♪───ＯMiyuUuＯ───♪

You shuffled closer and placed your small hands upon her skirts, urging her to bend down. When she did, you leaned in and whispered, as though the walls themselves might be listening.

“I think I like girls,” you confessed. “Just like Reynolds and Brimsley likes eachother.”

You drew back at once, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, your breath coming far too quickly for such a small declaration.

“Is that… all right?”

Queen Charlotte did not hesitate. She bent fully, lifted you onto her lap, and wrapped her arms around you with regal certainty.

“I’ll make sure it is,” she said.

---

Looking back now, it almost feels as though royal blood does not truly run in your veins—

even if you are, technically speaking, a princess, the daughter of Queen Charlotte’s brother.

When you were still quite young, he made the decision to leave you in London, under the watchful care of his sister, so that you might receive the very best education a young lady could hope for.

You found the arrangement entirely agreeable, as you were mostly freed from 'princess expectations'.

Your days were filled with books read cover to cover in long afternoons, languages learned with diligence, and subjects explored that polite society insisted were unsuitable for women. Charlotte, naturally, disagreed.

She cared for you deeply, granting you the greatest freedom she believed possible—while remaining unwavering in her expectations of excellence.

And whenever she allowed it, you sought out the company of your dearest friend: Francesca Bridgerton.

At the mere mention of her name, the Queen had smiled knowingly and declared,

“A Bridgerton? How delightful.”

Society, of course, had its own opinions. Francesca was said to be too quiet, too reserved—odd, even. But you knew better. The girl with the angelic face and remarkable talent for the fortepiano observed the world with a sharpness that bordered on ruthless, though she delivered her judgments entirely in silence.

Over the years, you learned to read her expressions with precision, discovering the precise moments when a foolish remark would earn you a reluctant smile—or, on particularly fortunate days, a laugh.

And after so many years of friendship, so many visits to the Bridgerton home, it became increasingly difficult to keep secrets from the person who knew you best.

---

You had rehearsed the conversation endlessly during afternoon tea, imagining every possible response. In reality, it unfolded quite differently—though, given Francesca’s nature, perhaps it should not have surprised you.

“I like girls,” you said at last.

“Hm.”

She did not look up from her sheet music.

“I fancy your sister.”

That earned a pause. Francesca’s gaze dropped to the keys as though the answer might be written there.

“Which one?” she asked calmly. “Daphne or Eloise?”

You sank deeper into the sofa and shoved a biscuit into your mouth, mumbling an “Eloise” that emerged with all the elegance of a sighing grunt.

“Oh,” Francesca said lightly.

“How wonderful.”

And that was that.

Months of worry.

Months of fear—of scandal, of rejection, of losing the most important friendship of your life.

Dismissed in a single sentence.

---

You—foolishly, as it turned out—believed that such a simple moment in the tea room would not have any lasting repercussions on your daily life among the Bridgertons.

You were mistaken.

Francesca, it seemed, possessed an unparalleled talent for surprise.

Every time you passed Eloise in the corridor or crossed paths in the drawing room, Francesca would stifle a giggle, her shoulders shaking just enough to be noticed—and just little enough to be infuriating.

After a few weeks, you began to notice something worse.

Francesca and Penelope—Eloise’s ever-present best friend—were exchanging knowing smiles whenever the three of you shared a space. Smiles that lingered far too long. Smiles that suggested far too much.

With every passing day, your unease grew. Eloise Bridgerton was not a woman who allowed gossip to pass unchallenged. Nor was she one to abandon a mystery once she had caught its scent.

So, naturally, the fateful day arrived.

You were strolling through the park when you encountered Eloise and Penelope approaching from the opposite direction. And, as if rehearsed, Francesca and Penelope immediately began to giggle—softly at first, then with increasing enthusiasm, their amusement swelling with every step closer.

Eloise halted abruptly.

“Why,” she demanded, folding her arms, “do you two insist on laughing every time we meet? Is there something you would like to share with the rest of us?”

At that precise moment, you developed an intense and profound interest in a duck floating upon the lake. A truly fascinating creature. You focused on it with great determination, doing everything in your power to avoid the scene unfolding beside you.

“No, Eloise,” Penelope said sweetly. “It’s just that the other day Francesca told me something that amused me greatly. And every time I see her, I am reminded of it.”

Francesca nodded at once.

“Yes, sister. That is all,” she added, very clearly fighting laughter.

“Oh, really?” Eloise stepped closer—and before you could protest, she reached out and grasped your arm. “Why don’t you tell us, then? We should like to know as well, should we not?”

She turned those bright, inquisitive eyes on you.

You took an embarrassingly long moment to respond, far too distracted by her proximity and the warmth of her hand at your arm.

“Yes,” you managed at last. “Of course.”

Francesca raised an eyebrow, unmistakably challenged by your hesitation, but Penelope—bless her—leapt into action, inventing a joke on the spot. It was not a particularly good one, but it served its purpose.

Eloise, apparently satisfied, released your arm, bade you goodbye, and continued her walk with Penelope.

The moment they were out of earshot, Francesca turned to you with a grin.

“I wager you enjoyed her being quite that close.”

“Shut up, Fran.”

---

When you asked your aunt for permission to spend a week at the Bridgertons’ country house, she insisted—quite firmly—on first speaking with Lady Bridgerton. This was, she said, to ensure not only your safety, but also the continuity of your studies, a phrase that somehow managed to sound both caring and vaguely threatening.

Once every detail had been arranged—and Lady Bridgerton had even guaranteed riding lessons—you thanked your aunt profusely and packed your bags with more enthusiasm than dignity.

After the carriage ride, you arrived at the familiar country house and entered in high spirits, nearly colliding with several Bridgertons who were running past for reasons known only to themselves.

It was then that you caught sight of Francesca’s face.

She had the expression of someone who had done something.

You became instantly alert.

The truth revealed itself moments later, when Lady Bridgerton briskly announced the room arrangements.

Anthony and Kate would, of course, have their own room, as would Daphne and Simon. Lady Bridgerton would take her usual chamber.

“And,” she continued pleasantly, “as the east wing is currently under renovation, some rooms will need to be shared.”

Your stomach sank.

“Girls, you may share the two rooms on the left,” she said, turning to you, Francesca, Eloise, Hyacinth, and Penelope. “Boys, you will take the rooms on the right.” She gestured toward Benedict, Colin, and Gregory.

Hyacinth reacted immediately.

“Mother! That is entirely unfair. There are three of them and five of us. We ought to have an extra room.”

Lady Bridgerton smiled serenely.

“My dear, I cannot even begin to imagine what would become of a room forced to house the three of them together.”

You glanced at the brothers, who were already arguing over who deserved the single room most.

As the rest of the family dispersed, leaving the five of you to sort matters out, you considered—purely in theory—the most practical way to strangle Francesca.

---

Later, you sat on the edge of the lawn, watching another heated game of Pall Mall unfold. You yourself had been banned for two rounds after striking a ball with such alarming force that it had nearly taken Benedict’s head off. Group safety, apparently.

You turned to Penelope.

“How did you manage that?”

Earlier, she and Francesca had been loudly disputing the best room assignments, talking over one another in a chaos of half-sentences and misplaced logic. The argument had ended when Eloise lost her patience entirely, seized your arm, dragged you toward one of the rooms, and declared, “I’ve decided.”

Penelope stirred her tea, a mischievous smile playing at her lips.

“We knew Eloise would lose her patience,” she admitted. “We merely wagered she would pull you, not Hyacinth.”

“All right. Fair,” you said, perfectly content to pretend the conversation was finished and return your attention to Daphne threatening to strike Colin with her mallet.

Penelope, however, had other plans.

She continued to look at you expectantly. When you failed to speak, she did.

“You know… we are rather similar.”

You turned to her, puzzled.

“Well,” she continued, “we both like a Bridgerton.” She pointed to herself. “Colin.” Then, barely containing a giggle, she pointed to you. “Eloise.”

Francesca is the worst friend in existence, you decided.

“I never asked you about that, Pen,” you said quietly. “You truly don’t mind?”

“Oh, dear,” she replied gently, “it is impossible to live with the Bridgertons and not learn that love is the most beautiful force in existence—regardless of the form it takes.”

She met your gaze, her eyes kind.

“And it is equally impossible not to find Eloise’s obsession with avoiding marriage peculiar, especially given how difficult she finds it to take her eyes off you—or to tolerate jokes made at your expense.”

You exhaled slowly.

“Pen,” you said sincerely, “you truly are the greatest Featherington.”

---

“I can sleep on the floor, if you would prefer,” you offered the moment Eloise entered the room, her hair still damp from her bath.

She stopped short, stared at you for a moment, and then snorted.

“Do stop being ridiculous,” she said briskly, crossing the room and throwing herself onto the bed. She shifted decisively to one side, leaving more than enough space. “The bed is perfectly large. We shall share it.”

“Truly, it would not trouble me,” you insisted, though the idea of lying beside the very source of your sleepless nights and wandering thoughts made your heart beat entirely too fast.

Eloise propped herself up on one elbow and regarded you with a crooked smile.

“And what sort of host would I be if I allowed my guest—who also happens to be royalty—to sleep on the floor?”

You sighed, defeated.

Carefully, you lay down on the very edge of the mattress, positioning yourself as far from her as possible without risking a fall. The room fell quiet, the darkness settling gently around you.

As you stared up at the ceiling, you thought—not for the first time—of a childhood promise.

I hope you keep your word, Lottie.

---

Sometime during the night—perhaps because of the cold, perhaps because sleeping bodies are inclined toward betrayal—you and Eloise became entangled.

Not scandalously so.

Just enough to make one’s cheeks warm at the mere realization.

When you woke to find your fingers nearly intertwined with hers, you could not bring yourself to pull away.

So you did not.

You lay there, acutely aware of every sensation: the warmth of her hand, the faint brush of her fingers against yours, the steady presence of her leg close enough to be felt without truly touching. You committed each detail to memory, as though you might be required to live on the recollection alone.

Then you felt it—the subtle shift that signaled wakefulness.

Panic seized you at once. You stilled your breathing, forced your body into stillness, and pretended to sleep, willing your unruly heart to calm itself.

You waited.

You waited for Eloise to notice.

For her to pull away.

For the moment to end.

It did not.

Instead, Eloise stirred, became aware of your intertwined hands, of the closeness of your bodies—and moved closer still.

Her fingers tightened gently around yours, lacing fully this time, deliberate and unmistakable. She lifted your joined hands and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles.

The gesture was brief. Unremarkable, one might say.

It was also devastating.

After a few moments of quiet, you heard her sigh. Then the bed shifted as Eloise rose, moving about the room before slipping out and closing the door behind her.

You remained where you were, staring at the ceiling, heart racing, mind spiraling.

Four more nights, you thought.

And no idea at all how you were meant to endure them.

---

That same afternoon, you attended your riding lesson. Which, if one were being entirely honest, amounted to nothing more than a mandatory hour-long excursion on horseback. Even more so when paired with the remarkably docile animal Lady Bridgerton had selected for you—an excellent creature, but hardly inclined toward adventure.

Still, it proved a pleasant enough ride.

You encountered Kate along the path, and the two of you spoke of agreeable, inconsequential matters: the weather, the family, small observations about the Bridgertons that required no particular investment of the heart. And yet, despite the lightness of the conversation, you could not help but sense that Kate knew more than she was saying.

As you neared the stables, you came upon the youngest of the Bridgertons, who was waiting with unmistakable purpose.

You had not even dismounted before Hyacinth spoke.

“Can you take me for a ride?” she asked promptly. “Penelope and Francesca have expelled me from the room, and I have no desire whatsoever to play Pall Mall again.”

You swung down from the saddle.

“Of course,” you said easily. “Come along.”

You helped her onto the horse, taking care not to disturb her impeccably arranged dress, and set off once more. You made the ride lively—quickening the pace at unexpected moments, weaving between trees, reaching for fruit along the way—until Hyacinth’s laughter rang freely.

Then she said something that was neither laughter nor thanks.

“You know,” she remarked casually, biting into an apple, “if you wished to court Eloise, I believe everyone would be in favor.”

She glanced at you sideways.

“I certainly would.”

You did not react at once. Instead, you led the horse a few more steps, allowing yourself the luxury of thought.

“Who else knows?” you asked at last. “About my… affection for Eloise?”

Hyacinth reached out to pluck a leaf from a low-hanging branch, clearly far more interested in the scenery than the weight of her words.

“I think everyone,” she said lightly. “Except Eloise, of course. She would not recognize admiration even if it shouted directly at her.”

“Oh.” You hesitated, then asked quietly, “Any advice? On how to… encourage reciprocation?”

Hyacinth turned to look at you properly this time.

“Oh, no,” she said with utter confidence. “The feeling is mutual. She simply has not realized it yet.”

You waited—surely she would elaborate.

She did not.

“You must help her see it,” Hyacinth added at last, as though that explained everything.

And then she smiled.

---

The first part of the plan was, naturally, to inform your aunt.

Accordingly, you wrote her a letter—carefully worded, respectful, and unmistakably honest—laying out your feelings for Eloise Bridgerton and inquiring whether there might be any hope of success in pursuing what could, perhaps, be called a courtship.

You sealed it.

Then, before sending it, you made the questionable decision to visit the tea room, where Lady Bridgerton was known to be waiting.

You hurried down the stairs, letter in hand, only to lose your nerve entirely just before the door. You stopped short, suddenly reconsidering how one properly explained such matters to the mother of the sharp-tongued girl who occupied your thoughts even in your dreams.

You were still lost in this dilemma when the door opened.

Francesca emerged first, followed closely by Daphne and Kate.

Daphne blinked in surprise upon seeing you lingering there.

“Oh! Hello,” she said warmly. “Were you hoping to speak with Mama?”

Kate raised her eyebrows at Francesca in a manner that strongly suggested your name had already featured in the preceding conversation.

“Yes,” you said quickly. “I shall go in now. Thank you.”

There was no retreating now. Hyacinth would never permit it—and besides, you were already inside the room.

Lady Bridgerton looked up at once and set down her teacup.

“Hello, dear,” she said cheerfully. “We were just speaking about you.”

She gestured to the armchair opposite her, and you sat, your posture considerably less composed than usual.

“Only good things, I hope,” you ventured.

She poured you a cup of tea, and you briefly considered abandoning your purpose entirely in favor of discussing the beverage’s ideal temperature.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “Now—what is it you wished to speak with me about?”

You drew in a deep breath.

“Well,” you began, “Hyacinth spoke to me earlier today about something she believes everyone in the family knows… except one person.”

Lady Bridgerton froze mid-lift of her teacup.

“Oh!” she exclaimed brightly. “You and Eloise, I assume!” She clasped her hands together. “Really, how can she be so dense? It is so obvious!”

You stared.

How was this family taking it so calmly? It had been astonishing enough that your aunt had accepted the truth with such ease—but all the Bridgertons?

“Um—yes,” you said carefully. “I wished to ask what you would think of me… beginning to court her.”

Lady Bridgerton leaned back against the sofa, hands folded with satisfaction.

“That is wonderful! I am so very happy for you both.”

She reached for her teacup again and continued speaking, quite conversationally, as though she were alone.

“I suspected this moment would arrive—particularly after the Queen spoke with me about arranging matters.”

You looked at her in complete disbelief.

“Oh yes,” she continued pleasantly. “Sending you and your future beloved—whom she always imagined would be a Bridgerton, after the beginning of your friendship with Francesca—away to live in a house slightly removed from the rest of the family, all under the pretense of attending to affairs of the Crown.”

She smiled serenely.

“Quite brilliant, really.”

Somehow, you managed to bid her farewell and retreat to your quarters. You sent the letter at once, then sat upon your bed, absorbing the revelation that not only had your feelings been noticed—

—but they had been anticipated.

---

Regina’s on her back, one leg bent, scrolling lazily through her phone, freshly manicured nails clacking against the screen. Her blonde hair’s a little messy from your fingers, and her gloss is smudged just slightly—but she still looks like she just walked off a Vogue cover.

You’re curled beside her, cheek on her stomach, just watching her. In complete silence. Eyes full of nothing but awe.

After like a full minute of you just staring, she sighs, not looking up.

“God, you’re obsessed with me.”

You grin. “Yeah. I am.”

She pauses, then glances down at you with a squint. “You’re not even denying it?”

“Nope.” You kiss the skin just above her bellybutton. “I’m totally, tragically, obsessively in love with you. You’re perfect.”

Regina rolls her eyes, but her smile betrays her. She tosses her phone aside and stares down at you, lips twitching.

“You’re insane.”

“Insanely into you, yeah.”

She pretends to scoff, but you can tell she’s soaking it up—her eyes go soft, her fingers find your hair, and she tugs you closer like she’s the one who can’t get enough.

“Keep talking,” she murmurs, feigning boredom. “If you’re gonna worship me, do it right.”

You smirk, propping yourself up just enough to press a kiss to her ribs, then another to her hip. “You’re the hottest girl in the entire universe. Your hair’s perfect, your body’s illegal, and your attitude? God-tier. You’re terrifying and sexy and I’d let you ruin my life any day.”

She exhales sharply, almost a laugh, and cups your face suddenly, tilting it up.

“You already let me ruin it,” she whispers with a grin, “and you’re still begging for more.”

——

Regina’s pacing.

Not dramatically—she’d never be that uncool—but her bare feet are gliding across her bedroom carpet, lip gloss perfectly reapplied even though no one’s here yet. Her phone’s on the bed, unread texts from Karen and Gretchen glowing uselessly. She keeps glancing at the time.

You’re five minutes late.

Whatever.

She folds her arms, stares out her window, and scoffs to herself.

She’s literally in love with me. Like—actual, textbook obsessed. I told her to shut up yesterday and she smiled. Who does that?

She walks to her mirror, checks herself again, then frowns.

I’m not even nice to her. I don’t try. I make fun of her shoes, I insult her in public, and she just… takes it. Worse—she likes it. And now we’re dating? Like officially? As if that means anything. As if I’m gonna suddenly start being sweet and soft and hold her hand under the table or whatever? No. I don’t do that. She should know that.

She glares at herself. Her reflection just smirks back.

She should be running. Screaming. Getting a restraining order or something. But no. She keeps showing up. With snacks. And compliments.

And her stupid, glowy, heart-eyes face every time I so much as breathe near her.

There’s a knock at the door.

Regina turns, rolls her eyes, flips her hair over her shoulder like it didn’t just take her fifteen tries to get it that perfect.

She opens the door.

And there you are.

Smiling up at her like a puppy that learned how to love a wolf. Soft sweatshirt, hands in your pockets, eyes practically sparkling at the sight of her.

She doesn’t even give you time to speak.

“Genuinely,” she says flatly, “you’re fucking crazy.”

Your smile gets even bigger.

“I know,” you say cheerfully, stepping into her room like you belong there, like her meanness doesn’t even register. You plop down on her bed, cozy and relaxed, like she didn’t just call you insane. “But you like it.”

She stares at you.

You beam.

Regina shuts the door behind you with a dramatic little sigh, walks over, and crawls onto the bed like a lion cornering prey.

“You’re literally out of your mind.”

You’re already leaning into her. “Mhm.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Obviously.”

Her fingers curl under your chin, forcing your gaze up to hers. “You’re mine, you know that?”

You nod, so soft, so pliant it almost hurts. “Completely.”

She groans under her breath and kisses you like she’s punishing you for being this easy to own.

Her lips are warm and glossy and kind of unfair—like every kiss is a flex. You tilt your head, matching her rhythm, letting her lead, letting her take. And she does—mouth pressing deeper into yours, fingers slipping into your hair like she owns it, like she owns you.

And just as it starts getting heated—

You giggle.

Right against her lips.

Not on purpose. It just bubbles out—tiny, breathy, bright—as she pulls you closer. You’re just so happy. And flustered. And totally high off her lipgloss and attention.

She flinches back immediately with the most offended expression known to mankind.

“Did you just giggle?” she asks, staring at you like you committed a war crime. “While I was kissing you?”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh again. “…Maybe?”

Her face is somewhere between scandalized and disgusted. “Oh my god. You’re ruining it. I was literally having a moment.”

“I’m sorry!” you say quickly, still grinning like an idiot. “Let me fix it.”

Before she can throw more sass, you lean up and start kissing her lips in quick little pecks. One. Then another. Then another. Soft and rapid and borderline ridiculous.

Peck.

Peck.

Peck.

She glares at you through it, totally still, letting you do it—but with her arms crossed now and a very done energy.

“Stop it,” she says flatly, even as you kiss her again. “That’s not how you fix it.”

Peck.

Peck.

Peck.

“Oh my god, stop it, you’re making it worse.”

Peck.

But her mouth twitches. Just barely.

You pause, hovering close. “Better?”

She exhales dramatically, finally unfolding her arms and grabbing your face in both hands.

“So much worse,” she says, then kisses you again—this time harder, longer, lips parting like she’s reclaiming the moment. Like if anyone’s going to ruin a kiss around here, it’s her.

—

She’s lying on her stomach now, cheek against your chest, scrolling through her phone again with one hand—totally silent except for the occasional soft tch when she sees something dumb on Instagram.

Your other hand is in her hair. Not even consciously. You’re just absentmindedly threading your fingers through it, slow and lazy, twirling strands around your pinky, combing them out again. Every once in a while, you scratch lightly at her scalp—and you feel her melt just a little deeper into you.

“You’re like… obsessed with my hair,” she mumbles without looking up.

“Mhm.”

“You’re not even denying it anymore.”

“Nope.”

Another pause. She pretends to scroll, but you can feel how still she’s gone. You tug her hair gently back from her face and she lets you.

Then, after a beat:

“You better not be doing this to anyone else.”

You snort. “Regina, I would never play with someone else’s hair. Are you kidding? That’s, like, sacred.”

“Good,” she mutters. Still not looking at you. “I’d kill them. And you. But mostly them.”

You grin, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Noted.”

And then silence again. Just the soft rhythm of your breathing, your fingers looping through her golden hair, her body pressed against yours like you’re the only safe place in the world.

She stays like that. Doesn’t move.

She’ll claim she fell asleep like that later. But you’ll both know the truth.

——

Gretchen’s talking about some junior who copied her hairstyle. Karen’s eating her lunch like she forgot how forks work. And Regina’s lounging in the center, obviously, picking at her salad like it personally offended her.

You’re sitting next to her, tray untouched, elbow gently nudging hers. You haven’t said much. You never really do around the others—you’re more of a lean-into-Regina’s-shoulder-and-smile-at-her-like-she-hung-the-moon kind of girlfriend.

Which is exactly what you’re doing right now.

She catches you looking and raises a single eyebrow. “What.”

You tilt your head a little, voice soft. “You’re really pretty.”

Gretchen pauses. Karen blinks. The table goes quiet for a second.

Regina doesn’t even flinch.

“I know,” she says flatly, like she’s bored. She pops a grape into her mouth and keeps scrolling through her phone like you didn’t just drop a heart-eyed compliment out of nowhere.

You just smile at her.

Like big, soft, sparkly smile. Like you meant it in the most sincere, absolutely unhinged, fully-in-love way possible. No sarcasm. No angle. Just: she’s pretty, and you’re lucky, and the sun is warm when she’s near.

Regina side-eyes you slowly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” you ask, still smiling.

“Like I’m a puppy and you’re about to cry from happiness.”

You giggle, leaning your head on her shoulder. “I’m just happy.”

Karen blinks again. “You guys are like, so in love. It’s kinda weird but also cute.”

Regina shoots her a look. “No one asked.”

But she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t tell you to get off. Doesn’t roll her eyes. She just lets you rest there, soft and content, like she’s gotten used to having something so warm and easy and pliant curled up beside her.

And when no one’s looking, she reaches under the table and slips her hand into yours.

No words. No smile. Just fingers laced, hidden, held.

You’re still curled into Regina’s side at the Plastics’ table, your sad little sandwich untouched on your tray like it’s already given up on life.

Meanwhile, her salad is glowing. Expensive. Perfect. Untouched grapes sparkling in the light like forbidden treasure.

You blink up at her.

“Baby…”

Regina doesn’t look up from her phone. “What.”

You nudge her lightly with your elbow. “Can I have one of your grapes?”

That gets her attention. She turns her head slowly, eyebrow already raised. “Are you serious.”

You nod. “I forgot to pack anything else, and you’re not even eating them…”

“Because I’m saving them. For the end. Like a normal person with priorities.”

You lean in a little closer, flutter your lashes, full dramatic performance.

“Please?” you say softly. “Just one? I’ll be so good.”

Regina stares at you like she’s never seen something so pathetic in her life. “Oh my god. You’re flirting for a grape.”

Karen leans in like this is a movie. “I’d give you a grape.”

When Regina snaps her head to look directly into Karen’s eyes and glare at her, she hides away behind a spoonful of her own lunch.

Gretchen ignores all of you, chewing like this happens every day.

Regina turns back to look at you. She’s holding back a smirk now. You can see it. She’s pretending to be annoyed but there’s this glint in her eye like she’s seconds away from feeding you grapes and calling you ridiculous.

You press your cheek to her shoulder. “I’ll trade you my sandwich for just one.”

She looks at the sandwich. Grimaces. “That’s not a trade, that’s an insult.”

You blink up at her again. Big eyes. Innocent smile.

She stares at you.

Stares at you some more.

Then sighs like she’s carrying the emotional weight of this entire relationship.

Without saying anything, she picks up a grape between her fingers and holds it just in front of your lips.

You light up. “Thank you!”

She doesn’t move the grape. Just raises one perfect eyebrow. “Say it cuter.”

You blink. “Cuter?”

She tilts her head. “Mhm.”

You try again, voice higher, almost a whisper: “Pretty please?”

She looks unimpressed.

You pout. Full pout. Eyes wide, lips soft, leaning in like she’s the only person on Earth who’s ever fed you.

Finally—finally—she sighs and lets you take it from her fingers. You do, happily, lips brushing her knuckles, chewing with the most satisfied little hum.

Regina rolls her eyes.

“You’re a menace.”

You smile sweetly. “Your menace.”

And she doesn’t deny it.

——

You’re walking alone, hugging your books to your chest. Light steps. Mind on nothing. Just hoping to make it to your locker in peace.

But then some random senior guy—loud, way too confident, clearly not catching a single cue—corners you halfway there. Leans a little too close, one hand braced on the locker beside your head like he thinks this is a rom-com.

“Hey,” he grins. “You’re Regina’s girl, right?”

You blink, already uncomfortable. “Um… yeah?”

“That’s hot. I mean, you don’t act like her. You’re, like, way softer. Nicer. Kinda cute.”

You laugh, awkward and tight. “That’s really… nice of you to say?”

You try to slide past him—politely, of course—but he moves with you, blocking your way again.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, clearly not done, “you deserve someone who actually treats you right, you know? Someone who’s not, like, terrifying.”

You clutch your books tighter. Like they might shield you from whatever this is.

“I’m… actually really happy,” you say gently, trying to keep your tone light. “And Regina’s not—well, she’s… she’s a lot, but I like her. So…”

You look up, hoping he gets the hint.

He doesn’t.

“C’mon,” he says, “you’re too sweet to be stuck with someone like her.”

You open your mouth to respond—one last polite decline—but you don’t get the chance.

Because that’s the exact moment Regina George’s voice slices through the hallway like a knife dipped in honey:

“Excuse me?”

You both turn. And there she is.

Walking toward you with slow, terrifying purpose, heels clicking, ponytail bouncing, eyes sharp and locked on the guy like she’s already planning his funeral outfit.

He tries to smirk. “Hey, Regina—”

“Step. Away. From her.”

There’s something about her tone. About the way she doesn’t even raise her voice, but the threat laces through every syllable like poison.

The guy steps back instantly, hands up, trying to laugh it off. “Jeez, relax—”

Regina cuts him a look that could level a building.

“Don’t speak,” she says calmly. “Just walk away while you still have knees.”

He blinks. Then walks.

Quickly.

She turns to you, eyes softening only slightly.

“You okay?”

You nod quickly, smiling up at her like she literally just descended from heaven in Prada. “My hero.”

She rolls her eyes, clearly trying not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

You beam. “And you love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

But then she slips her arm around your waist and pulls you close, kissing the top of your head before leading you away like nothing ever happened—like of course she protects her girl. Of course no one else gets to touch you. You’re hers.

Regina walks you down the hallway with her arm still around you, totally unbothered, like she didn’t just threaten someone’s entire bloodline three seconds ago.

You glance up at her, still glowing. “Seriously though. That was so hot.”

She groans. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You saved me,” you whisper dramatically, like it’s a fairytale. “From the big bad locker bro.”

“You’re embarrassing.”

You smile. “But pretty.”

She side-eyes you. “Stop.”

“Pretty and powerful.”

“Stop.”

“Pretty, powerful, and mean.”

“I swear to god, if you don’t shut up—”

You giggle, leaning into her side. “You love me.”

She pauses. Looks at you. Real slow.

Then?

She kisses you. Just once. Soft and quick and right in the middle of the hallway.

You blink, stunned. “What was that for?”

Regina shrugs. “Felt like it.”

And that’s it.

She keeps walking like she didn’t just casually destroy your soul with a forehead kiss, and you follow her, still clutching your books, still her soft little shadow.

No one says anything.

Because Regina George doesn’t need to say she loves you.

She just makes sure everyone else knows you’re hers.

——————————————