Her lips were so soft, like velvet, unlike anything else. She was in love with the feel of her lips. Her hair was so black, shiny and perfect like obsidian, like dark glass pearls, like black nights with no moon. Her fingers were so small, like a child's, like a doll's. Paige liked how her fingers looked entwined with hers. Her. It was unreal and delicious and almost sinful.

Alex's apartment was so small and cramped and old and faded everywhere. The rug was fraying and coming up from the floor. There was dust in the corners, grime on the walls, streaks on the window. Dust on shelves, cracks in fake china cups. It was more real here than anywhere she's ever been. She could dissolve in Alex's black eyes, in her long neck like some Russian ballerina. In her soft breath.

She could feel her presence next to her, could feel her long thigh next to her own. She could see the natural red of her lips and the plane of her nose and cheekbones from the corner of her eye while she watched the old T.V. She heard the hum from the old set, felt the rough material of the couch under her palms. Alex smiled at her and tilted her head. Paige smiled back and touched her hair.

When she kissed Alex there was no hint of Dean and what Dean had done. Every boy had something the same, some roughness, some taking. Not Alex. She was soft where they were hard. She gave where they took. She caressed where they hurt. She felt herself healing in her arms.

It was nice to be girls together, to not have to worry about some hothead testosterone creep. She rested her head on Alex's shoulder and Alex smoothed her hair. Paige could smell her shampoo, her juicy fruit gum, the pot she smoked, the detergent on her clothes.

Dean. She'd gone so far to be violated by him. She lied to Spinner about where she was going. She bought the hooker shoes and tramp dress. She followed him and flirted with him and asked him to go upstairs. So when she said no what did it matter? All her yeses before paved the way.

But Alex didn't have to ask, there was no yes or no. She intuited what to do, what not to do. Paige felt safe with her. She kissed her neck, kissed her cheek, kissed her lips. The T.V. flickered and chirped away, fading to sweet background static as her tongue found Alex's tongue, as her hand found the back of her neck. She could feel the soft material of her T-shirt under her hand.

Dean had ruined each and every sexual encounter up until the time she danced with Alex at the premier party. When she kicked off her shoes and grinded her hips up against Alex's hips, Dean's grip on her had finally fallen away. His rough hands on her wrists had finally loosened. She could breath. She could say no and be heard.

"Love you," she whispered, and maybe the words didn't reach her ears. It was enough to say them. It was enough to feel her hands cupping her breasts, applying the right amount of pressure. It was enough to flick her tongue away to have it gently come back again, seeking, pushing, exploring.

Sunday morning and the sun was muted somehow but bright enough. Everything with Alex was enough. Her hands were tangled up in her black hair, and her own hair was like strings of honey in the darkest chocolate. They moved with and through one another. Nothing would hurt her here.

Dean couldn't hurt her anymore.