Aminetil

You’re new. Like actually new. Fresh binder, fresh tote bag, shoes that haven’t learned the layout of North Shore yet. You join this tiny, aggressively enthusiastic club that meets in a science room that smells like whiteboard cleaner and ambition. Their whole thing? Rarest facts. Weird facts. The kind that make people pause mid-sentence and go, wait, what?

Today’s challenge: Tell 30 people on campus one fun fact each. No context. No prep. Just vibes and trivia.

You take it seriously because of course you do.

You get to twenty-nine just fine. Teachers. Janitors. A girl crying in the bathroom who really didn’t need to know that octopuses have three hearts but appreciated it anyway.

And then there’s her.

Regina George is leaning against her locker like the hallway was built around her bones. Pink sweater. Perfect hair. A crowd orbiting her like she’s gravity. You don’t know the rules yet. No one warned you. She’s just… another person. So you walk up, clutching your little checklist like it’s armor.

You clear your throat.

“Um—hi! Sorry—this is for a club thing. Did you know that—”

Regina turns. Slowly. Her eyes flick you up and down like she’s scrolling through a menu she already hates.

“Did I know what?” she says, sweet like poison.

Your brain short-circuits. But you push through. “Honey never spoils. Archaeologists found jars in ancient Egyptian tombs that are still edible.”

Silence.

Her friends stare at you like you just barked.

Regina blinks once. Then twice. And then she laughs—sharp, incredulous. “Oh my god,” she says. “Are you doing a bit? Is this, like, performance art?”

“No,” you say immediately. “It’s just a fun fact.”

She steps closer. Invades your space. You can smell her perfume—expensive, floral, dangerous. “Okay, first of all,” she says, voice low, “you don’t just walk up to people like me and talk. Second of all, if you’re trying to be funny, you’re not. And third—” she pauses, eyes narrowing, “why do you know that?”

You swallow. “I just… like learning stuff.”

She should destroy you. This is the moment. The story everyone warns you about.

Instead—something weird happens.

Regina tilts her head. Studies you. Not like prey. Like a puzzle.

“…That’s actually kind of gross,” she says. “But also—why is that kind of impressive?”

One of her friends opens her mouth to laugh at you, but Regina lifts a finger. Shuts it down instantly.

You shift your weight. “So… can I check you off my list?”

Her lips twitch. “God, you’re brave. Or stupid.”

You nod. “Probably both.”

That does it. She smiles. A real one. Small. Dangerous.

“What else you got?” she asks.

You freeze. “Huh?”

“Another fact,” she says, folding her arms. “If you’re gonna interrupt my day, you might as well commit.”

Your heart is trying to exit your ribcage. “Uh—bananas are berries. Strawberries aren’t.”

She stares at you.

“…Shut up.”

“I’m serious.”

She scoffs, but there’s this spark in her eyes now. Interest. She leans back against the locker, fully facing you. The hallway noise fades around her.

“Okay, Nerd,” she says, not unkindly. “You can stay.”

Her friends look scandalized.

You check her name off your list with shaking hands.

As you walk away, Regina calls after you, “Hey!”

You turn.

“If anyone else gives you shit for talking to me,” she says, eyes sharp, voice cool, “tell them Regina George asked for the facts.”

Then, quieter—almost just for you:

“…And tomorrow? Sit with us at lunch. I wanna see what else is rattling around in that brain.”

You walk off dizzy, smiling to yourself.

Regina watches you go, already plotting.

God help anyone who underestimates you now.

--

You know everything except Regina George.

You can explain dark matter in a way that makes people nod like they understand. You casually drop facts about extinct languages, medical anomalies, space debris trajectories. You correct teachers without sounding smug. Your brain is a weapon.

But Regina?

You are useless.

She sits next to you in class one day—next to you—and you fully think it’s because the seating chart changed.

You don’t clock the way she angles her body toward you. You don’t clock the way her foot keeps brushing yours. You definitely don’t clock the way she’s watching your mouth when you talk.

She taps your notebook with her pen. “Why are you highlighting in three colors?”

You light up. “Oh! Pink is for confirmed facts, green is for theories that are widely accepted but still debated, and blue is for things I want to research later.”

She stares at you like you just did a magic trick. “…That’s hot.”

You blink. “Oh. Thanks.”

She laughs—soft, surprised. “No, like. I meant—whatever.”

At lunch, you sit with the Plastics and genuinely think you’re just… included now. No suspicion. No fear. You pull out your food and immediately start apologizing.

“Sorry, I know it smells. I read that fermented foods are actually really good for gut health and—”

Regina waves a hand. “You’re fine. Eat.”

You beam at her. Full sunshine smile.

Karen whispers, “She’s like a baby deer.”

Regina shoots her a look. “And you’re loud.”

Later, Regina leans in close—too close. Her chin nearly brushes your shoulder.

“You know,” she says casually, “people think I’m scary.”

You frown, genuinely confused. “Really? Why?”

She freezes.

“…You’re kidding.”

“No,” you say softly. “You’re just… intense. But you’re also really funny. And you ask good questions.”

Her throat bobs. She looks away. You’ve just done something irreversible.

She starts walking you to class every day. Not holding your hand—yet—but hovering. Always hovering. Someone bumps into you once and Regina is immediately in their space.

“Watch where you’re going.”

You tug her sleeve. “It’s okay, Regina, statistically accidents like that—”

She softens instantly. “Hey. No. I know. I’ve got you.”

You don’t understand why your chest feels warm when she says that.

One afternoon she snaps at someone who makes a comment about you being “weird.”

You tug her arm again. “Regina, it’s fine. I am weird.”

She turns on you, eyes fierce but not angry. “Don’t say that about yourself.”

You blink. “But it’s true. Weird just means statistically uncommon.”

She exhales sharply, hands on her hips. “You’re impossible.”

“Is that bad?”

She laughs—full, helpless. “No. It’s… adorable.”

You nod like you’re filing that under interesting social feedback.

It isn’t until she finally corners you by the lockers, voice low, eyes soft but intense, that she breaks.

“You know I’m flirting with you, right?”

You pause. Think. Really think.

“…Oh.”

She waits. Heart in her throat.

“…Is that why you keep stealing my pens?”

She laughs so hard she has to lean against the locker. “God, you’re killing me.”

You smile, shy and bright. “If it helps, I like you. I just didn’t realize I was supposed to.”

Her smile turns devastating.

Hunter had always wanted to be a father, to give someone else the life he could never have for himself. He'd done alright with Megan so far, but a baby was something else entirely. The last time Hunter held a baby was when Crosshair was born. Hunter had been five then, too young to be a provider or learn anything about taking care of children, but that changed when their mother died seven years later. The only thing Hunter could think of was to take them to America, chasing the same fortune as their long-lost father. It wasn’t much of a childhood, jumping from job to job until they were all finally old enough to join the army, and now that they had Megan and the baby on the way, he was determined to do better by them.

He tried to climb out of bed without disturbing you, but it was futile.

“You can go back to sleep,” He urged.

“I’m fine,” You yawned, “Where’s the washroom?”

Hunter paused as he pulled on his shirt, trying to keep himself from chuckling, “You mean the outhouse?”

He escorted you to the outhouse before his brothers could climb out of bed and hog it for themselves, standing guard even though he wasn’t sure he needed to. His brothers knew better than to peep on a woman relieving herself, and the coyotes didn’t dare come up this close to the house. So why did he feel the need to watch out for you?

He told himself it was just because you were getting used to the place, and he never wanted you to feel like you couldn’t ask for help. This wasn’t a love match by any means, but he hoped you knew that he was willing to do anything for you.

He walked you back inside, and tried to take the outhouse for himself so that you could have privacy while you dressed, but Wrecker got there before him.

Once everyone had taken their turn, it was time for morning chores. Wrecker milked the cows, Megan gathered the eggs, Crosshair pumped the water, and Tech and Phee fed the animals. Everything felt so easy, so normal, he quickly forgot that there was someone new in the house. 

“It smells delicious-”

Hunter jumped. He hadn’t even heard your door open. The pancakes went flying through the air as he jerked the pan. One landed on the table, one on his head, and the other smacked into your chest.

Nothing had ever snuck up on him before. Nothing. He would almost be impressed if he wasn’t absolutely mortified. Here he was trying to prove to you that he could be a good husband, and the first breakfast he’d made for you had gotten everywhere. 

You lifted the flapjack off your chest. It had baked enough that it didn’t leave any batter on your dress, and Hunter felt some of the tightness in his chest relieved. 

“‘M sorry about that,” He murmured, grabbing a towel anyway.

“It’s alright. Where are the plates? I can set the table.”

Hunter had half a mind to tell you to sit, but you’d already found the cupboard where they’d fetched the dishes last night, setting places for the eight of you. He turned back to the stove silently, hoping that his brothers would dismiss the heat on his face for the heat of the stove.

“Hunter! I got sixty eggs from the coop today!” Megan burst in the door with Batcher the dog,, both arms straining under the weight of the wire basket, “Well, it would’ve been sixty-two, but I dropped two when Henrietta pecked me.”

“Really? We should have her for dinner tonight,” Crosshair grinned devilishly as he lugged in the buckets of water. Hunter nudged the dog away from the stove.

“No!” Megan exclaimed indignantly, “She’s our best-laying hen!”

“Cross, start sorting the eggs for market, I’ll bring ‘em to Oleson’s when I take Megan to school,” Hunter derailed the argument. He stoked the flame, willing the flapjacks to cook faster before Wrecker could march in moaning about how hungry he was.

He stopped when he heard Megan gasp, “Ma, you look beautiful!”

Hunter turned to look at you. You smiled shyly at his girl, holding up the skirts for Omega to see. The soft blue made you look majestic, and the white and yellow flowers reminded him of the fluffy clouds in the spring sky. He couldn’t speak for a moment, but swallowed painfully to force the words out.

Megan was right, you did look beautiful.

“Fire,” Echo ran his chair into Hunter’s leg, trying to catch his attention. This batch of flapjacks had caught fire while he was distracted. 

Hunter smothered the flames with a towel as Wrecker marched in with a bucket of milk, “what’s for breakfast? I’m starving!”

Hunter drove the wagon down the road with just Maudie pulling. The wheels  click-clack-click-clacked along the dirt road, rocking back and forth like a babe in its cradle. 

You thought about the baby cradle you’d seen in a storefront, back when the idea of having a family with Edmon was still realistic. You would have had a lavish wedding, with flowers decorating the cathedral from floor to ceiling. Your father would have walked you down the aisle, smiling proudly all the way, and Edmon would be waiting at the altar, tall and proud in his navy uniform.

But you were far from lavish living and cathedrals here. You were seated on the wagon with Hunter, Megan between you. First thing in the morning and she was bouncing full of energy, legs swinging back and forth as she told you about her friends. There was Ava, Jax, Lyana, Shaeehah, Jek, she had to be friends with every child in Pabu Creek. 

“Ava won the Spelling Bee last week, and her parents got her a new dress! Hunter, if I win the essay competition next month, will you get me a new dress?”

Hunter chuckled, “We’ll see, kid.”

“Please?”

“Ava got a new dress because her Ma knows how to sew,” Hunter reminded her, ”I don’t.”

“Tech knows how to sew!”

“Tech knows how to repair a tear on his vest. Sewing a dress is a whole different thing.”

You knew how to sew, but you’d never done a dress before. Plus, you didn’t want to correct Hunter on parenting his sister, so you stayed silent as you rolled into town. A dozen or so buildings lined the one dusty street that ran through the town, leading up to the school. Most of the houses doubled as storefronts,like the blacksmith’s and the butcher’s. The tanner and the gristmill were on the edge of town, far from the townsfolk going about their day and the worker’s homes. 

The schoolhouse was the tallest of all the buildings, mostly due to the steeple with the belltower. It served as the church, just like the chapel in Missouri, and was the only building in town big enough to hold everyone for town meetings. The schoolyard was filled with children, half of them who swarmed toward the wagon when Megan called out in greeting. Hunter woahed to Maudie, and helped Megan down from the bench.

“Is this her?”

“Didja really get married, Sheriff?” 

Your cheeks flushed, you hadn’t thought that with all the talking Megan did, that she might have talked to all her friends about you, or what she knew about you before Hunter left for Missouri.

Megan climbed up on the wagon wheel that was just as tall as she was, holding on with one hand with her schoolbooks and lunch pail tucked under her arm, “Everyone, this is my new Ma!”

One boy placed his hands on his hips, “If she’s married to the sheriff, why hasn’t she got a ring?”

“Yeah,” Another girl said, “Everyone knows you gotta have a ring if you’re gonna be married.”

“Oh really?” Hunter asked them, “Where’s that written down?” 

“It doesn’t have to be,” The boy protested, folding his arms defensively, “Everyone knows its a rule.”

“I see, if that’s a rule, then I guess I gotta arrest you, Jax.”

“Me? Why?” the boy squeaked, stumbling back a pace.

Hunter shrugged, “You don’t eat your vegetables.”

“That’s not a rule!”

“Yeah it is! Everyone knows that!” Megan grinned. 

The bell rang, saving Jax from an awkward night in lockup, and Megan and her friends started towards the school. 

“Knock ‘em dead, kid,” Hunter called after her. 

“I will!” She paused mid-step, then turned and ran back to Hunter. He gave a small “oof!” as she knocked the wind from his lungs, but squeezed her tight before sending her running back towards the school.

“There you are, Sheriff!” someone screeched.

You turned, hand on the back of the wagon bench, to see a stout woman in a green dress marching up the road towards you, huffing and muttering as she went.

Hunter sighed, “What do you want, Cid?” 

His tone took you by surprise. Hunter had been cordial to everyone he’d come across so far, while being exceptionally at ease around his family. You had half a mind that he was unable to be impolite until this “Cid” marched up and accosted him.

“My last shipment got robbed,” She said, folding her arms and tapping her foot impatiently as if that was enough for him to produce the culprits out of thin air. 

“What got stolen?” Hunter asked. He stared at the school, refusing to meet her eyes.

“A couple crates of beer and some whiskey," Cid said slowly, teeth gritted.

“And when did this happen?”

“This morning. Weren’t with the delivery when I did inventory.”

Hunter shook his head, ”You run the saloon. You've got a hundred drunk patrons going in and out of your bar all day. Maybe you miscounted.”

“I don't miscount my whiskey!” Cid snapped, a boney finger jabbing at Hunter's face. 

She caught sight of you, still sitting on the wagon bench, “Didn't realize you'd married such a peach, huh sweetheart?” 

You flushed at the sudden attention. Hunter didn't turn to look at you, but you could see him looking out of the corner of his eye from beneath the brim of his hat. He was frowning. 

You shouldn’t be surprised that people would instantly recognize the strange woman riding around with the sheriff as his wife that he’d taken two weeks to marry and bring back home, but it was unnerving that so many people acted like they knew you without ever meeting you before.

“Delivery driver still here?”

“Got ‘im locked up in one of my rooms.”

“Cid!” Hunter was looking at her now.

“He shorted me on my whiskey! I got every right to hold him accountable,” Cid’s grin seemed to suggest she preferred holding an innocent man accountable for the theft rather than truly finding justice.

“That’s unlawful imprisonment, and I should arrest you for that!” Hunter 

Cid shrugged, “Are ya gonna come interrogate him or not?” 

Hunter grit his teeth and reached into the wagon. He grabbed the basket of eggs and held his hand out to you, helping you down from the bench.

“Can you bring this to the General Store? Tell them it’s from the Fett farm, and they should give you our usual rate of six cents per egg. Make sure they give you cash and not store credit.” He placed the basket in your hands. 

“I’m waiting, Sheriff!” Cid sang, tapping her foot impatiently.

Hunter rolled his eyes, “Take a look at whatever they’ve got there. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

His fingers squeezed your wrist once, then his touch vanished, tying Maudie to one of the fenceposts around the schoolyard. 

You watched him marching after Cid, towards one of the bigger buildings in town with a sign that read “Cid’s Parlor” in bright red letters. 

You looked around at all the buildings. He hadn’t mentioned which one was the General Store, but it shouldn’t be too hard, all the buildings were labeled just like the Parlor was. 

You steeled your chest, tucked the basket on your arm, and headed off down the street.

The storefronts on either side of the street all had connected porches, providing a covered pathway up off the dusty streets. The street hadn't been very still when you rode down it the first time, but now even more people were out and about, milling on porch steps, walking with purpose. 

They were friendly enough, waving a hello and nodding to you even without Hunter at your side to give them a sense of recognition. You nodded back, but kept to the street, hoping that you wouldn’t be swept up into any conversations against your will. 

The building noted as the General Store was white with a blue roof and matching blue shutters, but reddish dust clung to the shingles, making it look rather dirty compared to the other buildings in their muted earthy tones. No one was on the porch, but a man in a pressed white shirt and a starched apron stepped out of the store, setting a bucket of apples next to a cart of fresh produce. 

He looked up from his work and smiled at you, “Good morning! How can I help you today?” 

You tried your hand at a smile in return, but your voice came out rather small, “Good morning, sir. I have the eggs from the Fett’s farm.”

His eyes lit up, “You must be the Sheriff’s wife! Welcome to Pabu Creek!” He grabbed your hand in both of his as soon as you got close enough, shaking it heartily, “I’m Mr. Oleson, but call me Harold. It’s such a pleasure to meet you, we’ve been hoping to see Sheriff Fett and his brothers all settled down for a while now, they’re all such fine young men. Come in, come in!” 

You wondered if Hunter truly was as youthful as Mr. Oleson made him out to be, or if the lines on his face disqualified him from the moniker of “young”. Well, he was the Sheriff, and he had been at war, perhaps he simply looked older than his true years.

A bell rang as Mr. Oleson held the door open for you, ushering you into the store, “And where is that husband of yours?”

“The saloon, there was a robbery,” you said.

Mr. Oleson shook his head, “Oh bless his soul, Cid would have the whole town arrested if it were up to her.”

You didn’t doubt that. 

The store was crowded, not with people, but with things. You had never seen so many objects clustered together in one store. A plowshare right next to the crookery, bags of flour next to bags of animal feed, a whole shelf of fabrics, and a rainbow of candy jars on the counter leading up to the register. Nearly everything would have a store dedicated solely to itself back east.

“Bring them up here,” Mr. Oleson waved you over to the register. As he counted out each egg, you kept looking around. The more you thought about it, the more convenient the notion seemed. It could cut your errands down to one trip, a timesaver that was a necessity this far west. 

Thinking back to Megan and Hunter’s conversation this morning, you wandered over to the fabrics. It was mostly cotton, nothing as fine as what you’d worn back east, and it was all rather plain compared to even the dress you wore now. 

You swallowed the lump in your throat, you had a lot to do if you were going to fit in with a town like Pabu creek. 

“Forty-five eggs at six cents an egg leaves us with…” Mr. Oleson spoke mostly to himself as he entered the number in the register. It gave a sharp “ching!” with the answer, two dollars and seventy cents.

You checked the price of the red and white gingham checks you were looking at. Seventeen cents a yard. There was plenty of money for two yards. You started to pull it from the shelf when a shrill voice cracked the air. 

“Harold! Did you hear? Mrs. Eenta said she saw the Sheriff riding into town with his new bride!” A woman in a high-necked dress with ruffles from top to bottom and hair pulled back in a bun tighter than your grandmother’s pushed through the curtain that separated the store from the owner’s abode.

“Harriet,” Mr. Oleson said patiently.

“She’s at least half his age. Wilma said that she overheard Megan telling the others she was from New York!” 

You raised one eyebrow. Your father would have been flattered to have people think you were from New York rather than Philadelphia. 

“Harriet,” Mr. Oleson repeated, silencing the woman who could only be his wife, “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Sheriff Fett.”

You nodded as the woman’s pursed lips dropped open, finally catching sight of you, “How do you do?”

“Oh-oh,” The woman patted her chest and hips as if she were searching for something, “Very well I’m sure,” She looked to Harold as if he could save her from her embarrassment, and when he did nothing but count your change, she looked you up and down.

“I saw that dress in Harper’s Bazaar. I was thinking of ordering one for myself.”

“It’s quite comfortable,” You said slowly, unsure of what she was getting at.

“Is it truly real silk?” Harriet asked.

You looked down at your dress, “The inner layer is silk, yes, but the outer layer is cotton. This is a day dress after all.”

Harriet's hands fluttered about her chest once more, but before she could say anything to embarrass herself further, the bell above the door rang out crisp and clear.

“Morning, Sheriff!” Harold said, “We were just getting to know your wife, here.”

You sighed in relief as Hunter caught sight of you. His shoulders were tense, probably from talking with Cid, but he nodded to you.

“Mornin’, Harold,” He set a handful of bills on the counter, “Did you count out the eggs, yet?”

“Two seventy-five,” Harold held out the change.

Hunter counted it out under his breath to double-check, “That should help pay for the new plow, and I have the rest of the money to pay off what’s left of the line of credit.”

Your face fell, and you quickly turned back to the row of fabrics, sliding the gingham back into place. You could hear the bills from your dowry rustling as Hunter counted out twenty dollars to pay back the credit the family owed the Olesons.

“Anything else we can help you with?” Harriet asked, sidling up to you so suddenly that you nearly jumped out of your shoes.

“No, thank you,” you said quietly. 

“Actually, we need two bags of feed, and I need a couple boxes of bullets for Crosshair and myself,” Hunter said.

Harriet waved him off, “Well, do come again soon, it’s so hard to find refined company in a place like this.” 

Her backhanded compliment rubbed you the wrong way, and you tried to shake it off as she left to acquire Hunter’s purchases. 

You left with Hunter quickly after that, carrying the bullets so that he could put the feed bags in the wagon. 

“I can take you home, but I’ve got to bring these bullets to the jailhouse first. Would you rather wait with the wagon, or…?” He grunted with the effort as he lifted the bags enough to get them into the wagon bed.

“I’ll go with you,” You said, “I’d like to see where you work.”

Hunter looked you up and down for a moment, then held out his arm. You knew exactly what to do. 

His bicep was firm beneath your touch, and warm from the sun. He let you set the speed, but it was obvious that he was leading you through town.

Whispers followed you now, watching the two of you strolling along.

“Sorry about them,” Hunter said, so quickly you almost missed it, “People like to talk, and you’re new. I’m ‘fraid my former status as a perpetual bachelor doesn’t help that.” “I don’t mind,” You said. You’d passed gossip around your social circles just as often as you’d been the center of it. 

He cleared his throat awkwardly, “I hope Mrs. Oleson didn’t do anything….” He glanced up and down the street, “...off-putting.”

You laughed softly, “She’s hardly the first woman I’ve met who eats her own words.”

Hunter’s nose wrinkled, “She fancies herself a bit of a leader, though I’ve never known anyone to actually follow the lead of a woman who runs about like a chicken with her head cut off.”

You snorted like a pig. You clapped your hand over your mouth as your face flushed. Your grandmother would be appalled if she heard you make that kind of noise in front of a man.

Hunter blinked in surprise, “Did…did you just snort?” He asked.

“I am so sorry-”

Hunter laughed, “What are you apologizin’ for? That was the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Adorable?” 

Hunter grinned at you, “Would you prefer cute?”

“Sheriff, I will have you know that I am a refined lady. I am not adorable or cute, I am elegant and graceful!”

“You heard Harriet, out here, ma’am, you may be refined and genteel, I, on the other hand, am anything but.”

“That’s not true,” You said, suddenly much more serious. Hunter tried to brush it off, but you stopped, grabbing his attention. 

“You’ve been nothing but kind to me since we met. You may not have an upper-class education, but you…”

The words escaped you. Too many thoughts at once to be articulated. You briefly thought of Edmon, his letter still burning a hole in your pocket where he dismissed your cry for help by telling you he was already married. But despite his own betrayal, every second you spent with Hunter, walking with him, talking to him, laying in bed beside him, felt like a betrayal to your child. Could you bring them into this world just to live a lie?”

“I what?” Hunter pressed.

Your throat went dry, so you settled for something less than eloquent, “I think you’re a perfectly fine gentleman.” 

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you. And why would he? All the other women on the street wore dresses in browns, reds, and other dark, earthly tones that were more easily cleaned. And here you stood, in a bright blue dress that was already collecting clay on the hem. You looked like you were taunting him, him and everyone else in Pabu Creek, simply by existing. 

When he wouldn’t answer, you pressed forward, your hold on his arm a little looser, you didn’t want to be a ball and chain for him.

Hunter stopped, planting his feet in the dirt in front of one of the smaller buildings. 

“This here's the jailhouse,” He said, unmoving as he stared up at the building. 

He licked his chapped lips, “It's… It's not the most romantic place to show you.”

You passed romance a long time ago, “It's where you work. I'd like to see it, if nothing but to learn more about you.”

He nodded, and opened the door. 

There wasn’t much, but then again the Sheriff and his deputy didn’t live here. There was a fireplace for the winter months, a filing cabinet, a desk and chair, and wanted posters smeared across the walls. A single lamp sat on the desk, unlit, but the windows were big enough to allow plenty of light for now. To your left, a single narrow cell took up the entire wall, big enough for a single cot and a chamberpot. 

“I take it you didn’t have to arrest Cid’s delivery boy?” You asked. 

Hunter chuckled and shook his head, “He about soiled his pants when I walked into the room. I searched his things, searched his cart, and he has the signed papers from when Cid received the delivery saying everything was there. However, I did find a couple of her usuals in the corner with the missing whiskey, too drunk to think about escapin’.”

“And she didn’t make you arrest them?”

“Ketch and Bolo make up half of Cid’s revenue,” Hunter placed his hand on the back of the chair. He turned it towards you, offering you the seat. And he said he wasn’t a gentleman.

“I pointed out that arresting the men who pay her bills wasn’t the smartest move, so they worked out the arrangement of cleaning her floors and countertops to pay for the booze they’d managed to drink.”

You shook your head, “I’ve never understood how people like that manage to make any money when they spend all day drinking.”

“Gambling,” Hunter chuckled, “They make just enough one day to make it to the next.”

Your tailbone began to ache from the wood of the seat, or perhaps it was the baby again. Maybe you could make a nice cushion for Hunter and Crosshair to sit on when they spend long hours alone at the jailhouse. 

“How many people have you kept here?” You asked, glancing at the lonely cell.

“Not as many as a lot of other towns in the territories,” Hunter admitted, following your gaze. He sighed, long and deep.

“It’s not the finest place to raise a family, but I’ve worked hard to make it a safe place for Megan to grow up, and I’ll do the same for them,” He nodded to you, but it was obvious he meant the child you carried.

You rested your hand on your belly. If you were still for long enough, you swore you could feel them kicking, tossing and turning as they made room for themselves to grow.

“Would you…would you ever want another child?” You asked. The question had haunted you since that first night on the train when it occurred to you that married couples were expected to sleep together, and even if he promised to raise another man’s child in return for you helping with Megan, men preferred their own children to carry on their name. 

But Hunter looked at you in surprise, “Do you want more children?” 

His face was flushed, and you felt heat in your own cheeks, “I-I just meant, well I assumed that…”

Hunter’s hands fidgeted in his lap, looking like a scolded schoolboy rather than a Sheriff when he wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Maybe it would be better to discuss after the baby is here,” You whispered quickly.

“Maybe,” He agreed. Before you could say anything he stood up, brushing nonexistent dust from his pants, “I’ll take you home, you and the baby need your rest.”

You nodded, clutching your skirts so that you wouldn’t be tempted to take his hand, “Thank you.”

You rode home in awkward silence.

Tags:

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Series Masterlist

Epilogue: Them - November 3

Chapter 1: being written...

Chapter 2: being written...

Chapter 3: being written...

Chapter 4: being written...

Chapter 5: being written...

More parts being written tentatively...

Series Playlist

The Infinite Hate-Fuck Chronicles but as songs

Cafeteria, Thursday, 12:14 PM

You’re halfway through your sad little sandwich when a perfectly manicured hand drops a pink smoothie in front of you.

“I got you something,” Regina says, like it’s a favor, not a kindness. She sits down across from you without asking, adjusting her sunglasses even though you’re indoors.

You blink. “…Why?”

She tilts her head, fake-pouting. “Wow. Rude. I do one generous thing and you get suspicious?”

You pick up the smoothie cautiously. “No, I just—didn’t know I was on your gift list.”

She rolls her eyes. “Relax. You were staring at mine yesterday like a sad little orphan. It was giving thirst.”

You blink again. “So you got me one?”

Regina shrugs. “Well, I couldn’t have you embarrassing yourself drooling over my straw again.”

But then she stabs a piece of her salad without looking at it, like she’s suddenly too focused on nothing in particular. You sip the smoothie, trying to hide your smile.

It’s your favorite flavor.

You look at her, and she’s already looking at you—eyes flicking away the second you meet them.

You lean in just slightly. “So… you were paying attention.”

She huffs. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just painfully predictable.”

A beat.

Then, quieter:

“But I guess that’s kind of cute or whatever.”

****

Hallway, Friday, 10:08 AM – Between Classes

Your locker sticks. It always sticks. You’re tugging on it like you’re in a full-body wrestling match when suddenly, a perfectly manicured hand reaches past your shoulder and pops it open with one effortless twist.

You don’t even have to look. You already know.

“Seriously?” you mutter.

Regina leans against the locker next to yours like it’s a throne. “God, you’re hopeless. What would you do without me?”

You glance at her. She looks unfairly good. Hair perfect. Lip gloss immaculate. Wearing a cardigan that’s technically not allowed under the dress code but no one dares say anything.

You close your locker slowly. “Probably die tragically. Or just be late for third period.”

She hums, watching you. “You’d miss me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Miss the girl who mocks me in homeroom and told me my backpack looks ‘like it’s from a Netflix original set in Iowa’?”

Regina smirks. “It does. But you still wear it. Because deep down, you love when I pay attention to you.”

You open your mouth to argue, but she steps forward. Just a little closer. Close enough for her perfume to kiss your skin. Her finger gently tugs the collar of your shirt back into place, brushing your collarbone on purpose.

“Poor thing,” she murmurs, lips tugging into a smirk. “Completely obsessed with me.”

Your breath catches—because she’s not wrong.

But you find your footing.

“I’m not obsessed,” you say, steady but soft. “I just like watching you pretend you’re not obsessed with me.”

She blinks, like that short-circuits something in her brain, but she recovers fast. A slow, wicked grin spreads across her face.

“Oooh,” she purrs. “So you think you’re bold now?”

You shrug. “Just paying attention. Like someone taught me.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. Just stares at you, lips parted slightly, as if she’s debating whether to kiss you or shove you into your locker and never admit she cares.

The bell rings. You don’t move.

Finally, she clicks her tongue and walks away, but over her shoulder she calls, “Try not to think about me too much in class.”

And you know she’s smiling when she says it.

****

Morning, 7:41 AM – School Courtyard

Regina’s barely sat down at the bench when a familiar coffee cup is placed gently in front of her.

Her hand hovers over it for a second before she glances up at you, standing there with your hands in your pockets, looking way too casual for someone who just remembered her exact oat milk-to-espresso ratio.

“…What is this?” she asks flatly.

You shrug. “You mentioned needing caffeine this morning. Thought I’d help out.”

She stares at the cup like it might explode. “I said that on a private story.”

You smile. “Yeah. And?”

She blinks once. Slowly. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re welcome.”

She scoffs, picks up the cup, and takes a sip. She tries—tries—to look unimpressed, but her eyelids flutter for a millisecond too long. You notice.

You sit beside her, pulling a little plastic container from your bag and sliding it toward her. Inside: a perfectly sliced green apple.

She glares at it. “Are you serious.”

You tilt your head, grin. “Something about you gives me ‘sour but expensive’ energy.”

She stares at the apple. Then you. Then back at the apple.

“…You’re trying to seduce me.”

You laugh. “With fruit? Sure. Why not.”

She doesn’t respond, just picks up a slice and bites it like it owes her something.

You glance sideways at her. “I know you don’t let people do things for you. I know you’re used to being the one who gets chased.”

She freezes for a second, then forces a smirk. “Wow. Deep talk over produce?”

You keep your voice soft. “I’m not chasing you. I’m choosing you.”

She looks at you—actually looks—and for a moment, the sharp edges drop. Just barely. But you see it. That tiny flicker of something vulnerable in her eyes.

“…You’re ridiculous,” she mutters.

But she takes another bite. And another sip. And she doesn’t walk away.

As you sit next to Regina, you watch her carefully polish off the apple slices one by one. She doesn’t speak again, just chews with calculated silence like she’s processing a spreadsheet of emotions in her head.

You glance at her hoodie sleeve—slightly frayed at the cuff.

Without thinking, you reach out and gently fold it up for her, thumb brushing her wrist. Soft. Careful. Like she’ll bite if you press too hard.

Regina stares at your hand.

“You’re really doing the most,” she mutters, voice unusually quiet.

You shrug. “It’s not hard to do the most when it’s for you.”

She blinks. Looks away. Drinks more coffee like it might drown the flush rising on her cheeks. But you swear—swear—she shifts just slightly closer.

****

4th Period, 11:19 AM – Art Class

It’s quiet, save for the scratch of pencils and the occasional sigh of a bored sophomore.

You’re sketching. Or, at least, pretending to. Truthfully, you’re half-watching Regina a few seats away. She hasn’t looked your way once.

Then out of nowhere—

“Could you not stare at me like some pathetic little lovesick pigeon?”

You freeze.

The table goes awkwardly still.

Regina glares at you like you personally ruined her day. “God. It’s like you’re trying to get kicked in the face with how obvious you are.”

You blink. Twice. Your heart jumps into your throat, but your voice stays calm.

“…Sorry.”

That only makes her more irritated. “You should be. Maybe get a hobby that isn’t me?”

She turns back to her sketchbook like she didn’t just gut you with her bare hands.

And you—sweet, stupid, worshipful you—just sit there. Quiet. Breathing slowly through the sting.

Because something’s off.

This isn’t her usual teasing.

This feels more like: I’m scared and I’m pushing you away before you see too much of me.

You stay exactly where you are.

Eyes back on your sketch. Hands still. Shoulders calm. You don’t flinch or snap or retreat like she clearly wanted you to.

You just breathe.

And then, with the softest touch—barely even looking up—you tear a scrap of paper from the edge of your page and write a few quick words.

You fold it once and slide it across the table toward her without saying a thing.

Regina doesn’t even look at it at first.

But you see the tension in her jaw shift, just a little.

Eventually—carefully—she pulls it over with one finger and opens it.

“You don’t scare me.

And I’m not going anywhere.”

She stares at the note like it’s in a language she’s never read before. Like it burns a little. And for a long, long moment, she doesn’t say a word.

You don’t press.

You go back to sketching.

You let her sit in the silence she created—

with the warmth you left behind.

And it hits her.

Harder than she thought it would.

****

Friday, 3:47 PM – After School

Regina’s in her car, parked in front of her house, music playing low enough to not disturb the chaos in her head. One hand’s on the steering wheel. The other’s still gripping that crumpled little note you gave her in fourth period.

“You don’t scare me.

And I’m not going anywhere.”

Except now you’re quiet.

You didn’t wait for her after sixth period like you sometimes do.

You didn’t reply to her last text—something dumb about someone’s outfit in the hallway.

You were just… polite. Neutral. Like she hadn’t thrown emotional daggers at your face and watched you sit in the fire with love still in your eyes.

And it’s driving her insane.

She opens your text thread and types:

what, are you mad?

Backspace.

you’re acting weird.

Backspace.

don’t be a baby, i was joking.

Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.

She throws her phone into the passenger seat and groans out loud, dragging a hand through her hair.

She doesn’t do this. She doesn’t overthink. She doesn’t care if someone pulls away—they’re supposed to chase her. That’s how it works.

But she keeps seeing your face from earlier. The way you didn’t crumble. The way you didn’t fight. The way you just existed with this unshakable calm that made her feel seen and naked and unworthy all at once.

****

Monday, 8:12 AM – Hallway, Just Before First Bell

You’re standing by your locker, headphones in, quietly minding your business—until your phone is snatched out of your hand.

You barely get a breath in before Regina’s in front of you, holding it like she’s doing you a favor.

“Wow. Ignoring me and listening to sad girl music? What is this, your tragic era?”

You blink. “Give that back.”

Regina raises an eyebrow. “A please would be nice.”

You narrow your eyes. “Regina.”

She stares at you for a long moment. Then slowly—painfully slowly—she hands it back, but her fingers linger on yours just a beat too long.

“You’ve been weird lately,” she says, like it’s your fault she detonated a whole classroom moment on your face and expected it to blow over.

“I’ve been normal,” you reply, voice even.

Regina smiles, sharp and shiny. “Right. Just normally clingy, normally obsessed.”

You breathe in through your nose. Calm. Still.

But then her voice drops, quieter. Closer.

“You think I don’t notice? You didn’t wait for me after gym. You didn’t like my post. You didn’t even look at me when I walked in.”

You stare at her. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

She scoffs. “Don’t twist this. I never said stop acting like you care.”

Your throat tightens, but you hold it in. You don’t flinch. You just watch her like you’re seeing her unravel one thread at a time.

“Why do you care so much if I pull away, Regina?” you ask, voice quiet. Honest.

She tilts her head, lips curling into something cruel. “Because watching you drool over me is my favorite part of the day.”

That stings. It’s meant to. But behind her eyes—there’s panic.

Because she’s losing control.

And she knows it.

And you? You don’t bite back. You just nod, slow, almost like you’re studying her.

Then you walk away.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just calm. Soft. Measured.

Like you’re the one holding the leash now.

****

Same Day, 12:36 PM – Cafeteria

You get to the table early. Quietly. Without a word, you set down a tray for Regina.

Her smoothie—straw hole already pierced, lid wiped clean.

A napkin folded neatly beside it.

Her favorite snack in the corner compartment.

And her seat left perfectly empty.

You sit two chairs away. Just far enough to not presume closeness, but close enough to be near if she needs something.

Regina arrives a few minutes later, not even looking at you. She drops her bag onto the bench and sits down like a queen settling into her throne.

Her eyes flick to the tray.

“…You remembered.”

You nod. Not smiling. Just… waiting. Like a dog that knows better than to ask for attention but stays by the door anyway.

She sips the smoothie without another word. You glance once, just to make sure everything’s right. Her glossed lips leave a faint kiss on the straw, and you have to look back down at your lap to stop your cheeks from going warm.

She takes another sip. Then slowly turns toward you.

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” she says. Not accusing. Just curious. Like she’s poking at your ribs to watch you react.

You look up, meet her gaze only for a moment. “I didn’t want to upset you.”

Regina tilts her head, studying you. “You think I’m that fragile?”

“No,” you whisper. “I think I’m just… small.”

Her jaw tightens. Like something about that goes straight to the part of her brain that’s starving.

You reach out, slowly, and slide the corner of your own apple slice onto her tray. It’s not an offering. It’s a habit. Like breathing. Like prayer.

She picks it up, takes a bite, chews in silence.

And you? You just sit there. Waiting. Ready.

Whatever she says, whatever she wants—you’ll be here.

Because she has your attention.

And your loyalty.

And the softest, smallest part of you.

****

10:42 AM – Hallway, Between Third and Fourth Period

You’re walking half a step behind Regina. Like always.

You’re holding her iced coffee, her lip gloss, and her folder—because she asked. Or rather, she looked at you like you’d be useless otherwise.

And right now?

She’s tearing into you.

“God, can you walk any slower? My grandma has better pacing and she’s literally dead.”

You nod slightly. “Sorry.”

She doesn’t look at you. Just keeps walking, hair bouncing perfectly with every sharp little step.

“And I swear, if you forget to put my notes in order again like yesterday, I’m going to make you write them out by hand. In glitter pen. Like a loser.”

You nod again. “Yes, Regina.”

“God, you’re pathetic,” she mutters, just loud enough for a passing student to hear. “It’s embarrassing how eager you are.”

And it hurts, of course it hurts. But you say nothing.

Because this is what you’ve been trained into.

And there’s a strange safety in her cruelty—because even when she’s mean, she sees you.

You follow her all the way to class. She doesn’t thank you. She just takes her things out of your arms and glides through the door like you don’t exist.

****

2:11 PM – Side Courtyard, Behind the Cafeteria

You’re sitting alone. Regina’s off somewhere—meeting with the yearbook committee or terrorizing someone in debate. You didn’t ask.

And that’s when it happens.

Two girls from the junior class—both rich, both nasty, both convinced they run shit—strut over with the kind of confidence you know doesn’t come from reality.

“Oh, my god,” one of them giggles. “Are you waiting for your girlfriend to come tie your shoes for you or something?”

The other one scoffs. “No, she’s probably just programmed to sit still until Regina snaps her fingers.”

You don’t say anything. Just keep your eyes down.

But they’re not done.

“Do you even have a backbone? Or did Regina pluck it out with her acrylics?”

You swallow. Stay small. Stay still.

Then:

Heels.

Clicking.

Fast.

And then a voice—sharp as a blade dipped in gloss.

“Wow. You two must be really confident to be talking that much shit with those faces.”

Silence.

Then, confusion.

You look up.

Regina.

Hair pulled back. Sunglasses off. Lip gloss dangerous. And her eyes? Unforgiving.

One of the girls tries to smile. “Regina—hey. We were just—”

“No, you weren’t,” Regina snaps. “You were trying to come for someone you couldn’t even stand next to in a mirror without cracking it.”

The second girl opens her mouth. Regina cuts her off.

“Do you think I let anyone touch what’s mine?”

The courtyard goes dead silent.

You freeze. Heart thudding. You stare at her.

She’s not looking at you.

But she’s standing in front of you.

Shielding you.

Like a hurricane in high heels.

“Talk to her again,” Regina says, voice calm and deadly. “And I’ll make sure you’re on social probation so long, colleges will pretend you never existed.”

She turns on her heel. Doesn’t wait for a thank you. Doesn’t look back.

But she says, almost casually, like it’s an afterthought:

“Come on. Let’s go.”

And you rise without thinking.

Without questioning.

****

4:12 PM – Student Parking Lot, After School

You’re standing by the back of Regina’s car, waiting like usual. She’s taking her sweet time—texting, adjusting her hair, checking her lip gloss in the reflection of her tinted window.

When she finally turns to you, she’s chewing gum and squinting at the sky like she’s already annoyed with the weather.

“Hold my bag,” she says, tossing it to you before you can even nod.

You catch it. Instinctively. Without thinking.

“Actually—open the door for me.”

You do. Quietly. Like always.

She climbs in with a huff, legs crossing, sunglasses sliding back down into place. She doesn’t say thank you. She never does.

You slip into the passenger seat, still holding her bag in your lap like it’s sacred.

And for a while, it’s silent. Just the hum of the engine, the sound of her scrolling, your quiet breathing.

Then, all at once—

“Why the fuck do you do that?”

You blink. “Do what?”

Regina doesn’t look at you. Her fingers are still on her phone, but her eyes are on nothing.

“All of it. The… the carrying shit. The waiting. The way you just… listen when I’m being a bitch.”

You stare at her. And when you speak, it’s soft. Honest. “Because I like you.”

Her jaw tenses. “That’s not a good reason.”

“It is to me.”

She throws her phone down onto the console, finally turning to look at you.

“You’re not even dating me,” she snaps, like that’s the part that bothers her most. “You just… let me treat you like you’re mine.”

You tilt your head. “I thought I was.”

That hits her like a slap.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Then breathes in sharply like she’s about to argue—

But instead?

She crumbles.

“Fine,” she mutters, eyes rolling so hard they nearly fall out of her head. “Whatever. Fuck it. You’re my girlfriend now.”

Your breath catches.

“I’ll be nice to you. Or whatever.” Her voice is sour, but her ears are so red. “Not all the time, obviously. But like… enough.”

You blink, stunned. “Are you serious?”

She glares at you. “Do I look like I joke about this shit?”

“No,” you whisper, a little dazed.

She exhales. Loud. Dramatic. Leans her head back against the seat like loving you is exhausting.

Then, after a pause—barely audible:

“…But if you ever stop listening to me like that, I’ll kill you.”

And you smile.

Because she means it.

Because she’s yours.

And she has no idea how soft she’s about to become.

****

4:37 PM – Regina’s Bedroom

The door shuts behind you with a soft click. Regina tosses her bag to the side like it personally offended her and collapses onto her bed, dramatically facedown.

You stand near the door for a second, biting your lip, smiling way too much for someone who just got insulted into a relationship.

“Okay,” you say casually, walking over. “But like…”

Regina groans into the pillow. “Don’t start.”

“No, seriously,” you grin, crawling onto the bed beside her. “I think I blacked out like a little bit in the car. Could you just… say it again?”

She lifts her head, face twisted. “Say what?”

You blink at her innocently. “You know. The part where you said I’m your girlfriend now?”

Regina narrows her eyes like she’s trying to physically kill the air between you. “I did not say it like that.”

You nod, full of fake sympathy. “No, yeah. You were really romantic about it. Something like, ‘fine whatever, fuck it.’”

She rolls onto her side, glaring. “Do you want me to take it back?”

You grin, all teeth. “Kinda want you to say it again actually.”

She groans, throwing her arm over her face like you’re torturing her.

You lean in closer, eyes wide and soft. “Please?”

There’s a long pause.

Then:

“…You’re my girlfriend,” she mumbles, barely audible.

You gasp. “What?”

She rips the pillow from under her and smacks you with it lightly. “You heard me.”

You fall back, giggling like it’s the best thing you’ve ever been called. “I really did. I just wanted to see you say it twice.”

Regina huffs, but there’s a pink tint blooming across her cheeks. “You’re so annoying.”

You smile at her like she hung the stars. “I’m your annoying girlfriend.”

She doesn’t say anything back.

But when you scoot a little closer and your fingers barely graze hers—

She lets them stay.

“…God, I’m gonna be so nice to you it’s disgusting.”

And you grin, teeth and all.

Because she means it.

And now she has to.

—————————————

Regina’s lying in bed beside you, both of you staring at the ceiling like you’re waiting for divine intervention to tell you how girlfriends are supposed to behave.

Your hand is maybe… six inches from hers. It was twelve, but she inched closer a few minutes ago and pretended she didn’t.

You’re chatting about something stupid—someone’s outfit, a teacher who definitely has favorites—but your voice trails off when Regina suddenly shifts.

She turns on her side, facing you, head propped up on her hand.

“You look cold,” she says flatly.

You blink. “I’m literally sweating.”

“Well. You look cold,” she repeats. “So like, if you wanted to get closer to me or whatever, that’d be fine.”

You smile, confused. “Why would I do that if I’m warm?”

She pauses. Visibly short-circuiting.

“…You know what, never mind.”

She turns back over like she didn’t just emotionally offer herself up like a cat bringing a half-dead bird to your feet.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing.

But a few minutes later, she tries again. Subtler. (Worse.)

“You know what’s stupid?” she says into the darkness. “The idea that cuddling makes people catch feelings. Like, that’s not real. That’s just biology. Pressure on the skin, serotonin release. Whatever.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you trying to cite science to trick me into spooning you?”

Regina gasps. “Trick you?? Babe, you literally just said you wanted to cuddle me.”

You sit up, eyebrows shooting up. “I did not!”

“Yes you did,” she says, grabbing a pillow like she’s about to weaponize it. “I’m pretty sure I heard you say it.”

You stare at her. She stares right back.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, both of you burst out laughing.

She tackles you onto the pillows dramatically, one leg tossed over yours, hair in your face, full Regina George chaos.

“You’re so obsessed with me,” she mutters against your collarbone, clearly trying to hide the fact that she’s clinging now.

And you?

You wrap your arms around her and smile into her hair.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I really, really am.”

****

You’re curled into her now—legs intertwined, one of her arms slung across your stomach like she accidentally ended up there (she didn’t). Her face is tucked against your neck, dangerously close to hearing your heartbeat having a literal stroke.

It’s quiet now. Not the awkward kind—just warm and soft and maybe a little too still.

Then, out of nowhere, she says it.

“I think you should kiss me.”

It’s so casual you almost don’t catch it.

You pull back just enough to look at her. “What?”

She clears her throat, barely making eye contact. “I said I think you should kiss me.”

“…Are you sure?”

She scoffs. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You just asked me to kiss you.”

“Exactly. Like a normal person.” Her voice is getting higher. She’s spiraling. “So can you just do it before I change my mind and start bullying you again?”

You laugh, soft and breathy. “Okay, okay…”

You lean in—slowly, carefully—and just when you’re about to close the gap, she turns her head slightly too fast.

You kiss her cheekbone. Dead center. Loud and dramatic.

Regina’s eyes go wide. “Did you just—Oh my god. That was my cheek.”

You try not to laugh. “I missed, okay?! You moved.”

“I did not move. You aimed wrong.”

“You twitched!”

Regina grabs a pillow and hits you once—gently, but with righteous fury. “Great. My first kiss with you and you fumbled the bag like a dumb little simp.”

“You fumbled my face!”

There’s a beat of silence. You’re both staring at each other. Breathless. Blushing.

Then Regina exhales through her nose, deep and exaggerated, like she’s doing you a favor.

“Fine. Let’s try again. Don’t make it a thing.”

You nod. “Totally not a thing.”

This time, you both go still. No twitching. No flinching.

You lean in—slowly, softly—and kiss her. Properly. Gently. Lips against lips, warm and sure and slightly shaky.

When you pull back, she doesn’t say anything.

She just blinks at you once. Then twice. And whispers:

“…Okay, maybe that was a thing.”

You grin. “Told you.”

She punches your arm. “Shut up.”

But she’s smiling.

And she doesn’t move away. You’re still close.

Your face is barely inches from hers. You can feel her breath on your lips, warm and shallow, like she hasn’t fully recovered from what just happened.

She blinks once, then looks away—but not far. Just down. Somewhere near your mouth. Like maybe if she stares hard enough, she can figure out what the hell just short-circuited inside her ribcage.

You wait. Silent. Letting her process.

Then, barely above a whisper—

“Wait… okay.”

She swallows, cheeks flushed. The edge in her voice is gone. All that bravado? Vanished.

“…Do it again,” she says, quieter this time.

Then her voice dips one more octave—like it costs her something.

“…Please.”

Your breath hitches.

And she knows what she just said. She knows what she sounded like. She’s already regretting it, her fingers twitching with instinct to mock or cover it up—but you move before she can.

You lean in again. Slower this time. Like you’re handling something fragile.

And when your lips meet hers again, it’s softer. Warmer. Longer. Her hand grabs the edge of your shirt without meaning to. She kisses you back like she wants to be good at it—like she wants to make this real.

When you finally break apart, she doesn’t move away.

She stays close. Nose brushing yours. Eyes still half-lidded and dazed.

And then—just barely above a mutter:

“Ugh. I’m gonna throw up. I liked that.”

You laugh softly. “You said please.”

“Shut up.”

“You begged.”

“Shut. up.”

But she doesn’t pull away.

Not even a little.

She’s still hovering near your mouth—close enough that you can feel the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers are twitching slightly on your shirt like she doesn’t know if she should push you away or pull you under her.

And then you whisper, breath catching—

“Wait… okay. One more time.”

Her head jerks back an inch, eyes snapping to yours.

“Are you copying me right now?”

You’re already leaning in again. “Shhh. Don’t ruin it.”

Regina doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just lets it happen—lets your lips press into hers again, gentle and hungry, like kissing her is a habit you’ve always had and only just remembered.

This one’s deeper. Slower. Her hand slides up to your jaw and holds you there. Soft. Possessive. Like she didn’t mean to but now she can’t not.

When you pull away this time, you don’t even move far.

You hover. Your noses are brushing. You both look dumb as hell.

She exhales.

“…Okay fine maybe like… one more more time.”

You smile. “Oh so now we’re keeping score.”

“I’m literally doing you a favor.”

You kiss her again.

Quick.

Then again.

Slower.

Then once more—just because she makes that tiny noise in her throat and you know she’ll deny it later.

You barely pull back when you murmur, “Can we just keep doing this forever?”

Regina stares at you. Her lips are flushed. Her voice is wrecked. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it.”

She pushes your head down into her chest, arm wrapping around you like it’s muscle memory. “Shut up,” she mutters into your hair. “Before I propose or something.”

You laugh. Heart pounding. Hands gentle where they hold her waist.

And she holds you like this is the first time she’s been quiet in months.

————————————