Guest: I made him a failure because that's the type of character I felt like writing at the time.
Lily didn't know if the advice she gave her brother was sound or not; people said she was "bright" and "intelligent" and "smart as a whip" (a saying that didn't make very much sense to her), but there was a lot she didn't know, and when it came to Lincoln's problems, she was in waaay over her head. He was an adult and she was a kid - it was like a second grader trying to help an eighth grader with their math homework. She understood this intrinsically, but she really wanted to be there for him the way he was for her; when something was bothering her, she knew she could count on him to help her, so she had to do the same for him.
She wasn't sure exactly how to do that, so kind of felt her way along like a woman fumbling through the dark. That first night, she sat on the edge of his bed with a notebook in her lap, sketching Flower-Cat while he bent over a drawing of Ace Savvy. Flower-Cat was her OC (that means original character, Lincoln told her): It was a white Persian cat with a flower framing its head like a lion's mane. It was a vegetarian and could fly. Yeah, she knew it was dumb, but he kind of started as a joke. Lincoln offered to draw her something, and, just to be silly and mess with him, she requested the first thing that came to mind: A flower slash cat hybrid. Flower-Cat was supposed to be a one time thing (cuz come on, who really creates content centered around a cross between a plant and an animal?), but he was really cute and meant a lot to her because Lincoln made him.
At one point, Lincoln sighed and sat back, his lips pursed. "I'm just not feeling it," he mumbled.
Lily frowned down at Flower-Cat. "Why not?" she asked, even though she already knew. She looked at Lincoln; he sat in a slump-shouldered posture of defeat, his vacant eyes pointed at the desk.
"I'm just not feeling it," he said and raked his fingers through his hair. He favored her with a sorrowful glance and tried to force a smile but couldn't. Lily's heart twinged at the sadness in his eyes. "How's Flower-Cat doing?" he asked and nodded to her notebook. He was clearly trying to divert attention from himself, and Lily wasn't sure whether she should let him or press him to talk to her. Of course, there wasn't much to say that hadn't already been said - his dumb professor and his even dumber dean kicked him out of school, now he was depressed and worried about telling Mom and Dad. He thought he was a failure. That would be laughable if he didn't look so assured.
Maybe he didn't see how great he was, but she did; in fact, she'd been paying more attention to him than the drawing in front of her, watching him surreptitiously, a tiny smile she wasn't aware of playing at the corners of her lips, her stomach fluttering incessantly, and her heart pounding faster than it had any right to. Looking at him, tracing the strong, masculine curve of his jaw with her eyes and lingering on his toned arms always made her feel warm and tingly - she didn't know why, she just assumed that's how loving someone was supposed to feel. That only happened with him, though, and not with anyone else. Then again, he was the only Lincoln - none of the others were as kind, sweet, caring, gentle, beautiful, and all around perfect as he. She loved all her siblings, and her parents too, but she loved Lincoln more; she never felt the urge to hug her sisters, nor to bury her face in their chests and breathe in their intoxicating aroma, or feel their arms around her, or to snuggle as close to them as possible, or to hold their hand. None of the others made her giggly and light-headed the way Lincoln did. That meant he was her favorite, right?
Her gaze darted between his eyes and his lips, her soul stirring in a way that perplexed her but felt good nevertheless. The sudden compulsion to kiss him, the way girls did to boys they like-liked, overwhelmed her, and though she knew that you don't do that with your brother, she kind of didn't care.
A hot blush burst across her face and her throat swelled closed much as it did when she ate peanuts. She swallowed thickly and looked down at the page, a bubbly sensation in her chest that made her want to laugh and bite her bottom lip. She pressed her lips tightly together and fought back a giggle, but still smiled anyway. "He's doing good," she said. Flower-Cat glared up at her as though in disagreement. I'm a freak of nature, Lil, do I look like I'm doing good? "He looks grumpy."
"Why's he grumpy?" Lincoln asked and turned to face her, his knees spreading and one arm draping over the back of the chair in a relaxed posture that was anything but relaxed. If you knew him as well as Lily did, you would see the tense set of his muscles, the uncomfortable angle of his butt on the chair, the restless tap of his foot, and the low, perpetual worry deep in his eyes, a smoldering bed of embers rather than a raging inferno, but still hot...still dangerous. Lily's stomach knotted and she longed to go to him, to sit on his lap, touch the side of his face, gaze into his eyes, and list every wonderful thing she saw in him, but something about doing that seemed wrong. She didn't know why (what's so bad about telling your brother how great he is?), but it did. What she felt right now was different than anything she had felt before...stronger, sharper, and waaay down in her heart, she almost knew why; if she could strain forward just a little more, squint her eyes a little tighter, she would be able to see the answer like a missive in the stars
Instead, she pulled back, for that message, she knew, would bear with it the crushing burden of knowledge so enormous that she might not be able to handle it. Scrunching her shoulders, she said, "You'd be pretty grumpy too if you were a freakish abomination."
A laugh was shocked from Lincoln, and the sound of it made her tingle. "He's not that bad," he said. "He's just...different."
Lily concentrated on Flower-Cat's sour visage, unable to bring herself to look up at her big brother; her heart slammed so hard it echoed in her ears, and her face felt really hot, as if with the most epic sunburn ever. That was just like Lincoln, he was too sweet to call her OC what it was. He'd tell you you were beautiful even if you had no face, and if you looked in his eyes, you'd see that he meant it. He wasn't superficial like Lola or even Lana, he saw past things like appearance, and if you were down, he'd do whatever it took to bring you back up. Did she mention that he was perfect? Because he totally was. "I guess," she said, a smile creeping into her voice. "But people make fun of him for being part flora and part fauna."
Flower-Cat being bullied by normal cats was part of her headcanon. As you can probably tell, he was a combination of her two favorite things that weren't Lincoln, and as such, she kind of...incorporated elements of her own life into his backstory and characterization. She hadn't developed it beyond a few ideas here and there, though; she still didn't think Flower-Cat had a snowball's chance to be anything more than a joke, but Lincoln liked it, and for that reason alone she hadn't given up on him. Otherwise, he'd be outta here like a home plate loser on strike three. Go away, cretin, can't you see you're no longer welcome here? You're unwanted and unloved, lay down and die like the miserable mistake you are.
Okay, wow, that was mean. She could be like that when sometimes, but only to OCs and never to a real person. Lincoln taught her the importance of respecting and valuing other people's feelings. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, he said. She understood what that meant (treat people the way you want them to treat you), but she did not understand until later just how profoundly right that commandment was. A lot of the things said were like that: You had to think a little bit...then it clicked into place and everything became as crystal clear as the glare on Flower-Cat's face.
"That's because some people are ahh...buttholes," he said. Lily wasn't stupid, he was going to say assholes but amended himself because little ears or something trite like that. Usually, she didn't think twice about that kind of thing, but now it kind of offended her. You don't correct yourself like that if you're totally comfortable with the person you're talking to and see them as an equal, you do that in public, around strangers, and to little kids. The idea of him seeing her as a kid never bothered her before - what else would he see her as? - but sitting here with him presently, her stomach rippling with feelings she couldn't fully explain and hesitant to meet his eyes because when she did, she felt the urge to kiss him, it did. Tight, inexplicable panic seized hold of her chest; she had to do something to increase her standing in his eyes and fast. Solve a difficult equation? Drink a cup of coffee?
You're being dumb and weird, stop.
Well...yeah, she was, wasn't she?
Taking a deep breath, she nodded. "Yeah," she said, then, just to make a point, "people can be real assholes."
She expected him to gasp in shock, lower his brow, and scold her like a mother disciplining an errant daughter, but to her surprise (and delight) he simply nodded his agreement. Not being told that's a bad word, Lily, don't say it made her feel...accepted? Like he saw her as his equal and not a little girl. Strange, yes, but that's just how I roll.
Lucy poked her head in to say that dinner was ready, and Lily was bummed because she wouldn't have Lincoln to herself anymore. Dragging her feet and letting her arms dangle like a petulant ape, she followed him downstairs and took her customary place at the table between Mom and Dad. Lincoln dropped into a chair across from her, and Lucy sat next to him. Lana, Lola, and Lisa took up the remainder of the spots; Lily's eyes went first to the covered casserole dish in the midde of the table, then to the empty chairs where, once upon a time, the others ate. She couldn't remember a time when Lori and Leni lived at home, but she did hazily recall Luna being here at some point - then she moved to California with her girlfriend Sam where they currently lived in a one bedroom apartment over a bar, struggling to make ends meet on a shoestring budget. Luna had big dreams of becoming a rock star, but dreams don't always come true; she spent her days playing the cash register and singing chart topping hits such as "Clean Up On Aisle 3," "I Need A Manager at the Front Desk," and "Whoever Owns the Red Honda Accord, You Left Your Lights On."
Lily remembered Luan and Lynn better - Lynn used to make her play football when she couldn't find anyone else, and Lily grew to like it. Her body was too hopelessly girly (and kiddish) for her to be any good, she had fun, and that, Lincoln taught her, is what matters most. She kind of missed being Lynn's sports buddy and running the ball home, giggling madly while Lynn gave chase...slow enough that Lily was always ahead but too fast to ever be far behind. She wasn't close to the older ones, but she really looked forward to seeing them at Thanksgiving...or as many of them as she could. Lori and Leni probably wouldn't make it, and Luna definitely wouldn't, but it was nice and fun to think about.
It was Lucy's night to say grace; she said "Sigh", bowed her head, and recited the same prayer Lily had her siblings had been saying on a rotating basis since time out of mind. God is great, God is good, let us thank Him for our food, amen. Mom reached out and took the lid off the dish, revealing a seething cauldron of Dad's world infamous beans and franks. Lily wrinkled her nose, Lucy said "Sigh" again, Lola rolled her eyes, and Lana licked her chops like a hungry dog - she was the only person in the world who actually liked Dad's cooking, and if a particular dish was inedible, you could always rely on her to wolf down your portion. Lily used to kinda sorta not mind beans and franks, but as college tuition for Lori, Leni, Luan, and Lincoln started to take a toll on the family finances, he changed the recipe. Cost-cutting measures, you know, since there wasn't very much in the old coffers: Instead of actual hotdogs, he used Vienna sausages now - they didn't cook right and always wound up mushy and gelatinous. The beans were cheap too.
Dinnertime was not an enjoyable event in the Loud house.
A girl's gotta eat, though. Lily held out her plate, and Mom slapped a heaping spoonful on, then did the same for the others, ending with Lucy, who said "Sigh" a third time.
"Will you stop?" Lola snapped and threw up her hands, "that's so annoying."
"Your face is annoying," Lucy replied flatly.
Lola's brow clenched. "That's not what your boyfriend said."
A very faint hint of red touched Lucy's cheeks, which told Lily she was M-A-D mad. "Constintine would never touch you."
"I wouldn't want him to," Lola said, weaving her head sassily back and forth, "he's almost as ugly as Stuart."
Lana's face darkened and she shot her twin a dirty look. "Stuart is not ugly. You're the one who's ugly." Lana patted her own chest. "In here."
Before Lola could reply, Mom fixed her with a withering look that was scientifically proven to stop hearts, freight trains, and sister fights. Neither Mom or Dad raised their voices very often, but both had the inhuman ability to inject their words with such venom that even a whisper was sufficient to put the kibosh on just about any misdoing. "Girls, please," she said, her voice edged with lofty disdain.
Lola bowed her head, chastized, and everyone fell into their supper without another word. Lily pushed a piece of sausage across her plate and stuck her tongue out at it - I don't like you, you don't like me, let's just get this done and over with as quickly and painlessly as possible, m'kay? She stabbed it with the tines and lifted it to her lips, her hand freezing when she caught Lincoln staring at her with a thoughtful expression on his face. He looked hurriedly away like a man coming out of a reprieve, and Lily's cheeks blushed, suddenly self-conscious. She hung her head and shoved the sausage into her mouth, hoping he wasn't watching her - no one looks flattering when they eat.
Why she was worrying about looking flattering for her brother, she didn't know - he wasn't very big on table manners or decorum, so he wouldn't think less of her for chewing (you know, like a normal human being). Right?
Of course, he was Lincoln, but that didn't make it okay for her to be a big fat slob. She tentatively rolled her eyes up to see if he was still looking at her; he looked down at his plate, and Lily didn't know whether to be relieved or hurt.
Jeez, what's with me today?
Something niggled deep in the back of her mind, and her heart clutched. Okay, nevermind, I don't care what's with me today, I just want to eat my dinner and maaaaybe go to sleep. It's a bit early for that, but I feel off and the stress of knowing Lincoln's in pain and I can't help him is starting to make my stomach hurt.
A nice, hot bath might help; hot baths always help. Headache? Bathtime. Sore feet? Take a bath. Sad? Hit the bathing facilities, Loud. Stomach hurts because you literally worry yourself sick over things? Girl, I got just the thing for you….
"So," Dad said, startling her from her thoughts, "how was your day, Lincoln?"
Lincoln visibly tensed, and Lily's heart leapt in expectation of him blurting out what happened today. He was right when he said Mom and Dad would be upset, and she wanted to avoid that just as badly as he did; he was already going through so much, the last thing he needed was them berating him. It wasn't even his fault, it was that dumb Professor Jordan guy.
She relaxed when he nodded. "Fine," he said curty, his eyes never leaving his plate. He didn't have it in him to lie directly to Dad's face - he was too kind and empathetic for that, which made Lily's insides tremble like Jell-O. Did I mention how perfect he is? This is why I want to be just like him. She sighed dreamily and went back to her dinner, feeling warm all over but especially (and alarmingly) in one special place.
Oh...that's strange.
Not the sensation itself (she was, in the words of her mother, becoming a woman, after all), but the apparent lack of cause. She got...flutters down there from time to time, but only if she really concentrated on a thought she liked, which didn't happen too often. Entertaining certain lines of thinking made her feel dirty, so she didn't do it. Plus, if she dwelled, she'd get really, really, really hot between her legs, and sticky too. It was really gross. When she had her first period last year, her mom sat her down and gave her The Talk, so she knew what she was experiencing (sexual arousal...just thinking it makes me blush, ugh) and that it sometimes just...occured...because her body was in a chaotic state of flux. Still, it didn't happen for no reason at all. She was thinking of Lincoln and…
Niggle.
Her stomach lurched and her appetite evaporated like a puddle on a hot day. Was she…? No, that was dumb, you don't feel that way for your brother. Must be these underwear, they are kind of riding up and rubbing spots that shouldn't be rubbed (even if you really wanted to rub them). Normal and natural. She still wasn't hungry, though. She pushed the plate away and looked up at her mother. "Can I be excused?"
Mom glanced from her face to the plate then back again, her brow softening in concern. "You barely ate, are you okay?"
Lily felt all of her siblings looking at her, and squirmed uncomfortably. She got stomach aches a lot, and her parents worried about them, Mom more than Dad. The doctor said it was anxiety related but Mom was convinced that every pang, gurgle, and clutch was symptomatic of a catastrophic and potentially life ending illness. That's why Lily rarely ever told them when it was happening. She didn't even tell Lincoln, and she trusted him to not freak out a lot more than she trusted Mom and Dad. "Yeah, I just...I'm not hungry."
"Alright," Mom said at length, an uncertain falter in her voice. "Go ahead."
Picking up her plate, Lily pushed away from the table, went into the kitchen, and scraped the leftovers into the trash. She laid it in the sink and went upstairs, keeping her eyes straight ahead and not on her brother. Her face and everything else still burned and her stomach roiled like hot tar over an open fire. Well, that was strange buuuut stranger things have happened. In general, I guess, not necessarily to me.
In her room, she sat restlessly in the middle of her bed, first working on her drawing of Flower-Cat, then on her homework, which didn't take very long because her homework was easy-peasy. It used to take her forever and frustrated her to no end, but then Lincoln pointed something out to her. You spent more time fidgeting and complaining than you do on the actual work. Just sit down and do it and you'll be done sooner. Well, she tried that...and it worked. You never realize how much time bellyaching takes up until you stop; instead of taking twenty minutes, it takes ten. You're really smart, you can have it done in a breeze.
The memory of that encouragement brought a slow,radiant smile to her face. Every girl (and probably boy too) likes receiving praise, and she was no exception, but she really liked being compliment by Lincoln, especially when it came to her intelligence, artistic ability, and stuff like that, though when he said she was pretty or looked nice she kind of melted. She didn't fix her hair like Lola because there was so much else to do, and one of the main reasons she didn't worry over it was Lincoln - he said she was pretty anyway, and if he thought she looked okay, why would she care what anyone else thought? That's like...having the most beautiful and precious thing, and then being concerned with not having a balled up piece of trash.
Her focus continued to wander until she gave up and took a bath. Reclining in the hot, soapy tub, her arms rested on the ledges, she laid her head back and closed her eyes. The water lapped at her tender breasts like worrying fingers, and she shifted to get away from it; since starting puberty, they were sore and tender sometimes, and touching them caused either pain, discomfort, or nothing at all. She preferred the latter but often wound up with the former two. Curse of being a girl, she guessed. Like menstruation and childbirth. Getting your period wasn't so bad once you were used to it, but still, yuck, bleeding? From there? Having a baby, though...she'd never seen the process for herself, but she did see pictures in text books from time to time, and omfg. A head like O comes out of a hole like o. *Nauseated emoji* It looked excruciating and unnatural despite being the most natural thing ever. She didn't think she wanted to do that, but most girls didn't, she thought, yet people are born everyday, so…
She scooted up until her nipples were clear of the suds and let out a contented breath. Ahh, that's better. She grabbed the bar of soap and lathered her arms, then her armpits (told you I bathe, Aman-DUH). Next, she lathered her palms, then ran them over her chest, wincing when they brushed her nipples. Talking about sex and body stuff really embarrassed her, so she hadn't asked after her mother or sisters' expierence, but she was fairly sure her chest was just naturally sensative. Some women are like that, or so she heard. She'd totally ask Lincoln if he was a girl, but he wasn't, and the thought of bringing up a subject like that to him made her blush furiously.
Soaping her hands again, she lifted one leg out of the water, rubbed it, then the other. Lastly, she hit her private area, which she didn't really like doing since, you know, sometimes it led to her playing with herself, and you know how that went: She got hotter and hotter and hotter until she could barely breathe then stopped because what else was she supposed to do? Let the pressure build until she exploded? No thank you.
Slipping her hand between her legs, she squinted one eye closed and plastered her tongue to her upper lip like a determined girl carrying out a repugnant but necessary task, which, actually, she was. No touching yourself...except to clean. Alright? She slid her middle finger between her folds and moved it up, quickly at first (to get it over and done with as fast as possible), then slowing down as sharp pangs rippled through her stomach. Her breath caught and electricity burst in her depths when she grazed the hooded clit at the apex of her femininity. Tendrils of feeling streaked through her body, from the tips of her toes to her nipples, and she yanked her hand away as though burned. See? That's why I don't enjoy this. I do it cuz I have to.
Her center quivered needily and her heart slammed against her ribcage, making it hard to breathe. She took a shaky breath and laid her hands at her sides. Okay. Washing's done. Now time to relax.
But she couldn't; her core beat in time with her unsteady heart and though she tried to regulate her breathing, she couldn't catch it. She cleared her mind of everything, laid her head back, and attempted to center herself like Lola doing yoga; she wasn't exactly sure what centering oneself even was, but she did it anyway. Or made the effort to, rather; her heart still raced, her body still smoldered, and her thing still quaked.
She wasn't aware that she was touching herself until the pad of her middle finger scraped her clit, kicking up a shower of sparks inside that made her hips buck. A tiny gasp escaped her lips and she licked her lips; whether she liked it or not, she was on fire and couldn't stop herself from massaging her clit even if she wanted to. She rubbed in slow, lazy circles, her knees drawing up until they peeked out of the foam and her teeth clamping her bottom lip. Unguarded and uninhibited in her passion, she let thoughts come as they wanted. Lincoln sat at his desk, a pencil clutched in one hand and the muscles in his forearm flexing as he quickly sketched, the savage strokes of the pen across the paper matching her increasing speed.
Her eyes went to the line of his jaw, then to his profile, traveling with the unhurried leisure of an art snob appreciating a painting in a gallery. She was panting now, her insides coiling and her toes curling. In her vision, she got up, went to him, and sat on his lap, the rough fabric of his jeans chafing her through her thin panties. He turned his warm, brown eyes on her and snaked his arm around her waist, pulling her body flush to his, the eyerolling sensation his leg kneading her center making her heart stop.
For a moment, her mind refused to carry one, then the last of her resistance crumbled and she flung herself into revelation: Dream Lily threw her arms around Dream Lincoln's neck and kissed him deeply, her tongue making urgent love to his, exploring the inside of his mouth with girlish curiosity, his taste and scent steeping her brain.
Purring in the back of her throat, she kneaded faster still. She arched her back and bit down harder on her lower lip, the fantasy tinging red with pain. Lincoln hugged her tight and kissed her back, his hands running up and down her bended back, his nails scratching her through her shirt; she moaned into his mouth and -
SLAM-SLAM-SLAM!
Lily's heart rocketed into her throat and she shot up straight, her hand wrenching away from her pulsing middle. "Hurry up!" Lola called, her voice dripping with exasperation. "I have to go!"
"O-Okay," Lily blurted, her voice thick and uneven; she could barely hear herself over the thundering of her own heart.
Pulling the stopper, she got out, toweled off, and threw on her robe, which she belted at the waist - it was purple and threadbare from years of use, first by Luna, then by Lola, then by her. She hung the towel over the shower rod and opened the door; Lola leaned against the wall, her nose buried in her phone and a tight scowl on her lips.
As it always was.
Gaze downcast, Lily slunk into her room and closed the door behind her; the embers of her desire had begun to cool, and abiding shame crept in like cold wind. She crossed to her bed and dropped onto the edge, her shoulders slouched and her eyes pooling with doubt.
She might be openly unique...or strange...but now, as the lavaic tides of arousal subsided from her body, it hit her just how strange what she did in the bathroom was. Not quirky or offbeat, those were cute and eccentric qualities, but deeply, darkly, strange. Like...total weirdo territory.
Her stomach knotted and her mouth twisted in an expression of disgust. She imagined kissing her brother...and she liked it. A lot. So much that she wanted to do it in real life...wanted to feel his arms around her, his lips against hers, his breath in her nose, their eyes locking as he gently swirled his tongue around hers. Her center pinched, and she pressed her legs together as if to contain her deviant lust. You're not supposed to feel this way about your family...that was, like, kindergarten level knowledge...but...she called up a vision of Lincoln's face, and her face burned. An inexplicable giggle welled up in her throat and she let it out, her head bowing demurely. Like anyone, Lincoln wasn't really perfect, but he kind of was to her. He was also kind of her brother.
A dark cloud covered the sun and cast her in chilly shadows. Her smile fell and the happy glow in her face dimmed. She couldn't think of any convincing reason to feel bad about her emotions, but feel badly she did.
Stretching out of her side, and brought her knees to her chest and stared into space like a comatose mental patient. So...she liked her brother. There was no use in denying it; in retrospect, she'd been doing that for a long time. That didn't mean she was a freak or anything! What's that psychological thing Lisa talked about? Transference? It's, like, you feel something for someone (or something) but you transfer them onto another person or thing. One of the books Lucy let her read was a nonfiction encyclopedia of serial killers, and a couple of them really hated their mothers and shifted their focus to random women. One guy said I guess I was killing my mother over and over again. It was possible she wasn't really, you know, in love with Lincoln; she was just transferring her emotions from someone else or something.
I'm really in love with Amanda Hugginkis.
Her gorge rose and she almost puked.
Okay, no. She could not even. Maybe it was just...she didn't know very many boys, okay? And she didn't really like the ones she did, at least not like-like. Lincoln was the only guy she hung around with and he was pretty great. In that moment she thought of him because there really weren't any other viable options.
Yeah, that made sense. Her body said bring me a handsome boy with lots of great qualities and her brain was like okay! She'd prove it to herself. Right now, she was one hundred percent not turned on. Her arous-o-meter sat at zero and the furnace between her legs was in the off position. Thinking about Lincoln should have no effect on her - it wasn't thinking of Lincoln that did it, right? She was already in the middle of...it...when he came into her head. Therefore, he may have fed the fire but he didn't cause it; calling up a vision of herself kissing his soft, pink lips and running her fingers through his warm white hair should not instigate another one.
See where I'm going with this?
Rolling onto her back, she wiggled into a comfy position, feet crossed at the ankles and her hands laced across her stomach. She closed her eyes, and Lincoln filled her head; he sat on the edge of his bed with a cocky grin, a spill of white hair swept across his forehead. She saw herself standing in front of him in a flimsy nightgown that stopped half way down her thigh - nothing on underneath, her body dangerously close to bared to her big brother. Her heart started to race, and she went to him on bare feet, swinging one leg over his and settling in his lap. Her breathing came quick, ragged; she touched her fingertips to the side of his face and he cupped her hips in his hands, making her stomach flutter and her center moisten.
Her eyes flung open and her heart sputtered.
Oh no.
She was hot again, which could mean only one thing.
She did like-like Lincoln.
