quinn

—

the femme presses money into their hand for tattoos, the butch saves every penny for weekends away she hasn’t even asked for.

the butch buys the shoes she pointed at once in passing, the femme polishes their boots when they’re worn from walking beside her.

the butch carries every bag, every box, every burden, the femme tucks little gifts into jacket pockets, finds ways to make heavy days feel lighter.

the femme buys the butch their cold brew, the butch orders her mocha with too much cream, and neither finishes their own drink— they swap halfway through, always do.

the femme covers the butch’s bruised knuckles in bandaids with little stars, the butch buys her earrings shaped like moons, and between them, they carry constellations.

the femme buys them hair products, runs her fingers through every curl, the butch buys her the good shampoo, says “your hair deserves better than drugstore.”

the femme covers the bed in pillows and flowers, the butch makes sure the windows are locked tight.

the butch buys silk sheets for her, the femme buys new lingerie she never really plans on wearing for long.

the femme pays for their hotel room, the butch carries her over the threshold, spends the whole night showing gratitude with rough hands.

the femme buys lace for herself, but the butch calls it theirs, proving it every time they tug it aside.

the butch spoils her with quiet strength, carrying her to bed when her legs give out, fixing the bruises they leaves behind themselves, hands gentle where they’d been greedy. the femme leaves marks—lipstick stains, fingerprints. leaving promises—deep sighs, whispered “mine”

and between them is devotion, heavy, wordless,