Chapter 2: The Aftermath and the Proposition

The next twenty minutes passed in a surreal haze of towels, apologies, and increasingly hysterical laughter.

Grace had retreated to her bedroom to throw on actual clothes—jeans and an oversized sweater that made her feel less exposed—while Angie dealt with the inexplicable puddle in their kitchen. When Grace finally emerged, she found her roommate mopping the floor with the kind of methodical calm that suggested she was either in shock or processing something far more complex than water damage.

"I'm so sorry," Grace said for what felt like the hundredth time. "I know how insane this sounds, but I swear I don't know what happened. I was just... and then you were... and the water came from nowhere..."

Angie wrung out the mop and leaned it against the counter, then turned to face Grace with that same unreadable expression she'd worn since the initial shock wore off. "You know what? I think we need wine for this conversation."

"Wine?" Grace blinked. "That's your response to... to whatever just happened?"

"My response," Angie said, already moving toward their small wine rack, "is that we're college students who just experienced something that definitely isn't covered in any textbook I've ever read. So yes, wine seems appropriate."

She pulled out a bottle of red that they'd been saving for a special occasion—though Grace was pretty sure "roommate's mysterious sex magic" wasn't what they'd had in mind when they bought it.

They settled on the couch where Grace's adventure had begun, though she'd hastily rearranged the pillows back to their normal positions. The throw blanket now seemed to mock her with its rumpled state, a tangible reminder of what had transpired just an hour ago.

Angie poured two generous glasses and handed one to Grace, who accepted it like a lifeline.

"Okay," Angie said, tucking her legs under herself and facing Grace directly. "Let's start with the basics. You came home from what I'm assuming was a terrible date—"

"The worst," Grace confirmed, taking a large gulp of wine. "Brad was... God, he was awful. Condescending, presumptuous, grabby. I was so frustrated when I got home."

"Frustrated enough to decide on some solo stress relief."

Grace's cheeks burned. "You make it sound so clinical."

"I'm trying to understand the mechanics here." Angie's blue eyes sparkled with something that might have been amusement. "So you were... taking care of business, and somehow that resulted in me getting drenched in our kitchen. That's not exactly normal cause and effect."

"Nothing about this is normal!" Grace set her wine glass down harder than necessary. "I don't understand what happened. I was just... I mean, it felt amazing, but then there was this weird energy, and the air got strange, and—" She stopped, realizing she was babbling.

"Energy," Angie repeated thoughtfully. "What kind of energy?"

"I don't know how to describe it. Like electricity, but warm. And it felt like it was spreading outward, like ripples in water." Grace paused, struck by her own metaphor. "Oh God, actual water. You were actually soaked."

"Completely drenched," Angie confirmed. "It was like standing under a shower that turned on all at once. But here's the weird part—it wasn't cold. The water was warm, almost... tingly."

They sat in silence for a moment, both processing the implications of that detail.

"This is insane," Grace said finally. "People don't just spontaneously create water from thin air because they had a good orgasm."

"Maybe most people don't," Angie said quietly. "But maybe you're not most people."

There was something in her tone that made Grace look up sharply. Angie was studying her with an intensity that made her feel exposed all over again, but not in an uncomfortable way. It was more like being seen—really seen—for the first time.

"What are you thinking?" Grace asked.

Angie took a sip of wine, considering. "I'm thinking that in all the mythology and folklore I've studied for my art projects, there are stories about people with unusual abilities. People who could affect the physical world through intense emotion or... other states of being."

"You think I'm some kind of supernatural being?" Grace laughed, but it came out shaky. "I'm just a literature major from Ohio. I get nervous ordering pizza over the phone."

"Maybe it's not about what you are," Angie said. "Maybe it's about what you're capable of when you let go of all that self-consciousness."

The observation hit closer to home than Grace was comfortable with. She'd always been careful, controlled, worried about what others thought. Tonight had been the first time in years she'd simply allowed herself to feel without reservation.

"Even if that's true," Grace said, "what am I supposed to do with that information? Start a career as a... a pleasure-based weather system?"

Angie laughed—the first genuinely relaxed sound either of them had made since this whole situation began. "I don't think that's a recognized profession."

They fell into easier conversation then, the wine loosening both their tongues and their inhibitions. Grace found herself recounting the full horror of her date with Brad, from his mansplaining her own field of study to his assumption that expensive dinner meant guaranteed sex.

"Men like that don't deserve to share the same planet as women like you," Angie said fiercely, and something in her voice made Grace's pulse quicken.

"Women like me?"

"Smart, funny, beautiful..." Angie's voice trailed off, and she looked down at her wine glass. "You deserve someone who sees all of that, who appreciates it."

The compliment sent warmth spreading through Grace's chest that had nothing to do with the wine. She'd always known Angie was attractive—it was impossible not to notice her sharp features, her confident style, the way she moved through the world like she owned it. But she'd never let herself think too deeply about her roommate's appeal.

Now, sitting close together on the couch, she found it impossible to think about anything else.

"I should probably go to bed," Grace said, though she made no move to get up. "This has been... a lot."

"Yeah," Angie agreed, but she didn't move either. "Grace?"

"Mm?"

"For what it's worth, I'm not upset about what happened. Confused as hell, but not upset."

Something in her tone made Grace look at her more closely. There was a flush in Angie's cheeks that might have been from the wine, but her eyes held a heat that seemed entirely separate from alcohol.

"Okay," Grace said carefully. "That's... good to know."

They sat there for another moment, the air between them thick with unspoken possibilities, before Grace finally forced herself to stand. "I really should get some sleep. Maybe this will all make sense in the morning."

"Maybe," Angie agreed, though her tone suggested she doubted it.

Grace made it to her bedroom door before Angie called out to her again.

"Grace? Sweet dreams."

There was something in those two simple words—a warmth, a suggestion, a promise—that made Grace's breath catch. She managed a mumbled "good night" before escaping to her room and closing the door behind her.

But as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to process everything that had happened, Grace found her thoughts returning again and again to Angie's flushed cheeks, her intent blue eyes, the way she'd said "women like you" with such conviction.

She thought about artistic hands and creative passion, about someone who found her mysterious new ability intriguing rather than frightening. Someone who looked at her like she was a puzzle worth solving rather than a problem to be managed.

As sleep finally began to claim her, Grace could have sworn she heard a soft gasp from the room next door, followed by the sound of Angie's bed creaking. But that was probably just her imagination, influenced by wine and wishful thinking.

Wasn't it?

The last thing she remembered before drifting off was the strange sensation that the warm energy from earlier was still humming softly in her veins, like an electric current waiting for the right moment to surge back to life.

In the room next door, Angie lay awake much longer, one hand pressed against her chest where a phantom warmth seemed to pulse in rhythm with her racing heart, wondering if she was losing her mind or if something truly extraordinary was beginning to unfold between them.