Neither of them is sure how it started, but they both silently agree that it doesn't matter.
It's wrong, and they both know that, too. Their boyfriends deserve better and they tell each other as much often between kisses, lips parting for only moments at a time to whisper hollow protests before they're pulling each other back in.
They've kissed briefly a few times before they talk about it, behind the school when Julie broke down during tennis practice and had to leave the field. When Gwen follows her and tries asking about it, all she gets as an answer is wet, salty lips silencing her. Julie is crying, shaking against her.
"Why?" She mutters against Julie's lips, clutching her by the shoulders.
Julie shakes her head a little bit. Somehow, she knows how to answer all of the questions that Gwen is avoiding asking. "I love Ben," she admits, "but we don't work. I— I don't know how to tell him. He can't give me what I need. And you are… my parents would never approve. I'm sorry."
It's a rush of horrible declarations, as if Julie is on her knees in the confessional and clawing to get the sin out of her so she can breathe again. Ironic, then, that Gwen is supposed to play the part of a preacher in the metaphor when all she can think about is how soft Julie's lips are, how good the hesitant grip on her hips feels, how fragile Julie is in that moment, how much Gwen wants to protect her.
In the silence that follows, Gwen fills it with her own admittance as she surges into Julie.
"I've been meaning to tell Kevin," she says shakily. "I love him like a friend. But when we touch, it doesn't feel like…" Gwen wants to finish with "like this," but it feels too intimate for a girl that she's not even committed to.
It seems like Julie understands anyway, though. She whimpers, a noise that makes Gwen want to never let her go, and their kiss turns harder.
Gwen eventually breaks from Julie's lips to kiss along her jaw, gently press her lips to her neck. Julie responds by nuzzling the side of Gwen's head, fingers curling into her shirt so hard that they're shaking. It's like she can't stand the thought of letting go. Like all she's ever known is how to bottle things up, for years and years before they even knew each other's names, and Gwen is her conduit to finally let it out.
Her first taste of freedom.
They're sitting several feet apart in Julie's bedroom. Her family could walk in at any moment, without any locks on the bedroom doors, and they wouldn't approve. They can't be too close, but just being able to talk to her is plenty enough for Gwen.
"Do you ever want to get married?" Gwen asks one day. She doesn't say "to me," because she knows that the answer will be no.
They aren't in love. But some days, this is all Gwen can look forward to.
Julie shrugs. She's upset about something. Maybe another fight with Ben or maybe something at school. Gwen doesn't ask. They don't go to each other to rehash the same old problems. "Maybe one day," she says vaguely. "I want a few kids. Two or three, I think."
Gwen nods, only partly listening. She almost said that she didn't think she wanted kids, but stopped herself when she realized that it wasn't relevant. They were talking about the future, but not their future.
They're on Gwen's roof, her bedroom window open to let in cool air. Her parents wouldn't care, so Gwen doesn't hide it from them. She's clutching Julie's hand and using her free hand to push her hair back. Gwen cups her face, brushing her thumb over Julie's bottom lip. They don't kiss. It's not one of those nights. Still, neither of them tries to pull back.
"If your family didn't care, would you ever dump Ben for me?" Gwen asks with a soft murmur. The air between them feels delicate with tension and she's worried that a loud enough noise will shatter it.
Julie shakes her head. "No. Ben's a good guy I wouldn't do that to him," she answers, but she sounds unsure.
Their hands remain clasped together. Gwen squeezes them and looks Julie in the eye, as if to say, "But you're doing this to him."
And Gwen is hurting them too. Her cousin and her best friend. They would both be devastated if they knew. But then she thinks about how upset Julie would be if they cut it off and Gwen can't pick between the lesser of two evils.
She tells herself every time she brushes Julie's hair back that it's the last time. Just one more kiss, one more brush of their hands, one more stolen night on her roof, and then she'll finally be satisfied.
It's so easy to forget those promises when their bodies are pressed together and their energy blurs into one. When they're curled up together and so in sync that it sounds like there's only one heartbeat.
"What about you?" Julie asks suddenly, changing the subject. "Would you leave Kevin for me?"
"No," Gwen lies, and she doesn't elaborate because her paper-thin denial will crumble if she's forced to say more than one word.
The hand on Julie's face drops away and they break eye contact. It's not the same as kissing, as Gwen first thought she wanted, but Julie simply leans her head on her shoulder and the same sensation of hopeless fondness stabs Gwen in the heart. And it hurts. It hurts so beautifully and she can't stand it.
They're not girlfriends. They'll never be able to be publically together. Marriage at any point is off of the table completely.
Gwen closes her eyes though, clutching Julie's hand like a lifeline, and lets herself indulge in the idea. She can see a small house in the countryside where no one will bother them, bitter winters and harsh summers. A night sky so filled with stars that it never feels dark outside. A compromise — one kid, maybe a dog or a cat. A garden that they tend together. Kisses that are no longer stolen or private because they belong wholly to each other.
For a moment, it's perfect. Then Gwen opens her eyes. Her lunch plans the next day with Kevin rush back to her and she lets out an audible sigh. How long can Gwen keep it up? The idea of continuing to lie any longer makes her feel so, so exhausted.
Julie is there, though. She brushes Gwen's hair out of the way and tilts her head to press a kiss to her cheek. "Don't think about it right now," is all she says, and she's right.
Pressed between their thighs, their hands are still entwined. Gwen hums in acknowledgment and that's enough.
It's not love, they both think, but maybe it could be.
A/N: Sorry if this is hard to read. It's really disjointed because I just wrote it at midnight while feeling really gay for my girlfriend. But life is like that sometimes.