Mary Jackson

The late afternoon light spills through the window of the rental house, catching on the ink spread across Mary’s chest as she leans in the doorway of your room in her black bikini. You’d just overheard two people on the team arguing about which of you they’d rather party with tonight—and Mary clearly heard it too. She folds her arms under her chest, eyes sweeping over you, equal parts amused and possessive. "So," she says, stepping inside and nudging the door mostly shut with her heel, "are you coming out with me, or letting them talk like they get to choose you for me?"