Diego's motorcycle had barely enough room for two. Zara kicked the engine alive and felt the machine shudder between her thighs — normally that would have been adrenaline. Now the vibration sent a dull ache radiating through her pelvis that made her shift forward on the seat.

  "Hold on," she called back.

  Raven did not hug her waist. She placed her hands on the seat's rear grip, maintaining maximum possible distance. But there wasn't enough room. Avoiding contact became impossible the moment they started moving. Every time Zara accelerated, Raven's thighs pressed against hers. Every time she braked, the netrunner's chest bumped her back before pulling away. Raven kept correcting, kept trying to maintain a gap that the bike's geometry wouldn't allow. All she achieved was a constant fidgeting presence. Every time the gap closed, Zara felt it — that rigid, irritating refusal to settle against her back.

  Zara wanted to say just relax, but the first pothole killed the thought. The jolt shot up through the seat and connected with something deep in her pelvis that made her breath catch. Zara gripped the handlebars harder. Focused on the road.

  Watson's industrial sectors blurred past — welding sparks from a chop shop. A Delamain cab running a red. She hadn't touched a drop of anything since Chrome Dreams' bathroom — so the bladder shouldn’t be complaining. Whatever it was should've faded already. Kai's shit was supposed to wear off. This was supposed to be over.

  Another pothole. Sharper. The vibration drove right into the ache and made her eyes water.

  Fuck.

  "So why did you really stick around?" she called over the engine. If she was going to be miserable on this bike she might as well get answers while Raven couldn't jack into something and disappear.

  Nothing. Wind. Engine noise.

  Then, cutting through all of it:

  "Never deal with Marcus Vance again."

  Zara's hands jerked. The bike swerved toward a parked van and she corrected hard, gut clenching.

  "What?"

  "You heard me. Stay away from him."

  "How do you know about—" The cold hit before the sentence finished. "You've been tracking my personal contracts?"

  "His wife guards his reputation. She's dangerous."

  Flat. Clipped. But there was something else in Raven's voice — an edge underneath the operational framing that Zara recognised. Had heard it plenty, in hotel rooms and parked cars and the back offices of clubs she'd rather forget.

  She knew that sound the way she knew the weight of a loaded gun.

  The laugh hit her before she could stop it — sudden, loud, painful against the ache in her pelvis.

  "You're jealous." She said, grinning so wide the wind got into her teeth. "Holy shit. The legendary Raven is actually jealous."

  "That's ridiculous."

  "Is it? Because suddenly everything makes sense."

  The vibration was getting genuinely bad. Zara spotted an industrial stretch ahead where the streetlights were dying and pulled over. She needed off this fucking bike.

  She climbed off, turning the dismount into a stretch — arms overhead, roll the shoulders — while her insides sang relief.

  Raven stayed on the seat. Spine rigid, chrome fingers gripping the frame. The nearest working streetlight was ten metres away and its sick greenish glow caught only half her face. The bruise from Diego's fist had gone dark. Somewhere behind them a siren wound down and died.

  "You showed up in person when you could have stayed jacked in." Zara planted her boots and crossed her arms. "You stuck with us when you could have disappeared. You came to a fucking nightclub — a nightclub, Raven, — and let me drag you onto a dance floor."

  "I didn’t actually dance." Raven shifted on the seat. "I mean, I chose not to participate. Better to observe."

  Zara measured her with a gaze. "You're serious. The legendary Raven can hack military ICE but can't dance."

  "I can dance. I just don't see the point in that particular setting."

  "Right." Zara started laughing again. Couldn't help it. "You really are just a nerd underneath all that chrome, aren't you?"

  "I'm a professional with specialised skills in critical areas."

  "Could've fooled me earlier. You've got more grace than most people." She stepped closer. Close enough now to see the vomit stains on Raven's sleeve — dried, crusted. The great legend of Night City's NET, smelling of tequila and bile. "I could teach you though. Private lessons, if you want."

  Raven's silver eyes went wide. Chrome fingers shifted on the bike frame. Her mouth opened slightly, as if she was going to say something, then closed.

  "If you teach me netrunning in return."

  The confusion vanished. "No. Neural interface training has serious risks and your brain isn't conditioned for that level of... engagement."

  That stung. Zara stepped back. Folded her arms.

  "Fine. Should've figured. You're no better than Vance. Just want to fuck the street kid and move on."

  "No!"

  The word bounced off concrete. Raven had turned on the seat.

  "So you don't want to fuck me?"

  "No. That's not what I meant. I..."

  She trailed off. Chrome fingers opened and closed.

  Zara watched in astonishment, and felt the grin spreading on her face.

  "Holy fuck on Morro Bay. You do want to fuck me."

  "That's not the point."

  "Okay. Now I'm properly confused." Also properly amused, despite what the amusement did to the part of her anatomy she was trying not to think about.

  Silence stretched. Raven sat on Diego's motorcycle in the arse end of Watson. Bruise on her jaw prominent against the murky green light of Watson's industrial nowhere, silver eyes darting around as if looking for an exit.

  "Yes," Raven said. Sharp. Out of nowhere.

  She looked up at Zara. "I'll teach you. You can come to my place. Should come to my place. There will be rules."

  Zara barely heard the last part. All she could think about was that she was going to see the ICE queen's palace.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She moved — closed the distance in two steps and pressed her mouth against Raven's.

  Raven's lips were warm. She tasted like cheap tequila and something chemical Zara couldn't identify. She didn't pull back. Didn't lean in. Didn't move at all — frozen, mouth soft, body locked.

  Then chrome fingers touched Zara's jaw. Barely. Trembling against the skin.

  Heat pooled instant in Zara's core. But the familiar barbs were there too, sharp like broken glass.

  Zara pulled back. Five seconds, maybe less.

  Raven's eyes were closed. When they opened, they had that post-dive shimmer — glassy, unfocused — except there was no dive.

  "Interesting," Raven whispered.

  "That's your review? Interesting?"

  "I'm processing."

  "Process on the move. I need to get us somewhere before—" her bladder sent another vicious reminder and she pivoted the sentence, "—before we freeze to death out here."

  She mounted the bike. Kicked the engine.

  This time, Raven's hands found her waist. Not gripping. Just there. Chrome fingers against the jacket.

  But touching. Not pulling away.

  "Take second right," Raven said. "Then the underpass to Kabuki."

  ***

  ***

  Raven's apartment building rose from Corpo Plaza's edge like a black mirror, all tinted glass and security scanners. Not full executive tier, but the kind of place that had armed response on speed dial. Zara clocked two checkpoints between the garage and the lobby, multiple cameras plus some hardware she couldn't identify embedded in the walls — high-end stuff, the sort that scanned you six ways before you even noticed the blinking light.

  "Stop here." Raven pointed at an automated kiosk in the building's ground-level arcade. "Protocol says visitors require..."

  She trailed off, staring at the kiosk's neon sign like it held encrypted data.

  "I'll grab supplies." Zara parked the bike. "Don't move."

  She didn’t waste time. Snagged a bottle of tequila — might as well spend some of that Arasaka money — and two cans of NiCola, because her gut said more hard liquor on top of everything else tonight was asking for trouble. The discomfort didn’t subside when she got off the bike this time, ache pulsing sharper with each step. She tried her best to keep her face neutral. But all she could think about was getting to the bathroom.

  Raven hadn't moved. She stood exactly where Zara left her, silver eyes tracking something invisible.

  "Processing," she muttered when Zara returned. "Multiple simultaneous inputs."

  "You're drunk." Zara laughed. And immediately regretted it. "Come on, show me your palace."

  The elevator required a biometric scan. Raven fumbled twice before her palm print registered.

  "Twenty-third floor," she announced, then repeated. "Twenty-third."

  Her apartment door opened to darkness. Raven stepped inside first and stopped just past the threshold, stood there for a moment as if she'd forgotten what came next. Then motion sensors caught up and lights came on — neutral, indifferent.

  Big. Open plan. Floor-to-ceiling windows with Night City's skyline reduced to a tasteful glow, a glass door leading to a terrace beyond. Kitchen area that looked like nobody had ever cooked in it. A couch. A screen. Hallway leading to several doors — one with a locked indicator glowing red. The whole space clean and bare as a show unit. No photos, no mess, no trace of whoever lived here.

  None of it mattered because Zara's bladder had hit critical.

  "Bathroom?"

  Raven pointed down the hall. "Second left."

  Zara walked. Didn't run. Wanted to. With a toilet in reach, her body turned the dial on the urgency all the way up — that thing where the closer you got, the worse it became. She passed a door that had to be the bedroom — glimpse of a bed that could sleep four — then the next door.

  She got it shut. The last second was the worst. She got her pants down a moment before disaster.

  Fire. Same fire. Same liquid razor blades tearing through tissue that was already raw. She doubled over, forearms braced on her knees, breathing through her teeth.

  She sat there after. Not quite empty. But not willing to try for more.

  The bathroom was corpo luxury — big, spotless, the kind of tiles that probably cleaned themselves. The mirror was a display showing time, temperature, something she didn't care about. She washed her hands, then opened the cabinet behind the mirror. Usual stuff. Toiletries. Toothbrush. A row of pill jars with labels she didn't recognise — small printed letters told her nothing useful. Finally on the bottom shelf, a blister pack of generic paracetamol.

  She popped two, swallowed them dry. Splashed water on her face. Back down the hall.

  Raven had made it to the kitchen. She'd poured two glasses of tequila — too full, liquid trembling at the rims — and was holding one like she wasn't sure what the next step was.

  "Your bathroom's nicer than my entire apartment," Zara said.

  "The fixtures are standard residential for this tier." Raven held out the glass.

  "Yeah, I figured." Zara took a long pull, felt the tequila burn down to join the other fire in her belly. "When's the last time anyone was here?"

  Raven thought for a moment.

  "Three years ago. Hardware delivery."

  "Jesus." She pointed with her chin at Raven’s glass. "Drink up."

  Raven drank. Throat working. Zara cracked a NiCola and drank half between tequila sips. The sweet chemical fizz cut through the burn.

  Zara leaned back against the counter. The tequila was settling warm in her blood. She stretched, arms overhead, felt her top ride up. Caught Raven's gaze that followed the movement. The netrunner looked away.

  "You should know," she said, chrome fingers flexing. "I haven't. Not in a long time. Not with..." She gestured with her glass vaguely at Zara.

  "A woman?" Zara grinned. "Don't worry, I'll be gentle."

  Raven set down her glass on the kitchen counter with exaggerated care. Crossed the distance between. Stopped close — close enough that Zara could see the pulse jumping in her throat — and kissed her.

  Hard. Nose bumping cheekbone, teeth clicking together. Breathing ragged through her nose. Her hands couldn't seem to decide where to settle — hair, shoulders, hips — constantly shifting like she was mapping variables.

  Zara let her. Kissed back slower, showing her the pace. Raven adjusted. Even drunk, she was learning in real time.

  "Bedroom," Zara said when they came up for air.

  Raven nodded, grabbed the bottle, led the way, swaying unsteadily as she walked.

  The bedroom was as sparse as the rest of the place — just the enormous bed and a side table. Raven sat on the edge and took another long drink. Zara sat beside her. Close but not touching. The gap between them felt charged, humming with the same frequency as the kiss.

  Raven's chrome fingers found Zara's jaw. Traced the line of it. Down her neck. Across her collarbone.

  "Your skin," she said. "The heat differential is... fascinating."

  "Nerd," Zara smiled.

  She leaned in and kissed Raven again, gentler this time. Raven's right hand slid into her hair while her left hand landed on Zara's waist — tentative, then gripping when Zara pressed closer.

  They fell back onto the mattress. Sideways, tangled. Raven's mouth found Zara's throat, clumsy but earnest, and the sensation sent heat spiralling through Zara's core — sweet throb laced with the familiar thorns, but the paracetamol was starting to blunt the sharp edges and the tequila handled the rest.

  Raven's fingers found the hem of Zara's top, tugged upward. Zara helped her, tossed the fabric aside. Watched silver eyes trace her body with unmistakable greed.

  "Fuck," Raven breathed. Then, like she was surprised by her own profanity: "I mean. You're very..."

  "Eloquent." Zara leaned down, caught her mouth again.

  Raven's hands explored — collarbone, ribs, the curve of her waist — chrome and flesh tracing intricate paths together. Chrome followed by warm skin, each touch sending contradictory signals. Should have been tantalising. Was, mostly. But the barbed edge was there underneath, never quite gone.

  Raven's hand moved to Zara's back, fingers spread across her spine. Her other hand fumbled with the bra clasp. Couldn't get it undone. Tried again. The clasp finally gave and she made a sound like victory, then froze as Zara sat up and the fabric slid away.

  "Still with me?" Zara asked.

  Raven nodded, but her face had gone pale beneath the flush. She reached up tentatively, chrome fingertips barely grazing skin.

  "You can touch." Zara caught her wrist, pressed the hand flat against her ribs. "I won't break."

  Then Raven sat up abruptly, nearly dumping Zara off her lap.

  "Need to—" She swallowed hard. Stumbled off the bed. Almost crashed into the doorframe. Disappeared down the hall. The bathroom door slammed. Silence.

  Zara lay back on the mattress, head spinning from tequila and frustrated arousal. The barbed feeling pulsed between her legs, demanding attention she didn't want to give it.

  But the paracetamol was working. The burning had retreated to a dull warmth instead of broken glass. More tequila would help.

  She reached for the bottle, took a long drink. The room tilted pleasantly.

  Raven would be back. They'd figure it out. Maybe the second time would be better, once the netrunner got over whatever her body just did to her. Zara had dealt with inexperienced partners before. Just took patience.

  Her eyes drifted closed. Just for a second.

  The mattress felt softer than anything she ever slept on. Like floating. Like data streams, maybe. Did data streams feel soft? She should ask Raven...

  The tequila wrapped around her thoughts like cotton, pulling her down into warmth that finally, blessedly, didn't hurt.