’t want to tell you what it was first? Like a surprise.
The three dots appeared and disappeared, appeared again. A long minute passed.
Jordan: As long as it’s a surprise for both of us and not, like, you shaving my head in my sleep.
Riley: No haircuts. Promise.
Jordan: Then yeah. Okay. A surprise.
She held her phone to her chest, feeling its warm pulse against her skin. A surprise. She had one in mind, now. A ridiculous, blunt, strangely intriguing surprise. The next time they were together, she realized with a jolt that was equal parts terror and excitement, she might actually do it. Not because she had to be good, but because she wanted to see what happened. To see his face. To be the one who decided. Together, but on her own strange, curious terms.