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rugby player!vi whom you later do send a message to. an innocent, little ‘hey’. she doesn’t ask who it is— vi just knows. the conversation starts off innocent enough… up until vi suggests playing a game of truth or dare. you’d think truth would save you from any embarrassing dares, but her questions are far, far from innocent.

‘what do you think about when you touch yourself?’

‘weirdest kinks?’

‘lets voicecall sometime ;)’

honestly, it makes you curious just what makes her so full of herself. you’ve heard about her around campus, of course, but is she really as good as the other girls say?

you try to get vi back by daring her to snap a pic of herself. you expect a mirror pic. maybe one with her arms flexed and biceps bulging. you don’t expect a selfie from the neck down, hand and forearm doing a shit job at covering her pierced nips.

rugby player!vi who eventually takes you on a date. a real one. she isn’t able to pick you up at your house, of course, but hey— she takes you out to see a horror movie, then drags you both to a fancy enough diner that doesn’t just serve greasy shit. she pays for everything, though still teases her way into getting a kiss by the end of it.

“enjoyed yourself?” vi asks, leaning the driver’s seat back. she doesn’t pat her thighs, but she does make a show of spreading her legs to make room for you.

you’d be angry at her if you didn’t know what you were getting into. but you do. if you weren’t interested at all, then you wouldn’t have even saved her number, and you certainly wouldn’t have reacted with a heart emoji to her titty pic.

“movie was shit,” you shrug, kicking your shoes off to comfortably crawl over the armrest and settle yourself on vi’s lap. she grunts with a grin, splaying her palms over your hips. “dinner was good enough. a shame you didn’t let me get dessert.”

“didn’t i?” vi pouts, head tilting. “you’re sitting right on it.”

she’s so, so corny— you’d puke if she didn’t have the looks to make up for it. but vi does, and the way her mouth works over yours once you two kiss is clearly good for more than just cheesy flirting. but unlike every story you’ve heard about going out on a date with vi, you don’t fuck. her hand hadn’t even made it under your shirt, even.

rugby player!vi who begins inviting you to the parties she hosts. they’re not messy, but they are huge. vi, however, keeps you tucked to her side all the time. many tease her about how her head’s not between a girl’s legs halfway into the evening, but she ignores them. she doesn’t get drunk, but she does get tipsy.

she’s got you backed up against the wall in some hallway. her hair tickles your chin as she peppers kisses over your throat, hands squeezing down your sides.

“vi!” a yelp of her name escapes you when she squeezes your backside, and you smack her arm with a laugh.

“what?” you can feel the grin on her lips as she hums against your neck, and she works her way back up to your face with more kisses. “you look pretty tonight, sweetheart.”

“that’s what you tell every girl.”

“no, i don’t.”

rugby player!vi whom you begin to date in secret. the campus knows, of course. but your father doesn’t. he doesn’t find it weird how you’re suddenly there for every game. vi has to fight back from trotting where you’re at on the bleachers after she wins every game, but you two end up celebrating in secret later on.

rugby player!vi who fucks you in the locker rooms. after everyone leaves, she drags you inside and presses you up against the wall. she’s sweaty— the jersey you take off lands with a wet splat on the concrete floor. she does the same for your sweater and bra, and after her own sports bra follows, your breasts press together as she brings you two into a kiss.

“fuck, baby,” vi groans as she shoves a hand down your jeans after unbuttoning them, cupping your mound to palm your sex over the thin, damp fabric. “you this wet over watching me play? scream at the other players?”

“uh-huh…”

of course you are. watching her crash against other players with grunts, seeing every flex of her thighs as she rolled in the grass… there’s nothing more attractive than seeing her in that state. when she loses, she needs release. thankfully for you, her team’s lost tonight’s match.

your hands settle on vi’s shoulders with a whine as she slides a finger into your dripping cunt, and she swallows the sound by slotting her lips against yours. she works you open with her fingers— so very loose from how easily you relax under her minisitrations that every pump of her digits is audible in the room. you work your jeans down eventually for more comfort, and vi takes the opportunity to remove her hand and carry you to one of the benches. the wood creaks under your combined weights as she sets you down on your back.

vi doesn’t speak much when she’s frustrated. you know that much now.

as soon as her hands are on your hips and her face between your legs, her tongue flattens over your slit she’s exposed with her fingers. your head thumps back against the bench, and your fingers tangle in her hair to keep her face flush against your sex. vi has no complaints about that— she fucks you with her tongue for a while before sealing her mouth over your neglected and puffy clit instead. she sucks, keeping your hips pinned to keep you from writhing as much as possible as she knocks an orgasm from your body.

rugby player!vi who sneaks into your bedroom through your window like some romcom movie. you try not to laugh as she damn near slips while climbing the wall, but she eventually does manage to slip inside. she’s, unfortunately, not very silent about it, but your father down the hall is quite the heavy sleeper. that’s not to say you two could make a sound…

vi’s on top of you, bare from the neck down. one of her breasts is cupped by your hands, and every time you tease a nipple with a flick or pinch, she jerks forward and bites her tongue.

you’re not doing any better. one of your legs is laid flat on the bed, though the other is kept raised in the air in an angle to allow vi’s body to fit between them— and more importantly, for her to fight just the right angle. a mutual groan is shared between you both once your clits press against each other. vi drops her head as she begins to roll her hips slightly, never too aggressively as to not miss the mark each time.

"mmm, i did." you're looking at her with the most innocent gaze you can muster, eyes wet and lips pouty, and she leans in to give your lips a kiss just like you want her to. her mouth tastes sour enough of sweat and cheap alcohol to make you wince--but when she pulls back, you feel a twinge of disappointment that it doesn't last long enough.

fresh out of a fight, she's still full of adrenaline--and wastes no time on foreplay. hooking your legs over those broad shoulders of hers, she spits onto your cunt and gets right to it. 

her eyes roll halfway back into her head as she slips the strap into your cunt, like she can feel the way your pussy grips it. throwing her head back, she moans hoarsely, in sync with the sweet whine that comes out of your mouth as she rolls her hips into yours, sliding the strap all the way in. "that's a good girl, fuck."

yes. you are a good girl. her good girl.

vi has been coming to you vi has been coming to you every night or so, for a few months now--and at first it was just a good deal of sex for you both. but lately, you've found yourself less interested in the sex she offers you, and more interested in the woman herself.

your room is dark, like it always is when she comes over, and the harsh pleasure she gives you always turns your mind cloudy--but nothing can sway the watchful gaze you fix onto vi whenever she's in your arms. through half-closed eyes, you count the nicks and bruises that line the base of her throat and her shoulders and arms. the scratches and cuts, redder because she's flushed, drunk and exerting herself.

twelve new marks since last time. you wonder if she won tonight's fight or if she lost. the way she fucks you doesn't make a difference, so you can't tell--what you do know is that she comes to you seeking an escape from frustrations that stem from something unrelated to the fights entirely. 

and whatever it is, it frustrates her a lot.

she seems especially bothered tonight. her pace is dizzying, and her grip on your body doesn't get lighter. she's drunk on both beer and the rush of adrenaline--and it makes her relentless. she fucks you nearly like she wants you dead. "vi, vi--"

"you're doin' good, baby." she hisses, eyes shut. "g'nna make you cum in a bit, kay? just let me see you take my strap first. pretty thing."

and you take it--like a good girl. how could you not? when she acts like she's ravenous about you? when, with how she puts those dead eyes and calloused hands and busted lips on you, she makes you feel something no one else ever has?

she looks so good, too; so hot, with the dark hair, the ashy streaks running down her face, the lipstick smudged down her bottom lip that's just slightly fuller than her top lip--and the muscles, god.

her tits aren't nearly big enough to hang in your face while she's on top of you, but they bounce a little with each snap of her hips, and the sight mesmerizes you. she laughs softly when your pussy squelches for her--and it makes your heart flutter. fuck. you might just be in love with this ghost of a woman. "vi, please."

"you like that?" she hums, landing a kiss on the side of your knee that leaves a bit of lipstick stained on your skin. "y'like it when i fuck you to bits?"

"mhm," you choke out, keeping your eyes on her so you don't miss it when she looks at you. "wanna cum, please."

the strap slides out of you as smoothly as it slid in. "can't say no to you when you ask so nicely." she reaches up to brush a stray strand of hair out of your face, giving you that half-smile that makes your heart twist just as much as your gut.

"look at you." she lowers her face to your chest, lips tracing kisses downward. one hand comes up to squeeze at your tits, soft and sharp at the same time, index finger and thumb teasing your nipple and making you keen. "pretty, pretty thing."

her other hand toys with your cunt, middle and ring finger slowly coaxing their way into your hole like she's learning to be gentle now. your body tenses with anticipation, feeling the way her lips get closer and closer to where you want them to go. "ngh. just--please."

the first flick of her tongue on your clit makes you gasp, body rocking in reaction--and vi slaps your thigh. "shhh," is all she says, but it makes you behave. she spreads your pussy open with her fingers like it's a flower, and takes you whole.

the wet sounds of a mouth on a cunt fill your shoddy little room, and you moan and shudder in vi's arms, caged in her hold as she draws the orgasm out of you.

and she does it so quickly, having learned what touches of her tongue your clit likes best, how you like having her fingers, when to add the extra tug to your nipples. she makes you go insane so easily.

like she took the time to figure out how to do it. like she cared enough to do that. like she--

the white-hot rush of pleasure hits you, and all your thoughts dissipate. you grab vi's hair, digging your fingers into the dyed locks, keeping her face where you want it--"mmm, fuck, just like that! vi, just like that, please--"

she slaps your thigh again, but you relent only slightly. she licks up your slick, adjusting her position so she can fuck you better with her fingers, and you tremble under her as she curls her digits into your sweetest spots, wave after wave of bliss washing over you with each touch. the bed creaks like the weak boards under your mattress might snap, but you don't even hear it. 

"god."

she comes up and kisses you, and you know your face and body are full of inky lipstick marks by now. it's almost romantic.

then, it's over. vi pulls away, letting go of you and sitting up.

"ugh." you slump into the bed, hiding the pang of hurt that fills you. "you . . . don't want me to do you back? or get you a drink?"

"not tonight. think i'm wasted enough." vi wipes her mouth off, stretching her neck to one side till there's a pop--and gets off the bed. you notice how her lips are entirely clean of the onyx that they were. "hey, you sure you don't want me to pay you?"

and there it is. the moment of intimacy dissolves like a grain of sugar into the vastness of the sea.

"no, it's fine." you wave her off, turning away. you watch discreetly through your mirror as she looks around at the little box you live in.

"are you sure? . . . i can cough something up." she asks again, and though you're slightly offended, you know what she means. your place is a single room that's barely a six by ten, small rickety bed and a desk with the mirror, a rack for the few clothes you own, and nothing else really. you share a bathroom and kitchen with two other girls across the street. and you have vi each night.

you need nothing else. "yeah, i'm good. and i don't do that anymore, anyway." you tell her.

"alright." vi pulls her clothes back on, and you're just a little sad to see her body covered away again. you did love getting your eyefuls of those slight curves and sleek muscles. "why'd you stop, though? working, i mean."

you think of how you used to feel, seeing clients and letting them fawn over you for the night. handing you a wad of cash and walking out at the end of it. back then, it was what you needed--but the moment you didn't need it anymore, you’d signed out.

you'd only agreed to hook up with vi because it seemed harmless enough. made your nights a little less lonelier, gave you some company. you hadn’t expected money or to catch feelings.

the answer to her question rises up your throat, but you find it a bit ironic--and you know vi is a good person. if she finds out that you're yearning for more than what's between you two at the moment, she may just see herself out of your life, so as to not hurt you. and you didn't want that. you wanted vi, even if it was only like this.

the real answer to her question rests at the base of your throat like an ache, throbbing a little along with the parts of your body vi had gripped a little too harshly. i didn't like to feel used.

but you shrug your shoulders and say, "well, i just didn't need it anymore."

vi doesn't answer, only turns to leave. "will you come tomorrow?" you ask, trying not to sound like you want her to come.

"probably." vi answers, out of the door already. "stay safe, princess." then she's gone, and you're alone again.

the dreary darkness of your room surrounds you once more, and you feel hot and sticky. ignoring the discomfort, you slump into your bed again, realizing how painfully little you know about vi. yes, she's jinx's older sister. yes, she's nothing like her. yes, she's beautiful--handsome; ghost-pale, dark red roots showing through the dyed black hair, sad eyes lit with want. you loved those nights when she would let you reciprocate and make her feel good.

when she would ask for a drink or two. when she would ask to stay the night, and you'd let her sleep on your chest. she wrapped her arms around your body then, holding you both like she's protecting you and like she wants you to keep her safe. you'd hold her, stroke her hair, and stay awake praying the morning comes late.

and then there are nights like tonight--where she's quieter and more distant. where she leaves too soon. like she's holding herself back. it infuriates you, almost. you want to ask her what she wants. you want to tell her what you want.

shifting your stare from the ceiling to your door that hangs ajar, you let out a heavy sigh. next time, maybe you'll ask her. maybe you'll tell her. maybe. if the surge of body-and-mind desperation to make the moment last long enough doesn't overthrow everything else, you will. but you know it'll be easier said than done.

vi melts you like shaved ice in the sun. you feel alive with those dead eyes, calloused hands and busted lips on you. you feel alive to be wanted by her. and you'll do anything if it means holding her a little longer. if that meant seeing her like this, getting to be her good girl for a night--then so be it.

line cook!abby has two different modes during a lunch or dinner rush: weirdly calm and terrifyingly competent or one minor inconvenience away from burning the entire restaurant down.

line cook!abby works the grill and flat-top primarily, usually alongside her roommate (and best friend) manny. the two of them argue like an old married couple most of the time, which you find hilarious.

line cook!abby has a personal beef with ticket machine. she had broken at least 5 in the entire time she’s worked there, and marlene tells her that the next one is coming out of her paycheck. but it never actually does.

line cook!abby who says things like, “behind”, “move”, “corner” like a drill sergeant.

line cook!abby’s work uniform consists of an array of oversized band tees or cut off tees, cargo shorts or sweatpants and a bleach stained apron. she wears her hair in a neat braid down the middle of her back, or in a messy bun. but if her hair is pissing her off that day she’ll throw it into a low ponytail, put on a backwards dad hat and call it good enough.

line cook!abby apparently “has a thing for pretty waitresses” according to manny. but the only waitress she’s ever been soft on is you.

line cook!abby is addicted to caffeine. she cannot go a whole shift without pounding at least two energy drinks or an extra large iced coffee.

line cook!abby constantly checks to make sure you’ve eaten during your shift. and if you try to tell her you’re too busy or you forgot? suddenly a basket of fries or a grilled cheese will appear next to you while you’re ringing in an order at the kiosk. and she’ll mumble a stern, “go eat. now.” before disappearing back behind the line like it’s no big deal.

line cook!abby who runs extremely hot. if she’s not on the line you can usually find her in the walk-in trying to cool herself off and grumbling about how, “marlene needs to fix the damn air conditioner already.”

line cook!abby is always in control of the aux in the kitchen when she’s working and is not afraid to smack anyone who tries to change the music. you and manny can usually tell what kind of mood she’s in by what genre of music she’s playing. so if creed, matchbox twenty or theory of a deadman is blaring when you clock in, you already know she’s been having a rough afternoon.

line cook!abby wears her irritation and annoyance plainly on her face. she’s snarky and short with almost everyone, but the minute you ask for something? she visibly softens, and does whatever you asked for without question.

“abs, can I get another basket of fries, please?” and with a soft flutter of your lashes or a warm smile, she’s folding immediately—dumping a fresh batch of fries into a basket and sliding them into the expo window without uttering a single complaint.

“christ, you are so fucking whipped, cariño.”

line cook!abby keeps a bandana in her back pocket or a clean towel draped over her shoulder to be able to wipe the sweat from her face throughout her shift. the one time she didn’t seem to have one and had to use the hem of her t-shirt, you nearly dropped an entire tray of food.

line cook!abby has the biggest praise kink. you tell her something she made was delicious? instantly bashful, ears turning pink as she ducks her head and tries to pretend you didn’t just turn her insides to mush. and you’re absolutely tucking that information away for later.

line cook!abby gets weirdly possessive over kitchen tools. she once threatened manny that she’d scrub their toilet with his toothbrush if he ever touched her knives again.

line cook!abby absolutely cannot flirt like a normal person. so she shows her affection in subtle ways like: not complaining or giving you shit when you mess up an order, carrying the ice bucket up to the bar for you because it’s “painful to watch you struggle”, staying late to help you roll silverware after she finishes her own closing duties, playing paramore’s entire discography during a shift that you’re both working together just because she heard you tell leah that they’re one of your favorite bands.

line cook!abby always walks you to your car if the two of you are scheduled to close together. even if she finishes her closing duties faster than you.

line cook!abby absolutely despises remakes or substitutions on orders, and she’s not afraid to let someone know just how much it annoys her.

“the menu says no substitutions, can’t people fucking read?”

“abby, they’re literally allergic to onions.”

“sounds like a personal problem.”

line cook!abby always has a toothpick or pen shoved behind her ear, or stuck in between her teeth. she’s also constantly chewing gum—mostly because she knows it annoys the hell out of manny but baby girl has a oral fixation. she just doesn’t want to admit it.

line cook!abby will absolutely complain about having to close, but it’s secretly her favorite shift to work. especially if you’re on the schedule.

line cook!abby takes a lot of pride in her work, even when she’s slammed and is glaring at every new ticket that comes through like they personally insulted her. but even then she never lets a plate go out on the floor looking like a damn mess.

the one exception she ever made was the time your ex came in and made it their personal mission to make your night a living hell. so when she found you crying in the walk-in not long after, she ‘accidentally’ let that burger burn to a crisp before sending it out with a satisfied smirk.

line cook!abby who always seems to smell like a combination of fresh citrus, old spice and smoke from the grill, no matter how often she washes her clothes.

line cook!abby is constantly burning her hands on something. half the time she doesn’t really react anymore besides cursing under her breath or mumbling a barely audible, “yeah that was fucking dumb, abigail.” to herself.

but if you are in the back when it happens? you’ll insist on helping her bandage it until she finally relents with the most adorable scowl.

line cook!abby is terrible at hiding her jealousy. while she doesn’t cause a scene, or become overly possessive—if she sees a customer flirting with you, she absolutely makes it everyone else’s problem.

she’s slamming pans harder than necessary, muttering constant curses under her breath at the grill, shouting for “someone to run this fucking food already!” the second it appears in the expo window. lev finds it a little too hilarious and is always roasting her when he’s bringing clean dishes up from the pit.

line cook!abby is extremely sentimental. you wrote her a little thank you note on the back of a discarded receipt once before you two started dating and she still has it taped to the inside of her locker.

line cook!abby isn’t big on pda, but when she realizes how much her touch seems to affect you, she makes any and every excuse to get her hands on you when you’re working together. whether it’s a hand against the small of your back as she passes behind you in the kitchen, curling a finger into the loop of your jeans to pull you out of the way when another staff member is dashing around the corner, sneaking up behind you to rest her chin on your shoulder when you’re ringing an order in.

she thinks she’s being subtle most of the time, but abby is about as subtle as a bull in a china shop.

The first pale gray of dawn is bleeding through the gaps in her curtains. Somewhere outside, a barn swallow's tuning up. In the distance, a cow lets out a long, low moan—breakfast's late, and she's letting everyone know it. There's hay to haul. Stalls to muck. A fence line Abby meant to check yesterday. All of it's waiting, same as it always does.

But you're here. And suddenly none of that feels urgent.

Your face is smushed into the crook of her neck—smushed being the only word for it, because there's nothing elegant about the way you sleep, and Abby's never loved anything more. One leg's hooked over hers, lazy and possessive even in unconsciousness. Your fingers are loosely fisted in the front of her threadbare henley, like you were holding on when you drifted off and never let go.

You're so warm. So soft. Every breath you take puffs slow and steady against her collarbone, and Abby swears she can feel it all the way down to her bones. Down to the marrow.

She's not gonna move.

Not to check the fence. Not to feed the stock. Not for anything short of a five-alarm fire or the Second Coming. Because this—this right here—is the quietest her head's been in years. The barn, the chores, the endless list of things that need doing—it's all still there, but it's like someone turned the volume down. Muffled it behind a door she doesn't have to open yet.

Abby looks at the clock on the nightstand. 5:23.

She looks back at you.

And something in her chest goes tight—not painful, exactly, but aware. The way a muscle feels right before it gives out. The way the ground feels when you've been on horseback so long you forgot what standing still was like.

This is how it starts, she thinks. Not with grand gestures or dramatic confessions. But like this: lying awake at dawn with a woman in her arms who makes her want to blow off the only life she's ever known.

And fuck.

She should move. She knows she should move. The chickens won't feed themselves, and the horses get ornery if breakfast runs late—especially that chestnut mare, who'll bang her feed bucket against the stall door until someone pays attention. Ellie's already gonna give her shit for sleeping in past six. 

Abby shifts just slightly. Tries to.

And you make this sound. This tiny, unconscious mmmpfh of protest, your brow furrowing for half a second before your arm tightens around her like you're anchoring her to the bed by sheer will. Like you'd wrestle the sun itself back below the horizon if it meant getting five more minutes.

She actually laughs under her breath. Soft. Low. Just a huff of air through her nose, because Jesus, you're not even awake, and you're already bossing her around. Already telling her no, stay, you don't get to leave yet.

Abby's resolve crumbles like a biscuit in gravy—instant, messy, and so damn satisfying she doesn't even try to put it back together.

Her chin comes to rest on top of your head, and she breathes you in deep: your shampoo—something floral, she'll have to ask about it later—your skin, warm and soft against her lips, the faint sweetness of whatever perfume you'd been wearing last night that's still clinging to your collarbones.

God. She's gonna smell like you all day now.

The thought does something dangerous to her chest.

The morning light is barely starting to filter through her curtains—pale gold and soft grey, the kind of light that makes everything look like a dream she's not ready to wake up from. Dust motes drift lazy through the air. Somewhere outside, the world is waking up, starting its noisy, demanding, get-to-work morning chorus.

But in here? In here, it's quiet.

And for the first time in her entire goddamn life—the first time since she was a little girl falling asleep to the sound of rain on the tin roof, safe and small and untroubled—Abby feels her eyes grow heavy again.

Not restless. Not wired. Not that familiar hum of anxiety under her skin that's been there so long she forgot what silence felt like.

She's so comfortable. You're so comfortable. Like you were made to fit right here in her arms, like the universe carved out this exact space just for you and spent the rest of eternity waiting for her to find it. Her shoulder cradles your head like a missing puzzle piece. Your knees slot between hers like they belong there. Every breath you take nudges you closer, and every time, Abby just holds on tighter.

Her muscles—usually strained with the day's first tension, already braced for whatever needs hauling or fixing or wrangling—go slack. One by one, like dominoes. Like her body's been waiting for permission to stop.

Her mind—usually already racing through a to-do list a mile long, jumping from feed stock to check fence to call farrier before her feet even hit the floor—goes quiet. Not empty. Just… still. Like a pond after the wind dies down.

All she can hear is the soft rhythm of your breathing. The occasional sleepy murmur you make when you shift. The distant crow of a rooster she's now fully committed to ignoring.

Abby's eyes flutter closed. Then open again. She glances at the clock—5:37—and for a second, the old habits twitch. Get up. Get moving. Don't waste daylight.

But then you sigh against her neck, content and soft, and that voice gets real quiet real fast.

Tomorrow, she tells herself, I'll be responsible tomorrow.

It happens about an hour later—or maybe two, or maybe three—Abby's lost all sense of time buried under you like this. The morning light's shifted from pale gray to something warmer, golder, spilling across the foot of the bed like honey. She's been drifting in and out, not really sleeping, just being. Listening to you breathe. Counting the tiny flutter of your lashes against her skin when you dream.

She's never done this before. Never just… stopped.

And then it comes.

The first knock.

Not a gentle one, either. A full-on, knuckle-busting bang bang bang that rattles the damn door in its frame. Abby flinches like she's been caught stealing.

"Anderson!"

Ellie's voice. Of course it's Ellie. Sharp, teasing, way too loud for this hour—or any hour, really.

Abby's eyes snap open, disoriented for half a second before the last few hours come rushing back: you. Her bed. The fact that she has never missed morning chores. Not once. Not in years. Her daddy used to say you could set your watch by her, and he wasn't wrong.

"You alive in there?" Ellie calls out, rapping again, harder this time. "It's past seven!"

Past seven.

Abby's internal clock screams in protest—a visceral, full-body betrayal. The horses are probably staging a revolt. The chickens have unionized. 

She should've been mucking stalls an hour ago. Should've hauled hay, checked water troughs, done about fifteen things she hasn't even started.

But then you stir.

Just a little. A soft, sleepy sound muffled against her neck—not quite a word, not quite a whine, just this tiny mm of protest at the noise. Your nose burrows deeper into the crook of her shoulder. Your fingers flex against her chest like you're holding on tighter.

And Abby's whole body goes rigid.

Don't wake up. Please don't wake up. 

She needs Ellie to shut up. Right now. Immediately. Preferrably five minutes ago.

"I'm fine," Abby hisses toward the door, voice low and rough with sleep—and something else. Something that sounds almost like begging. "Go away."

"The hell you are," Ellie fires back, completely undeterred. "You've never been late a single day since I've known you. Dina's taking bets on whether you got abducted by coyotes or finally keeled over from a protein overdose."

Another bang on the door. Louder this time. "Seriously, Abs, you okay? I'm coming in—"

"No—don't—"

Too late.

The door swings open with a groan of old hinges, and Ellie barrels inside like she owns the place—all smug concern and messy ponytail.

She takes two steps in. Three.

Then freezes mid-stride.

You're still curled around Abby like a koala—no, like a vice, like you're trying to fuse your body to hers in your sleep. Your face is tucked into her shoulder, half-buried in the collar of her henley. One of your legs is hooked over both of hers. One of Abby's hands is splayed flat across your back, fingers spread like she's been guarding you. The other is tangled in your hair, frozen mid-stroke, like she fell asleep like that and never let go.

Ellie's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"Oh," she breathes, drawing it out into about four syllables. Her eyebrows are somewhere near her hairline.

Abby's already bright red. The flush has crawled up her neck, flooded her cheeks, probably reached the tips of her ears by now. She looks like she's been standing in a field fire.

"Don't," Abby warns, voice low and dangerous.

"Oh my God."

"Ellie, I swear to God—"

"So this is why you didn't show up." Ellie crosses her arms, leaning against the doorframe like she's settling in for a show.

"Keep your voice down," Abby hisses, glancing down at you—still asleep, thank every god she doesn't believe in—and then back at Ellie with murder in her eyes. Actual murder. The kind you read about in true crime podcasts. "She's still sleeping."

Ellie's grin somehow gets wider. It's almost impressive, honestly—like watching a cat stretch before it pounces. She looks at you, then at Abby, then back at you, and her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline. There's a long, deliberate pause, the kind that's meant to make Abby squirm.

It's working.

"Holy shit," Ellie breathes, her voice pitching up with pure, undiluted delight. "You're domestic."

"I will end you." The words come out strangled, half-threat, half-plea. Abby's grip on you tightens instinctively, like she's protecting you from Ellie's chaos—or maybe holding on for emotional support. Hard to tell.

"You're in bed." Ellie jabs a finger toward the tangled sheets like she's presenting evidence in a courtroom. "Cuddling." She draws the word out, savoring every syllable. "Look at you. Big scary Abby Anderson, built like a brick shithouse, can deadlift a baby cow, and you're the little spoon."

"I am not the little spoon—"

"You're literally wrapped around her like a goddamn blanket." Ellie gestures broadly at the two of you.

"Get out of my room."

"You haven't even heard my favorite part yet."

"I don't want to hear your favorite part—"

"Your face is the color of a fire truck." Ellie's grin is practically feral now. "Like, full-on tomato territory. I didn't even know you could blush. I thought your blood was just, like, tractor grease or something."

Abby's face is on fire. Not metaphorically—she's pretty sure actual flames are licking up her neck, across her cheeks, probably setting her hair on fire at this point. She can feel the heat radiating off her own skin.

She grabs the nearest pillow—one of the ones that got shoved to the foot of the bed sometime in the night, victims of all that restless shifting before she finally settled down with you—and hurls it at Ellie's head with embarrassing accuracy.

Thwack.

Ellie catches it—catches it, the show-off—laughing so hard she's practically wheezing, and holds it up like a shield. "Okay, okay, I'm going! Jesus." She's backing toward the door, but she's not done yet, because of course she isn't. 

"Personally, I was rooting for alien abduction, but this is way better."

"Out."

Ellie holds up both hands in surrender, still cackling, and slips through the doorway. But she pauses there, half-in and half-out, her laughter dying down to something quieter. Something real.

Her expression softens, just a fraction—just enough for Abby to catch the genuine warmth underneath all the teasing. The way Ellie's looking at her isn't mocking anymore. It's almost… proud. In a weird, Ellie-shaped way.

"For real, though," Ellie says, quieter now. She jerks her chin toward the door, toward the rest of the ranch, toward all the chores and responsibilities and people who are definitely gossiping about this right now. "I'll cover for you. Tell Jesse you've got the flu or something. Tell Tommy you're doing inventory." A smirk tugs at her lips. "Tell 'em you're busy."

Abby blinks, her flush finally starting to fade from "volcano" to just "embarrassed human." "You will?"

"Yeah, well." Ellie shrugs, that crooked grin softening into something almost kind. She glances down at you—still curled up, still dead to the world—and something flickers across her face. Recognition, maybe. Or memory. "If I had her in my bed, I wouldn't wanna leave either."

She's gone before the pillow Abby throws next can connect.

Abby exhales—long, slow, embarrassed, and weirdly grateful—and lets her head fall back against the pillow. Her heart's still pounding. Her face is still warm. Her entire body is still humming with that strange, unfamiliar feeling of being seen.

She looks down at you.

Still sleeping. Cheek squished against her shoulder, mouth slightly open, lashes fanned out across your cheeks like little crescent moons. Your breathing is slow and even, completely undisturbed by the chaos that just unfolded six feet from your head.

Still perfect.

Still completely oblivious to the fact that your existence just derailed her entire morning.

The ugly little community center just outside Arcadia Bay was exactly what you’d expect: beige walls with peeling posters about “wellness,” fluorescent lights that buzzed too loud, and a faint scent of overbrewed coffee.

And here Chloe sat, legs stretched out in front of her, arms crossed over her chest, hood up even though it was warm inside. Her nails were chewed short again. She’d smoked half a pack on the drive over and still wanted another.

The metal chair beneath her groaned as she shifted. There were about nine other people in the room. Most she’d seen before. No one looked her in the eye for long anymore.

That was fine. That was preferable. She didn’t come here to connect. She came because she had to. Because Joyce had begged. Because after the overdose, the ambulance, and the silence that followed, Chloe hadn’t been able to look at her mother’s face without feeling the weight of her failure. Her mom didn’t even cry when the nurses said “she’s lucky to be alive.” She just sat. Still. As if crying would’ve taken more strength than she had left.

“Just one meeting, Chloe. That’s all I’m asking.”

She had to say yes. Not because she believed it would help. Not because she wanted it. But because she didn’t know what else to do. There wasn’t much left to break inside her, but the thought of seeing Joyce bury another person was unbearable. 

So here she was. Again.

Every week, like clockwork. Pretending to listen to people talk about their lowest points while she mapped escape routes in her head. There were stories of pills, anger, silence, absent fathers, abusive boyfriends, cutting, fear, rehab. All of it bleeding together into a kind of white noise.

Chloe sat in the back. She didn’t speak. Didn’t listen. Just counted down the minutes until she could walk out, light a cigarette, and pretend none of it happened. That’s, of course, until you showed up.

You walked in, quietly. You didn’t look around like you wanted attention, you just looked tired. Like you’d been carrying something so heavy for so long that your body had adapted around it. And Chloe noticed it instantly. You weren’t the kind of girl who got noticed. Your clothes were oversized, your sleeves stretched over your hands like you didn’t want to touch anything, your backpack had one strap nearly torn, and your hair looked like you hadn’t had the energy to brush it that day. You moved like you didn’t expect anyone to see you. You didn’t even bother to introduce yourself. 

And Chloe couldn’t stop staring.

She didn’t know why, not at first. Something inside her recognized something inside you, and that terrified her. Because she wasn’t used to seeing reflections anymore. She thought Rachel was the only person left who had cracked through her defenses, who burned through her with that fierce, golden kind of chaos. But you — you were different. You didn’t come in blazing. You came in quiet, bleeding silently. And Chloe felt it. Felt you. Like your pain was vibrating on the same low, invisible frequency she lived on every damn day.

You didn’t speak. And neither did she.

But she saw the way your hands fidgeted in your lap, trying and failing to hide how bad they were shaking. The way your eyes never stayed anywhere too long. You didn’t lean forward when people spoke, you didn’t nod along or fake empathy or pretend you were engaging. 

She didn’t hear a word anyone said in the group. Not that she usually did, but this time, it was different. She couldn’t even pretend to listen because you were there, not saying anything, not doing anything, but pulling her toward you like gravity. And the worst part? You hadn’t even noticed her. It almost made Chloe’s chest ache how your eyes didn’t search for her the way hers did.

The session ended earlier that day. The group clapped weakly, as the chairs scraped loudly. Backpacks zipped. People started talking again. A few hugged. Chloe stood slowly, her eyes already searching for you. You hadn’t moved. You were still sitting, like the surrounding noise hadn't been registered.

She took one step. Then another. And then someone cut between you. One of the regulars said something to the group leader that drew her attention. Another girl dropped her water bottle. Someone else reached for their jacket, stepping in Chloe’s path. And when she looked again, you were gone.

Gone like smoke. Gone like Rachel. Like her dad. Like Max. Gone like everything else that ever mattered. She pushed through the people, got to the hallway. Empty. The parking lot was fading into dusk. Her truck sat there like it always did, but you weren’t anywhere. 

She stood there for a long time, hands in her pockets, feeling like the world had just walked away again, and she hadn’t moved quickly enough to follow.

That night, at dinner, she barely spoke. Joyce had made Chloe's favorite dish, and kept her voice gentle. Not pushing. Not too hopeful. Just… waiting.

“How was the meeting?”

Chloe shrugged. Fork in hand. Eyes on her plate.

“Fine.” Joyce nodded, quiet. She didn’t ask more. Then Chloe looked up. Her voice low. “I think I’ll go again next week.”

Joyce blinked. She didn’t say anything. Something in her face flickered. Relief, maybe. Or belief. And Chloe looked back down at her food.

After, once she was lying on her bed, music low, smoke curling from the cracked window, the ceiling stared back at her. The rain tapped quietly against the glass. Her hoodie still smelled like nicotine. And in her head, there was only you.

Friday came like a storm that had been building in her chest all week. She told herself she wouldn’t care if you didn’t show up.

She lit a cigarette before she even parked. Walked into group fifteen minutes late. Sat in the same chair, hoodie up, eyes low, listening to the same recycled grief from kids trying their best not to drown. But her chest was doing that thing again. That tight thing. The one that made her fingers dig into her sleeves and her brain scream don’t fucking care, don’t look around, don’t check the door like a lovesick dog.

But, she checked anyway. You weren’t there. And it was like the air got colder the second she realized it. She tried to sit through it. Tried to let the minutes pass like they were supposed to. But her leg wouldn’t stop bouncing, and someone next to her kept sniffling, and the room was too bright and too clean and too fake.

So she left. Didn’t say a word. Just stood up, walked out, lit another cigarette with shaking fingers, and climbed the rusted stairs to the roof like the smoke might stop her from remembering your face.

She hadn’t expected anything. Not really. You were probably just another burnout like her, floating through the system. Maybe you got transferred. Maybe you overdosed. Maybe you finally slipped into that place Chloe always hovered over and never had the guts to fall into.

But then, when she hit the last step, there you were.

Hood up, legs curled underneath you, cigarette dangling lazily from your fingers. Your hair looked different in the wind. Your face pale, haunted, like you hadn’t slept in a week. You didn’t look at her when she opened the door. And for a full three seconds, Chloe forgot how to breathe.

And before she could react, she chose to ignore you. Completely. Because in her head it made sense. So, she lit her cigarette with practiced ease, and leaned back against the low concrete wall. She inhaled hard. Smoke bit the back of her throat. Good.

Before silence could settle, she heard your voice behind her.

“Holy shit” you snorted. “I knew you were stalking me.” 

Chloe didn’t look over. Just took a long drag and closed her eyes, like maybe if I don’t react, she’ll think I’m someone else. But the corner of her mouth twitched. Because your voice, tired and dry and amused, hit her right in the gut. Still, Chloe didn’t look. Didn’t trust her face to be casual enough yet.

Then, teasing her, you added, “You’re the creep from last week. Stared at me the whole time like I was gonna vanish or something.”

That did it. Chloe let out a choking laugh, exhaling smoke hard through her nose. Her shoulders shook with it. She shook her head, muttered, “Jesus,” and finally turned.

Your eyes — when they locked on hers — were so sharp, it made her forget how to sit still. Chloe smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, well. You did look like you were about to vanish. I was just waiting to see if you’d leave your body mid-share circle.”

“That would’ve at least made the session less boring.”

There was a long pause. The wind picked up again. Your hair blew in your face. You didn’t push it away. And Chloe, who was trying way too hard to look chill, lit another cigarette out of sheer panic. She felt like her mouth might betray her, say something too real, so she defaulted to sarcasm.

“So what, you just sit on roofs and wait for someone to fall in love with you?”

You didn’t laugh, not really. More of a breathy, bitter sound. “Bold of you to assume anyone falls in love with me.”

Chloe froze. Just for a second. But something in her chest twisted painfully. The silence settled again, heavier this time. Then your cigarette shifted in your fingers and Chloe caught it — your sleeve falling back just enough to show a faded hospital bracelet.

Her stomach dropped. Your name was printed on it. What a twisted way to get to know your name, she thought. The paper was creased. The edges dirty, like you hadn’t taken it off. Maybe hadn’t even noticed it was still there.

But Chloe noticed. Of course she did.

“Didn’t feel like joining the circle jerk?” Chloe said, but her voice faltered, softer this time.

You shrugged, looking out over the parking lot. “Got discharged this morning. Barely made it here in time to hide.”

“Hospital?”

Another shrug. “72-hour hold.”

Chloe swallowed. She didn’t know what to say. Or rather, she didn’t know how to say it without sounding like she cared too much, too fast. She didn’t want you to feel how much her heart was pounding.

“Nice bracelet,” she said instead.

You laughed once, bitter. “Yeah. Super on trend.” Chloe smiled, and then flicked her cigarette over the edge and sighed. You picked at your sleeve, eyes down. “So, what’s your deal?”

She hesitated. Then shrugged, reaching for her lighter again. “Still figuring it out. Step one was not dying.”

You nodded. “Sounds familiar.”

She wanted to ask about you. About what happened. About the bracelet and the hold and the way you didn’t flinch when she looked at you too long.

But she didn’t. You weren’t ready. And neither was she.

Trying to keep a steady voice, she asked, “Are you from Arcadia Bay?”

“Not really. I just moved here because my dad said it was the best program in all Oregon.” Chloe nodded. “I'm from Newport, not far, though.”

“It is a few hours away. You come here every Friday for an hour?”

You looked at her, eyes narrowed. Trying to figure something out. “I'm staying with my aunt until I get better.” You stood up suddenly, brushing ash off your jeans. Chloe’s stomach dropped like she was twelve again and watching her dad drive away for the last time.

But you didn’t leave right away. You looked down at her, voice casual, but not cold. “I like your hair, by the way.”

Chloe blinked. “…What?”

You turned, walking toward the door. “The blue. It matches your eyes.” She stared after you. Frozen. And then, just before the door clicked shut behind you, you looked back. “See you next Friday, creep.”

It became a thing.

Not planned. Not talked about. Definitely not agreed upon.

But every Friday, once group started, Chloe would bolt up the back stairwell to the roof, cigarette already halfway to her lips. And you’d be there. Every damn time.

Always already there, actually. Legs up on the ledge, hoodie sleeves pulled over your knuckles, face turned toward the sky. You never greeted her with more than a look. A twitch of your mouth. A knowing glance that said hey, creep without needing the words.

And Chloe… she’d sit on the opposite side. At first. Always pretending it wasn’t a big deal. Always smoking like she wasn’t counting every second between your glances, every movement of your fingers as you tapped ash off the edge, every time you spoke — in that low, dry voice. 

Some Fridays you didn’t talk at all. Other Fridays you talked too much. But never about the things that led you both here. That was the unspoken deal. Instead, you gave her pieces. Scattered breadcrumbs you never meant to drop, but Chloe remembered. 

“Sorry I missed last week,” you said one day, on your second cigarette, kicking your legs a little like you were trying to feel something. “My aunt had a meltdown over me sleeping past noon. Said I was ‘slipping again.’”

Chloe snorted. “Is she, like, your parole officer or just a fun roommate?”

“She’s the only one who volunteered to take me in. My mom’s…” You trailed off. Picked at a loose thread on your jeans. “She’s not in the picture. Not really. I guess she kind of erased the picture.”

Chloe didn’t say anything, just flicked her ash and nodded once, sharp and understanding in that way that didn’t need language.

You went on. “I’ve got a brother, though. He’s older. Lives two states away. He… He doesn't know I relapsed... Multiple times.”

“Are you still in touch?”

You focused your attention to the blue butterfly that rested besides Chloe. “You could say that.”

By the fourth Friday, you showed up with an old sticker-covered thermos and handed it to her without looking.

Chloe raised an eyebrow. “You trying to poison me?”

“Hot chocolate,” you said. “My aunt made some, and I wanted to be sure you ate at least something.” The blue-eyed girl didn't look convinced, so you smiled warmly, and added, “don't worry, creep. This is the real kind. Not that powdered crap.”

She took a sip. Burned her tongue. Pretended she didn’t care. “Holy shit, this is actually good.”

You smirked. “Don’t act so shocked. I’m mentally ill, not talentless.”

And Chloe choked on her laugh, nearly dropped the thermos, and for a second — just a second — she forgot how much she hated everything.

The fifth Friday, she brought up her nerdiness for films.

And as she ranted abou how fucking cool Blade Runner was, you tilted your head. “You ever seen Corpse Bride?”

Chloe narrowed her eyes. “No. But I’ve seen Coraline, though. ”

You breathed in, feigning offense. “Dude. Tim Burton has nothing to do with Coraline.”

“Wait, really?”

You laughed, not even couching from the cigarette. “Do yourself a favor and watch Corpse Bride, will you?”

Before she could think it twice, Chloe blurted out, “Well, maybe we could watch it together?” You blinked. The silence that followed was heavy. Like even the wind was waiting. She rubbed the back of her neck. Already feeling the anxiety crawl up her stomach. “Or any movie you like. Could be fun.”

You looked at her. Really looked. And then you smiled. “That would be nice.”

Chloe’s heart did something ugly and soft and terrifying all at once. “…Cool,” she said, like it wasn’t the most important fucking ‘yes’ she’d heard in months.

Chloe woke up with her face buried in her pillow, a crust of eyeliner smudged across her cheek. She blinked slowly at the ceiling, trying to remember what day it was, why her sheets felt too hot, and why her phone was buzzing from somewhere under the blankets.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

She groaned. Rolled over. Fished it out. 1:47 PM

“Shit.” She bolted upright, nearly launching herself off the bed. Her spine cracked. Her heart absolutely exploded in her chest.

You. You were supposed to come over. Or maybe you’d left because she was a lazy, passed-out idiot who couldn’t even get her ass up for the first real thing she’d looked forward to in... what, months? Years?

She practically fell out of bed, dragging on the first hoodie she found, hair sticking out in a thousand directions, socks mismatched. She didn’t even brush her teeth. Just charged out of her room like something was on fire. Which, emotionally, it was.

But she stopped cold on the last step of the stairs. There you were. 

In her goddamn living room. Sitting on the couch, casual as hell, talking to Joyce like you’d known her for years. One leg tucked under you, a glass of orange juice in your hand, and — holy shit — your hair done. Not in that half-assed, shoved-under-a-hoodie way you usually wore it, but actually done. Tamed. Soft.

And the clothes. Gone was the baggy, faded hoodie and the jeans that could’ve belonged to someone’s dad. You had on something still oversized, still comfy, still you — but there was intention now. A long-sleeved black top layered under a loose band tee, ripped tights, and a pair of boots that had seen better days. You looked like a ghost trying to blend in with the living, and failing beautifully.

Still pale. Still tired. The dark moons under your eyes looked untouched. Chloe’s chest did a weird fucking thing when she saw them. Like confirmation that you were real.

But you were smiling. You smiled when you saw her — sleepy and stunned and slack-jawed at the base of the stairs.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” you teased, lifting your juice like a toast.

Chloe blinked. She was still paralyzed.

Joyce laughed, warm and delighted. “I was just telling your friend how I was gonna march up there and drag you outta bed if you didn’t show.”

Chloe’s face burned. She didn’t know how to respond to this.  You. In her house. Drinking juice. Talking to her mom.

You didn’t even like to eat breakfast. You told her that last week. You said you felt sick in the mornings, that food didn’t feel right in your mouth. And yet here you were, sipping a glass of juice like it was no big deal, like this was normal. Like Chloe hadn’t just come down the stairs ready to have a heart attack over the fact that you might be gone.

“Uh,” she managed, voice dry as hell. “You... got in.”

“She knocked,” Joyce chirped. “Very politely, by the way. You’ve got a polite one. I like her.”

Chloe wanted to die. Right there, at the foot of the stairs. Wanted the house to implode, or at least for the floor to eat her whole.

She cleared her throat, shoved her hands in her hoodie pocket, and muttered, “You... wanna come up or whatever?”

You raised your eyebrows in amusement. “Wow. What an invite.”

Joyce swatted Chloe’s shoulder as she passed. “Let her finish her juice first, lady. Jesus.”

“She doesn’t even like breakfast!” Chloe hissed, like that proved something, like she wasn’t losing her goddamn mind seeing you in her living room.

You grinned over the rim of your glass. “Guess I make exceptions.”

And fuck, the way you said that. Casual. Teasing. But soft.

Joyce grabbed her purse and keys, already halfway out the door. “I’ve gotta head to the diner, but you girls behave, yeah?”

“Sure will” you replied.

The door clicked shut behind her. Silence. Chloe stood frozen for a beat, then finally turned and looked at you. Really looked.

“Dude,” she said. “You’re, like... terrifying.”

You snorted. “Because I talked to your mom?”

“Because you’re in my house, charming the one person who still kind of tolerates me. And you even drank juice. Who the hell are you?”

You shrugged, sipping the last of it. “Maybe I wanted to impress you.” Chloe choked. On nothing. You laughed, biting your lip. “Fuck. You’re so easy to mess with.”

She pointed a finger at you like a warning. “You’re so lucky you’re kind of funny.”

“Kind of?” you echoed, standing now, stretching again. The hem of your shirt lifted a little, showing a flash of your hipbone, pale and marked faintly by something Chloe didn’t dare ask about. Not yet.

You walked past her on the stairs, glancing over your shoulder as you said, “Show me your room, Price. And try not to faint on the way.”

Chloe stood there for half a second longer. Heart in her throat. Mind racing. And then she followed, two steps at a time, suddenly seventeen again, suddenly so far from the edge she didn’t know how to breathe without the fall.

Her room hadn’t changed much since she was fifteen. Still smelled like old incense and stale smoke, vinyls stacked like makeshift shelves, posters peeling slightly from the walls. A few crushed soda cans littered the desk, and her bed wasn't made, her blanket thrown half on, half off, pillows wherever.

Still, you flopped down on it without hesitation. No judgment in your eyes. No weird reaction to the mess. You kicked off your boots, curled into the blanket like you belonged there — like it was normal for you to be here, in her space, lying on her bed like you’d done it a hundred times before.

And Chloe? Chloe just stood there, staring like she was trying to memorize the whole scene. And failing.

“Alright, Burton bitch,” she said, grabbing the stack of dusty DVDs beside her old player. “Ready?”

You tilted your head. “Is that even a question?”

She smirked, biting her lip, heart thudding so loud it might’ve echoed off the walls. She slid Corpse Bride into the player and hit play.

The screen flickered to life. And god, you looked beautiful in blue light. Like something from the film, half-gothic, half-fantasy, skin washed pale and eyes glowing like you’d stepped out of a graveyard ballroom.

She sat down beside you, way too aware of how close her knee was to yours.

Halfway through a song, she blurted, “fuck. Okay. I get it.”

You turned to her, brows raised. “Get what?”

“The Tim Burton thing. I used to think his stuff was, like, try-hard dark. But watching it with you?” She gestured at the screen. “Makes total sense. You look like you belong in one of his movies.”

You laughed, dry and warm and so easy. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“As you should,” Chloe muttered, staring a second too long before pretending to be super interested in a dancing skeleton.

The air shifted. The room got quieter, like it was holding its breath with her.

And then, halfway through the piano duet, you sat up a bit, reached into your pocket, and pulled out a pre-rolled joint. Casual. Like it was part of your standard kit.

Chloe blinked. “Damn. Okay.”

You gave her that crooked little grin she was starting to obsess over. “You smoke?”

“Cigs. Nicotine. Nothing... you know.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Haven’t really touched weed since… A long time.” Since Rachel, actually.

Your expression softened, but you didn’t pry. Didn’t push. Just held the joint out, shrugging. “No pressure. Just figured. Mood’s right.”

Chloe looked at it, and then at you. You were holding it between two fingers, loose and lazy, hair falling over your cheek like shadows. You didn’t look dangerous, but something about you definitely was. Dangerous to her balance, her grip on herself, her carefully built wall of I-don’t-give-a-shit.

“Fuck it,” she mumbled, and took it.

You lit it for her. And your fingers touched hers — a soft press, a spark so small it almost felt imagined. She inhaled. And coughed. “Jesus.”

You laughed. “Lightweight.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she rasped, blowing smoke through a grin.

You took a hit and leaned back on your elbows, eyes half-lidded, lashes catching the TV light. “You know,” you said slowly, “for a girl who looks like she’d call me a poser and kick me in the shin, you’re kinda sweet.”

Chloe barked a laugh. “Sweet?”

You turned to her. “Don’t deny it. You let me invade your room and ruin your day.”

“You could never ruin my day.” 

That seemed to shut up your pride. Instead of mocking her comment, you stared at her, doe eyes looking right at her blue ones.

Chloe’s lungs forgot how to work. “You—” She pointed at you with the joint. “Are actually evil.”

You tilted your head, mock-innocent. “You’re the one blushing.”

“I’m not blushing,” she lied, eyes wide.

You grinned. “You’re so blushing.”

“Shut up.”

You didn’t. Instead, you just scooted a little closer.

Not enough to press against her, but enough that your knee brushed hers again. Light, then intentional.

“Do I make you nervous, Price?” you asked, voice roughened slightly by the smoke.

Chloe’s throat worked around a sudden lump. “You wish.”

“Oh, I know I do.” Your smirk was evil, devilish, smug as hell. “But I think you like it.”

“I think you’re full of shit.”

“Maybe,” you said, taking another slow hit, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “But you’re still staring at my mouth.”

And fuck. She was. She didn’t even deny it. 

The room went silent for a beat. Only the soft hum of the movie, the clink of ash falling into an old soda can. Chloe’s voice came out rougher than she meant. “You’re a fucking menace.”

You leaned closer again, and this time your lips brushed her ear. Barely. A ghost. “I like how you say that,” you whispered. “Like you want me to stop.”

She shivered. The joint burned down between you. Chloe took it with shaking fingers, pulled another hit into her lungs, trying desperately to hold onto whatever cool she had left.

“Do you flirt like this with everyone?” she asked, but her voice was already breaking at the edges.

You looked at her. Really looked. And said, “No.” Then softer, “just with you.”

The joint burned to its filter, and Chloe’s fingers brushed yours when she passed it back one last time. There was nothing left to inhale, but you held it anyway. Just to keep holding something she touched.

The TV flickered forgotten in the background, pale ghosts dancing across the screen. The air smelled like smoke and whatever cheap cologne Chloe wore.

You didn’t remember who leaned in first. Maybe it was both of you. Maybe it didn’t matter. All you knew was suddenly her mouth was on yours — rough, fumbling, all teeth and breath and need. Like neither of you had kissed anyone in a long time. Or maybe like you had, but no one like this. No one who tasted like mistakes and nicotine and something real for once.

She made a noise in her throat, half-surprised, half-starved, as you pulled her down onto the bed, mouths crashing again. Chloe’s hands were at your waist, under your shirt, not grabbing, just there, grounding herself, like if she didn’t hold onto something solid she’d float away. Your leg hooked around hers. Her hair was in your mouth. Her heart was pounding loud enough you could feel it in her chest.

“You’re—” she started, panting a little, forehead against yours. “You’re actually so fucking annoying.”

You grinned, eyes lidded. “Says the girl making out with me like she’s about to start crying.”

She shoved your shoulder lightly. “Shut up.”

“You like me.”

“No shit,” Chloe muttered, just before kissing you again.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t romantic. It was feral, and desperate, and earned. All this built-up static between you, this flammable tension — it exploded, messy and imperfect and exactly what both of you needed.

“What the hell is going on in here?!”

The door slammed open like a gunshot. You both froze. Chloe whipped around so fast she nearly elbowed you. Her entire body locked up.

David Madsen stood in the doorway, red-faced, fists clenched at his sides, that goddamn paranoia in his eyes like he was a soldier storming a battlefield instead of a stepdad walking into his teenage stepdaughter’s bedroom.

The second he smelled the weed, his face darkened.

“Are you fucking serious, Chloe?”

“Hey—” she sat up, voice already defensive, dragging a blanket over both of you, your clothes rumpled, lips swollen, the room spinning, still under the effect of the weed.

“I knew it!” he barked, stepping in like he owned the place. “You think I wouldn’t notice? You think I’m stupid?”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your heart slammed against your ribs like it wanted to be ripped out. The air felt thin. Wrong. You shrank into her bed, small and still, unsure if you were supposed to be here anymore.

“Relax,” Chloe snapped, trying to sound calm but clearly trembling. “It’s not—it's just—fuck, it’s not what it looks like.”

“It looks like you’re getting high again, after everything that’s happened. After what you put your mom through. After your overdose.”

The room dropped ten degrees. You looked at Chloe, shocked. But she was staring at the floor.

“No,” she muttered. “Don’t—don’t bring that up now—!”

David turned on you. “And you.” His voice lashed like a whip. “What the fuck is a junkie doing in my house? What are you filling her head with? Huh?”

Your breath caught.

“No,” Chloe snapped, voice louder, firmer. “Don’t you talk to her like that—”

“I want her out!” David shouted. “Leave right now before I call the cops!”

You were already up. Boots back on. Your jacket in your arms, clutched like a shield. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move fast enough. You moved past him, head down, heart pounding so hard it felt like blood was dripping from your ears.

“Wait—” Chloe reached for you.

You didn’t stop.

“I—I’m sorry,” she called out, her voice cracking, raw with shame. “Please, don’t go—”

But you were already out the door. Gone before she could say another word. The door slammed behind you like the end of a chapter. And Chloe just stood there. In the middle of her room. Eyes burning, fists shaking. The echo of her shame and her failure and everything she’d started to hope for crashing down around her like shattered glass.

“You ruin everything,” David muttered under his breath.

That did it.

“Get the fuck out of my room!” she screamed, voice high and broken, shoving him back with everything she had. “Get the fuck away from me!”

“You’re acting like a goddamn child—”

“I don’t care! I don’t care if I never grow up, if it means I don’t have to be like you!”

Chloe sank to the floor, breath hitching in her throat, shaking so hard she couldn’t hold herself up. The blanket still smelled like you. The taste of you was still on her lips. And all she could do was cry. Just ugly, wrenching sobs into her hands, wishing she could tear her skin off to escape the guilt.

[11:43 AM] hey im so fucking sorry pls just text me back i didn’t know he’d be home i swear you okay?

No response.

Monday Night.

[2:02 AM] can’t sleep i keep thinking about your face when he started yelling you looked so scared i hate him i hate him i hate him i’m sorry. again. god i’m so fucking sorry.

Tuesday.

[7:26 PM] are you even getting these you didn’t deserve any of that you’re not a bad influence. he’s just a fucking moron i liked seeing you. i liked having you here. i like you please talk to me please

Wednesday.

[3:14 AM] i’m going insane do you hate me do you wish you never met me i wouldn’t blame you if you did

She’d sent at least fifty texts by now. Some deleted before they were sent. Some half-written and abandoned in her notes app, buried. Chloe wasn’t used to begging. Or waiting. Or feeling this fucking raw. But every time her phone stayed silent, something inside her cracked wider.

Now it was Friday.

The sky was gray. Not raining, just that kind of thick, pressing cloud that made the whole town feel like it was holding its breath. Chloe didn’t even pretend to go to the meeting, she just went straight to the roof.

Two cigarettes deep. Boot scuffing the gravel like maybe if she stomped hard enough, her guilt would fall through the building.

Every second dragged like maybe the clock was broken. Like maybe time wanted to make her suffer. And still, you were nowhere to be found. The spot where you usually sat was empty. Like you’d never been there at all. She pulled her phone out of her pocket. Hands trembling.

[5:27 PM] are you coming? please. i’m on the roof it’s friday you never miss a friday without telling me

She waited. Waited until her lungs hurt. Until the sun started to dip. Until the group meeting ended and people filtered out into the parking lot below, laughing like nothing had collapsed. Until her phone buzzed, and your name popped in her screen.

She answered so fast she nearly dropped the phone.

“Hello?”

For a beat, it was silent. Then, your voice — low. Distant. Not angry, just… tired. Hollow in a way that made her blood run cold. “I think it’s better if you stop trying to see me.”

Chloe’s stomach dropped. “What?”

You sounded like you were reading from a script. Like you’d rehearsed this. “Your dad was right.”

“He’s not my fucking dad,” she snapped, voice sharp with panic. “Jesus—no, no, please don’t do this. Don’t say that.”

“I mess things up,” you said quietly, like it was just a fact. Like you were reciting your own obituary. “I don’t want to ruin you, too.”

“You’re not—what the fuck are you talking about? You didn’t ruin anything. I want to see you, okay? Just—let me talk to you. Let me see you. Please.”

“Chloe…” And the way you said her name, soft and broken, like it hurt to even speak it — it shattered her. “I can’t.”

Click. The line went dead. For a second, Chloe just stared at her screen. Then her breath caught. Froze. Cracked. And she screamed.

A guttural, awful sound — half-animal, half-child. Rage and grief in one. She hurled her phone across the roof, watched it hit the edge and bounce dangerously close to tumbling off. She didn’t even care.

“Fuck!” she yelled into the air.

She paced. Kicked gravel. Nearly twisted her ankle. Sat down hard and pressed her fists into her eyes, like maybe she could erase the world that way.

Because what did she expect? Of course you would leave. Of course the first good thing she wanted in years would vanish the second it touched something real.

She knew she was losing it the second she left the roof. Like, really fucking losing it.

Because instead of going home, or lighting another cigarette, or laying in her bed until time stopped mattering, Chloe sat in her truck with the engine running and your voice ringing in her head.  “I think it’s better if you stop trying to see me.”

Bullshit. You didn’t believe that, not really.

Not with the way you looked at her last week. Not with how your fingers had curled against her arm like you didn’t want her to leave, not with how you let her kiss you like that—like you needed it just as much as she did.

That wasn’t nothing. It couldn't be nothing. And yeah, maybe she was selfish. Maybe she was being a fucking psycho.

But Chloe couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t sleep or breathe or do anything except replay every single thing you’d told her. Every detail. Every little comment of your life, you dropped without even knowing how much she was catching. “My aunt’s house is pretty close to the shore, you can hear the waved crushing when you can’t sleep.”

Your aunt. The coast. The waves. It was all she had. So she took it.

It started with driving along the cliffside. The radio off. Just the sound of the wind pushing against her windows and her teeth grinding in frustration.

She scanned every house facing the beach. After the fifth turn-off and the third dead end, Chloe nearly gave up. She slapped the steering wheel, cursed out loud, nearly turned around—

Until she saw it. A small, wooden house. White paint chipped in places. Porch light buzzing. Plants along the railing that looked like they hadn’t completely given up yet.

And standing in the yard, watering something in a dusty pot, was a woman. 

And Chloe knew. Don’t ask her how. She just knew.

She pulled up too fast and nearly stalled the truck. Stepped out before she could even think of what the hell she’d say. The woman looked up, cautious but not cold. “Can I help you?”

Chloe shoved her hands in her hoodie, heart racing.

“Uh… I’m looking for—” she said your name, and immediately felt her throat tighten. “I’m—fuck. I’m a friend.”

The woman tilted her head. Blinked slowly. Her mouth pressed into a thin line. Like she was trying to figure Chloe out.

“You must be Chloe.”

Chloe’s stomach flipped. Tried not to think too hard how your aunt knew her name.  “Is she home?”

The woman sighed gently, then shook her head. “She left half an hour ago. Didn’t say where. I'm sorry.”

Of course you didn’t. Chloe nodded. Bit the inside of her cheek. “Okay. Uh—thanks. Sorry for just showing up. I’m not a creep or anything, I just—” she paused. 

“I know,” the woman said softly.

And then Chloe was back in her truck. Nothing left but that tight, desperate buzz under her skin.

So she drove. There was only one other place in Arcadia Bay that ever made her feel remotely okay. One place that had been constant, no matter who left or died or got replaced by screaming stepdads and hospital bills.

The lighthouse.

She didn’t even realize how fast she was going. She just needed to be there. To sit on the ledge and pretend like the world couldn’t reach her for a minute. The sun was already low by the time she parked. The air had that salty chill that bit through her hoodie. But she didn’t care.

She climbed the hill. Boots crunching the dirt. And before she arrived, she saw smoke. Not from a cigarette, it was something thicker. Like weed. And there you were.

Sitting on the stone ledge with your knees pulled up, a half-lit joint in your hand and your hair pulled back, eyes set on the ocean like you were waiting for it to swallow you whole.

You didn’t even look surprised to see her. Just tired. Like you had expected this. Like maybe you had hoped she’d find you, but didn’t want to be the one to ask. Chloe didn’t say anything. Not yet. She just stood there, a few feet away, fists shoved deep into her pockets.

You looked up. Met her eyes. Silent for a beat. “Took you long enough, you creep.”

Chloe’s mouth twitched. “Didn’t exactly leave me a map, you idiot.”

You held out the joint without looking. “Want some?”

“Fuck it,” Chloe muttered, walking over.

She sat beside you, legs dangling. Took a drag. Let it hit hard in her chest before she passed it back. You both stared at the waves for a long time.

“You didn’t answer,” Chloe said. Voice low.

“I know.”

“You said some really fucked-up shit.”

“I know.”

Chloe laughed once, bitter. “Cool. So we’re doing the whole emotionally unavailable thing, huh?”

You shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

“Jesus, why?”

You didn’t answer. Chloe’s jaw clenched. “You really think what he said matters to me? David is a joke. He’s a fucking joke.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not.” That shut her up. You took another hit. Then said, “He wasn’t wrong, Chloe. You’re already dealing with your own shit. You don’t need mine.”

“I want your shit,” Chloe snapped, then groaned. “Okay, that sounded better in my head.”

You snorted. Looked at her for the first time in what felt like forever.

Her heart almost stopped. You looked like hell. Worse than before. Your eyes were sunken, pale skin glowing under the moonlight, but god—she wanted to touch your face so bad it hurt.

Then, you exhaled slow. “Sorry I disappeared.”

“You broke my fucking heart,” Chloe said, blunt and tired. “I don’t even know what this is yet,” she continued. “I just know that when I’m not around you, it feels like shit. And when I’m with you, it feels like—like maybe everything’s not doomed.”

You looked down at your shoes. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“I don’t care.”

“Chloe—”

“Shut up,” she said, but her voice cracked. “Just—can we sit here? For a while? You don’t have to say anything. Just… don’t make me leave without you again.”

“Okay.”

You didn’t say anything as you and Chloe walked down from the lighthouse, just your arms brushing sometimes, your footsteps falling in rhythm, your hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands like you were trying to disappear back into them.

Chloe kept glancing sideways. Not to stare. Just to make sure you were still there. Still real.

There was something about you in the dark — how quiet you got, how soft your face looked when no one was watching, how the wind picked up your hair just enough for her to want to brush it behind your ear.

She didn’t. She just shoved her hands in her pockets and walked.

Your aunt’s house was dim when you got there — porch light on, screen door open just a crack. Chloe saw a shadow move behind the curtains and braced herself for the awkward meeting. But when the door creaked open, the woman just let out a heavy breath and crossed her arms, relief softening the worry in her shoulders.

“There you are,” she said gently, then gave Chloe a nod. “Ah, hello again, Chloe.”

“Uh. Hi.” Chloe lifted a hand in some awkward salute that made her want to walk straight into traffic. 

Your aunt sighed again, like she was exhausted from caring too much. “Come in. I made pizza.”

Chloe was about to mumble some excuse — truck’s running, late night, whatever — but then you spoke. You didn’t look at her when you said it, just brushed past her up the steps and muttered, “You should stay the night, though. It’s pretty dark out there.”

And she froze. Because she knew. You weren’t talking about the dark.

She didn’t say anything. Just swallowed hard and nodded.

Inside, the house smelled like vanilla and sea. Chloe’s stomach growled embarrassingly loud as your aunt served you both like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And Chloe hated how much it felt like home. After dinner, your aunt gave Chloe a folded-up blanket “just in case” and then said goodnight with a little wink.

You pulled her by the sleeve up to your room. It was small. Barely enough space for a dresser and a twin bed. Not much on the walls. A half-open suitcase shoved in the corner. A mug on the windowsill with dried flowers in it.

It didn’t look like you. And somehow that made sense.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “Haven’t exactly unpacked my personality yet.”

Chloe just stepped in, dropped her jacket over the chair, and sat down on your bed like it would disappear if she touched it too hard.

Then you crawled in beside her. Your body folding into hers like you’d done this a thousand times, like she was some place safe.

You didn’t kiss her right away. You just laid there. Listening to your aunt moving around below. The fridge humming. A branch scratching the window.

Then you whispered, “I didn’t know you overdosed.”

Your voice was soft. Fragile. Like you weren’t sure you were allowed to ask.

Chloe closed her eyes. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

Chloe turned her head toward you. “I mean… you had to know I was fucked up. That’s literally why I went to that stupid group. My life was—” she sighed. “It was shit.”

You smiled faintly. “Mine was too.”

Silence again. Then you reached out and gently lifted her arm. Your fingers ghosted across the scars there. She stiffened, just slightly, but you didn’t flinch. And neither did she.

Your hands kept moving — tracing old bruises, healed burns, little reminders of everything she’d survived.

Then you shifted and pulled up the hem of your shirt, just enough to show her your own.

And Chloe leaned in, and kissed each one softly. One at a time. Like they were words in a language only she could read. She didn’t ask what they were from. Didn’t need to. Then, as she laid her head against your shoulder, you whispered, “I hated my life… until I met you.”

And it broke her. It broke something open. Because for the first time in years, someone said the thing she’d been trying to scream at the sky since her dad died, since Rachel vanished, since everything started falling apart:

That maybe, just maybe, love could be a reason to stay. She didn’t say anything back. She just held you tighter. 

You fell asleep like that. Entangled and exhausted. A little high, a little broken, but whole in a way neither of you understood yet. And Chloe, as she drifted off to the sound of your breath, finally let herself hope for another morning.

Because you were in it.

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