"So you just gonna ignore me forever?"

Nicky spins around, eyes wide and hands instinctively trying to cover herself.

"Hey, what the fuck, man? You think it's okay to just creep up on people in the shower?" the redhead shouts, her complaints barely audible over the relentless spray of the bathwater.

Daddy smirks, crossing her arms and eyeing Nicky with a careful slowness that makes the ginger's stomach churn.

"Fuck off, Duarte. For serious," Nicky snarls, pretending to scrub that cheap-ass conditioner from commissary into her scalp.

Daddy's eyes soften and widen in hurt, but her jaw clenches and her brow furrows so quickly that Nicky nearly chalks it up to her imagination.

She was probably still feeling the effects of having a bookshelf slammed onto her head by a bunch of lovely and vivacious C-Block bitches, or maybe someone had laced her water with shrooms.

Wouldn't be the first time.

"Listen, Nichols, I did you a fuckin' favor," Daddy barks, sending a jolt of adrenaline into Nicky's stomach.

"Hey, man, listen. You didn't do jack shit for me, alright? Just 'cause I cried into your chest once don't mean that we gotta be scissor sisters til' the end of time. I wanted someone to hold, you were there, end of story," Nicky says, every word of the lie feeling like knives rumbling around in her stomach.

Daddy doesn't believe her. It's obvious by the tilt of her head, the pursing of her lips and the darkening of her eyes.

"It didn't mean anything. Come on, man, you used to be a pimp, for Pete's sake. You know how the game goes," Nicky continues, letting the soap suds drift down her body and down into the drain.

To the Latina's credit, Daddy's not ogling her- just staring deep into her soul and picking her apart piece by piece. A significant improvement in Nicky's opinion.

"Hey, you came into my cell all 'oh, Daddy, I need a little human contact, can I hug you, Daddy?' so don't be actin' like you don't give a shit about me. About us," Daddy snarls, leaning against the wall and crossing her ankles. There's a bite in her voice that Nicky hasn't heard since her last stay here, not since-

"What about your girlfriend? She finally realized you don't got a dick?" It's a lame jab, something Daddy's probably heard before, but it's all the ammunition Nicky has.

A deep sigh.

"Daya and I ain't together no more."

Nicky clicks her tongue disapprovingly, grabbing her towel and wrapping it around her body. "Come on, Duarte. What do they tell you in high school?"

Daddy lets out another deep sigh, rubbing her forehead with her hand.

"Never fall for a straight girl. I know, I know, I'm a terrible dyke," the Latina grumbles, plopping down on the bench across from the showers. A melancholy sort of chuckle falls from her lips, sad and self-condoning.

"Well, I can't really talk. I told you about Lorna, right?" Nicky deadpans, carefully stepping out of the shower and taking a seat on the bench next to Daddy.

"The love of your life? The best pussy you've ever had? Nah, never heard of her," Daddy says in response, her voice dripping with pure, unadulterated sarcasm.

"Real funny. Anyway, how about you just go on your merry way, and I go on mine, and we don't ever fuckin' talk again? Sounds like a plan, Stan. See you never," Nicky says hurriedly, clapping the Latina on the shoulder before grabbing her shower caddy and attempting to make like Jesse Owens.

"No," Daddy says softly, gently tugging on Nicky's towel. "Don't go."

Nicky slowly sits back down, heart pounding an erratic rhythm in her chest. Her hands shake by her sides, and the butterflies in her stomach threaten to choke her.

"Okay," the redhead says softly, and Daddy grabs her by the face and presses her lips against Nicky's.

Not my weirdest Wednesday afternoon, Nicky thinks to herself, letting Daddy shove her down to the bench.

They're not unfamiliar with each other, after all. Might as well be a trip down memory fuckin' lane.

This is stupid, of course. She knows that much. She's letting herself get played by pretty brown eyes and an addictive cocky swagger. That's Nicky's job, after all. She's the fuck 'em then leave 'em, the Shane McCutcheon of Litchfield.

But when Daddy's hand finds its way between her thighs, all her thoughts and worries and comparisons to sex-addicted 2000s television characters melt away.

She'll worry about the consequences later.