but right now he was here. safe and warm with you. you shifted carefully onto your side, propping yourself up on an elbow as you looked down at him. a strand of his hair had fallen over his forehead. you brushed it back gently, fingertips barely touching his skin.

he didn’t wake, so you lean down, pressing the lightest kiss to his forehead. then another to the corner of his brow, another to the bridge of his nose, his breathing changed just slightly, deeper then slower, but he stayed asleep.

a smile tugged at your mouth, you kissed one closed eyelid, then the other. his lips twitched faintly, you like to think that somewhere in sleep he knew exactly what was happening but didn’t mind one bit.

you kissed over the line of his cheekbone, then the other side, trailing affection over every place you could possibly reach, wanting to try to rewrite every cruel thing the world had ever handed him.

“you deserve everything good,” you whispered against his skin, another kiss to his jaw. “you deserve softness.” another beside his mouth, “you deserve to be loved.” saying it quietly into him even though he couldn’t hear you… well that’s what you thought.

this time when you leaned in again, his hand caught your jaw gently, your breath hitched. benjamin’s eyes were half open, sleep heavy, lashes low over them. he looked up at you with sleepy confusion, softened by exhaustion.

“how long,” his voice rough with sleep, he cleared his throat a little, “have you been attacking me?” you laughed under your breath. “long enough.” 

his thumb brushed your lower cheek where he held you. “i was aware.”

“oh, were you?”

“mhm.” his eyes slipped shut again for a second. “didn’t want you to stop.” you got giddy all over again, bending down to kiss him properly this time, catching his lips with your own, happily savouring the moment. when you pulled back, his arm came around your back, hand sliding lower until it found your ass, squeezing as he dragged you closer. 

“you know,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his, “i plan on doing this every morning.”

he swallowed thickly before speaking up, “no one’s ever done that before.” the room felt like it went still. you touched his face, thumb smoothing over the line of his cheek. “then they were incredibly stupid.”

for a second something flickered across his face, that disbelief he always had when your kindness reached for him, never quite knowing what to do with it. it didn’t take him long to tug you down against him, burying his face in your shoulder as he held you tighter.

when he finally returned to the ballroom that evening. under the gentle but insistent encouragement of violet bridgerton, the air seemed to shift. heads turned, many conversations faltered. mothers nudged daughters forward with hopeful eyes. 

he had been missed. he had been speculated about. and, most dangerously of all, he had been romanticised in his absence.

you watched it happen from the far side of the room.

the orchestra swelled and dipped. laughter floated around the particularly large room, and yet he stood apart even when he was surrounded, bowing when required, smiling when expected, speaking charmingly in a way that had undone so many before. 

but his eyes… his eyes were elsewhere. distant, almost strained? 

you had not known the cause of his sorrow. no one had. whatever had passed between him and the mysterious absence at the centre of his silence had remained precisely that, mysterious. you only knew that tonight he looked… unwell. 

not physically, no. he was as handsome as ever, but there was a tightness to him. a sharpness. as if he were holding himself together by sheer stubborn will. when the third eager debutante of the evening laughed too loudly at something he had said, you saw it, the flicker of his composure breaking.

he excused himself with practiced grace. no one stopped him, you hesitated for only a moment before following.

the balcony doors whispered open and shut, the night blew a cool air against your overheated skin. the noise of the ballroom dulled behind thick glass. he stood with his hands braced against the stone wall of the balcony, shoulders rigid, breath coming slow.

you took two quiet steps forward.

“i did not realise the air inside had grown so very thin,” you joked gently, not wishing to startle him.

he turned sharply at the sound of your voice. the expression on his face was not grief, it was exhaustion sharpened into irritation.

“forgive me,” he huffed out, his tone clipped but outwardly civil. “if you have come in pursuit of some arrangement or introduction, i fear you waste your time. i have neither the inclination nor the patience this evening.”

the words were polite, the dismissal unmistakable. you stared at him. he had not truly looked at you yet, not really. heard your voice, had seen only silk and silhouette and assumed the rest. another hopeful, another ambitious mother’s dream. 

your spine straightened. “i beg your pardon?” you replied, coolly. “i have no desire to be arranged, introduced, or otherwise inflicted upon you, mr bridgerton.”

that caught him. his gaze sharpened, finally focusing.

you stood a few paces from him, hands clasped tightly at your waist to conceal your temper. the night breeze tugged at the edge of your skirts and loosened a curl near your temple. you had not followed him for yourself.

“i did not come to claim you,” you continued, voice steady despite the heat rising in your cheeks. “i came because you looked as though you might collapse under the weight of everyone wanting something from you. i thought perhaps you required a moment of normality.”

silence fell between you. he blinked. he focused on you, it was subtle at first, the shift in his expression. the irritation faltered, his defensive rigidity softened. his eyes moved over your face as if committing it to memory against his will. 

you were right. you were not simpering, you looked… offended and beneath that, more concerned than anything else.

god, you were beautiful.

not in the fragile, porcelain way so often paraded before him. you were vivid, alive, your eyes flashed with intelligence and temper in equal measure. you stood as if you belonged to yourself entirely.

he had not expected that. “i see,” he cleared his throat, suddenly regretting his words. you had already begun to retreat from the moment.

“how foolish of me,” you replied stiffly, lifting your chin. “to mistake your solitude for distress. i shall not make the error again.”

you gathered your skirts slightly to navigate the threshold back into the ballroom. the movement revealed the delicate line of your ankle, an act so small yet it undid him more thoroughly than any practiced flirtation.

he felt it then, the pull. a quiet awareness blooming in his chest. enough for him to want to follow you back into the building

he was still caught in the memory of another, he tries to remind himself. still aching from a departure he had not prepared for. his heart had not mended, he had sworn it would not be so easily diverted by a pretty face and sharper tongue.

but you were not simply pretty, you had seen him and that was infinitely more dangerous. “wait,” he gently called.

you stepped back into the golden wash of candlelight, not hearing him. swallowed once more by music, people talking to you. from the balcony, he watched as you rejoined the crowd without seeking him again, your expression composed though your steps were a touch sharper than before.

he had dismissed you, realising you had meant it when you said you wanted nothing to do with him. inside, a gentleman bowed before you, requesting your next dance. you accepted without hesitation, letting him write in your dance card before he guided you to the floor.

benedict remained where he was, hands tightening back onto the cold stone as something as wholly inconvenient settled in his chest. for the first time in three months, his grief did not stand alone.

it was accompanied.

and when you laughed brightly, carefree. as your new partner spun you around the floor, he realised with a dawning dread that he did not wish to be watching you, but instead dancing with you.

he straightened abruptly.

and stepped back to follow you inside.

now, even with your schedule packed, the anxiety was very much still there, you couldn’t shake it. you caught yourself glancing at your phone again. you had counted, at least, fifteen times in the past ten minutes. your thumb hovered over the screen ready to unlock and check for a new message. any message.

a small part of you tried to reason it out. “it’s only been a week,” you muttered to yourself, staring out the window as you sipped on your tea. “they’re busy. you’re busy. it’s late, it’s fine.” but it didn’t feel fine. it felt like your brain had turned against you, the wait really was killing you.

the exposure that you had gotten online after that night should’ve been enough to distract you.

your interview clip had somehow become the clip. edits of your interactions with the three of you. people dissecting your answers, your follower count had jumped overnight. your publicist had sent three different emails with subject lines in all caps.

it was good. really good.

but none of it stopped you from checking your phone again and again. you’d told yourself you just have to be patient. then again you didn’t want to have misread that night. the touches, the kisses on your cheeks, the hugs at the end of the night.

maybe they’d just been caught up in the atmosphere, hell maybe you had been too.

you exhale slowly and force your phone face down on the counter. tomorrow you have a photoshoot anyway. big brand, big opportunities, you need sleep, not to be up spiraling.

the studio air smells faintly like hairspray and coffee. you’re ushered from makeup to wardrobe with gentle hands guiding your elbows, stylists murmuring about lighting and fabric drape. the space is bright, aggressively white and the music playing over the speakers echoes throughout the room.

you slip into work mode easily, it’s muscle memory by now. your chin angled, shoulders dropped, eyes softened just enough to look candid. the photographer moves around you in slow arcs, camera clicking in sharp bursts. 

the photographer lowers his camera slightly, studying you for a second before lifting his hand.

“hold that.” you freeze mid motion, eyes lifted through your lashes. your fingers are hooked loosely into the hem of the sweater, shoulder tilted toward the light. the fan blows air towards you, pushing your hair back just enough to expose your jawline.

“beautiful,” he murmurs, circling you slowly.

he steps closer, not touching at first. just gesturing. “turn your body slightly- yeah, give me more of this side.”

you shift your weight onto your back foot, hip angling subtly as your shoulders rotate. the sweater slips a fraction lower down your arm and the stylist moves in quickly, adjusting it with careful fingers before stepping away again.

“good. relax your mouth,” he suggests, tapping his own lip as demonstration, which made you smile quickly before snapping back into professionalism.

you part yours slightly, exhaling through them so your expression softens. your hand slides from the hem of the sweater to your collarbone, fingertips brushing lightly across your skin absentmindedly. the camera clicks rapidly.

“chin up. not that much-  there. stay right there.”

he steps forward then, gently placing two fingers beneath your jaw to tilt it a few degrees toward the light. it’s brief and professional, his touch gone as quickly as it came. you follow the direction instinctively, arching your neck just enough to elongate the line.

“yes! that’s it.”

the music shifts to something slower. you roll your shoulders back between frames, letting tension drop. on the next cue, you pivot fully, giving him your side profile. one hand slips into the pocket of the jeans they’ve styled you in.

between outfit changes, you step off set and reach automatically for your phone.

still nothing. you swallow it down, the disappointment, the tiny sting in your chest .

it’s fine, you tell yourself again. 

by midday, you’re in your fourth look. softer lighting now, warmer tones, your makeup slightly smudged on purpose for the look. you’re leaning against a backdrop when your assistant hurries toward you, weaving around cables and light stands.

“sorry,” she apologises quietly, holding your phone out. “i think you’ll want to take this.”

your heart stutters before you even get a good look at it, your fingers clumsy as you unlock the screen. seeing that you’ve been added into a new groupchat.

connor: hi. i’m hoping it isn’t too late to text you

hudson: we’ve been arguing about who should message first for a week. sooo heyy

the breath you let out is shaky, almost embarrassing in it’s relief.

“everything okay?” the photographer calls from behind the camera. you can’t stop smiling. “yeah, actually.” you call back softly as your thumbs move quickly to reply back.

you: i was starting to think you two forgot about me

the typing bubble appears almost instantly.

hudson: we absolutely did not forget

connor: we just didn’t want to seem too eager

a quiet laugh escapes you, and you press your lips together to try and hide it as the stylist comes in to adjust your sleeve again.

hudson: are you busy today?

you glance up at the lights, the camera, the team moving around you.

you: photoshoot. trying to look professional

connor: when are you free?

you hesitate only long enough to feel your pulse in your fingertips.

you: tonight maybe?

you: wait whyy?

there’s a minute where they're typing, your heart pounding in your chest as you wait for their reply.

connor: we were hoping you’d say that

you lower your phone slowly, staring at nothing for a second as the warmth spreads through you, not anxiety this time. something more anticipatory.

“ready?” the photographer asks. you straighten your shoulders, handing your phone back to your giddy manager, step back under the lights, and this time when the camera flashes, your smile is anything but fake.

you adore fans, always have, but paparazzi at the end of a night like this aren’t worth the risk  . they’re impatient and pushy cause they’re also all tired and need to get paid.

the back of the venue is quieter and much cooler. a service alley lit by soft yellow bulbs and the glow of idling cars. your driver is already there, the door open, waiting on you.

you take a breath. one more step and you’ll finally be done for the night.

“hey- wait up!”

you flinch, heart jumping as you turn.

hudson and connor come into view, jogging toward you, connors tie is crooked. connor’s hair has fallen out of whatever careful styling it had earlier. both of them are slightly out of breath, hands braced on their thighs for a second as they stop.

you blink, then laugh.

“oh my god,” you breathe out, half amused, half startled. “i thought i was about to get yelled at.”

connor laughs too, shaking his head. “yeah, no. sorry. we didn’t mean to scare you.”

hudson straightens, rolling his shoulders as if he’s trying to calm himself. “we just…uh- didn’t want to miss you.”

you glance between them, smiling softening. “everything okay?”

there’s a pause. hudson looks at connor. connor looks back. hudson exhales. “we were wondering… if we could get your number.”

connor nods quickly, “only if you’re comfortable. just to stay in touch.”

the honesty of it, catches you off guard in the best way.

“yeah,” you blurt out without thinking, “of course, that’d be lovely.”

the tension in their shoulders visibly releases.

connor hands you his phone first, then hudson does the same. you take them both, thumbs moving easily as you type your name and number into each. you don’t rush it, there’s no reason to.

when you give their phones back, hudson glances down at the screen then back up at you.

“thank you,” you shrug lightly, “i’d have been disappointed if you didn’t ask.”

that makes connor laugh under his breath.

for a second, none of you speak. the alley hums softly, the distant crowd, an engine idling, the muted clink of someone packing equipment inside the venue.

you step forward before you can overthink it.

connor’s closest. he’s taller enough that your arms slide around his middle, your cheek brushing the front of his jacket as you lean in. the hug is brief but warm, the kind that says thank you for being kind to me tonight.

his hands come to rest lightly at your back, careful, respectful, he only pulls away when he feels you do it first. his head dipping instinctively.

as you separate, he turns just enough to press a quick kiss to your cheek, soft and unassuming, it happens on reflex rather than intention.

then you’re turning toward hudson.

you fit into him a little differently. one arm loops around his shoulders, the other settling at his side as you lean in, closer than you need to be. he stills for half a second before his arms come around you, slower this time.. you feel the warmth of him through his silk shirt, the way his chest rises.

when you pull back, he does too, eyes dropping briefly before lifting again, that’s when he leans in, brushing a kiss to your other cheek as you separate. it lingers only a fraction longer than connor’s, this one very much intentional.

you step back with a smile you don’t quite bother hiding, heart still humming, that same quiet infatuation curling in your chest, the one you’d felt all night, watching them, feeling oddly seen.

“goodnight,” you bid them, “goodnight,” they echo.

hudson smiles at you, “make sure to let us know when you get home safe.”

you nod, stepping into the car, sharing one final look as the door closes behind you.

neither of you notice the figure a few yards away, half hidden behind a van. their phone still angled as they stopped recording the video.

by the time your car disappears down the street, the moment is no longer just yours and by morning, it won’t matter how ‘innocent’ it was. 

the internet will decide what all of it really meant…

you catch his wrist.

not hard. just enough to stop him from walking away.

“come here,” you tug him a few steps to the side of the van, out of earshot. your voice is calm, “you need to be nicer to him.”

steve lets out a breath through his nose, defensive instinct flaring. “i am being nice. i’m just- jesus, i’m worried, okay? he’s acting like nothing happened. he obviously got into a fight and it's like throwing himself into this as if he’s got nothing to lose.”

“and why do you think that is?” you ask.

he opens his mouth. closes it again.

“i know he’s grieving,” steve says, faster now, “i know that. i get it.”

you tilt your head slightly, “but do you though?” that makes him stop.

steve looks at you then, really looks, he straightens a little. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“it means,” you breathe out carefully, “that knowing someone is grieving and understanding what that grief is doing to them are two very different things.”

steve scoffs weakly, “i’ve lost people too.”

“i know,” you agree, “i’m not saying you haven’t. i’m saying this is different.”

his shoulders tense, “different how?”

you swallow, choosing how you were gonna put your words out, “dustin didn’t just lose someone, he had to watch his best friend die. in his arms. eddie died holding onto him.”

steve’s face goes slack.

you press on, voice steadier than you feel, “he felt his weight go limp. heard him struggle to breathe… heard the last thing he ever said.”

steve’s throat bobs, “that wasn’t just someone he cared about,” you continue. “that was his person. the one who made him feel less weird, less alone.”

steve looks down at the ground. his foot nudges a pebble back and forth.

“i didn’t mean to snap at him,” he mutters, “i just- every time he runs headfirst into danger, it feels like i’m about to lose him too.”

“i know,” you add softly, “and that’s why i’m telling you this now, before you say something you can’t take back.”

he doesn’t look up.

“will, mike, lucas,” you go on.

“they’re hurting too and they’re all trying to deal with it in their own ways. but they’re also… whether they mean to or not, putting pressure on dustin to move on. to be okay. to act normal again.”

steve frowns faintly, “they’re just trying to help.”

“i know,” you repeat, “but from dustin’s point of view? it probably feels like everyone’s saying, you should be over this by now.

and that’s the last thing you do to someone who lost the person they loved,” you sigh. then you pause. let it hang there, let him feel the weight of it.

slowly, you continue, a little quieter now, “can you imagine if i died?”

that finally makes him look up. his eyes snap to yours, startled. “don’t-”

“just imagine it,” you get out quickly, “imagine watching it happen. imagine holding me while i bled out, while i begged you not to let go and then imagine people telling you that you need to move on already. that you’re being reckless, that you’re not acting like yourself.”

he reaches for your hand, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles, “you wouldn’t be able to, you wouldn’t want to, because loving someone doesn’t just stop when they die.”

his breathing turns uneven.

“personally i’d be furious, i’d be broken and i’d probably do stupid things too, because when the worst has already happened, danger doesn’t really feel like it matters anymore.”

steve swallows hard. his eyes shine, he blinks rapidly, jaw trembling despite his best effort to hold it together.

“i didn’t think about it like that,” he whispers.

“i know,” you step closer, “that’s why i’m telling you.”

he drags a hand down his face, “he’s keeping eddie alive the only way he knows how.”

silence stretches heavily between you, steve stares at the concrete, eyes unfocused. “i was so busy being scared,” he admits. “scared he was going to get himself killed. scared i’d fail him like i failed eddie.”

“you didn’t fail eddie,” you disagree immediately. he shakes his head, “i should’ve been there.”

“so should a lot of people,” you reply. “but that doesn’t mean it was your fault.”

steve’s shoulders sag, the fight draining out of him all at once. “i was an asshole to him.”

“yes,” you shrug, “you were.” he huffs out a weak breath, you give him a small, sad smile. 

he looks back where dustin disappeared to, guilt written all over his face. “i need to fix this.”

“then start by apologising,” you suggest. “not for being worried. for making him feel like his grief was wrong.”

he nods slowly. “yeah.” hesitates, then asks, “do you think he’ll forgive me?”

you squeeze his hand. “dustin loves you. he just needs to know you’re on his side."

steve closes his eyes for a moment. when he opens them again, he sighs, “i get it now,” he says hoarsely. “i really do.”

you lean in and press your forehead to his shoulder. “that’s all i wanted.”

he wraps his arms around you, “thank you,” he murmurs into your hair. “for calling me out.”

you hold him there for a beat longer before pulling back, “go talk to him,” you push him in dustin's direction. “i’ll be right here.”

steve nods, takes a steadying breath, and goes over, mumbling to himself on the way.

the interviewer grins, clearly pleased. “yeah?”

“oh, i binged it in less than a day,” you ramble. “like, canceled plans, phone on silent, unwell about it.”

somewhere just off to your left, you're oblivious that hudson is mid interview himself, glances over, already slightly smirking to himself. he knows where this is going.

“the chemistry,” you continue, hands coming up as you talk, animated now. “that’s what got me. it wasn’t just tension for tension’s sake, you know? there was so much chemistry. like, the way they looked at each other-”

you cut yourself off, laughing. “sorry. i’m getting too into this.”

“no, please,” the interviewer says. “go on.”

“it just hooked me,” you nod, “i don’t even know how to explain it. you start one episode thinking you’ll stop halfway and then suddenly it’s four in the morning and you’re like, what am i supposed to do with myself now?”

the camera zooms slightly closer.

“and,” you add, turning fully toward the lens now, eyes sparkling with mischief, “i am formally begging. publicly. on record. please cast me in season two.”

the interviewer laughs, “oh?”

“i don’t care if it’s a small scene,” you insist, clasping your hands dramatically. “i’ll be a random girl in the background. i’ll do something embarrassing. i’ll do anything.”

you glance straight into the camera again, completely unserious and fully committed. “call me.”

hudson actually snorts from his interview, shaking his head.

you’re still smiling when movement catches your eye, someone passing just by you. tall. dark suit. familiar face.

connor storrie.

your brain short circuits instantly.

“oh my god, wait, connor,” you blurt, turning completely away from the interview without hesitation.

the interviewer looks momentarily startled as you call out, “hi! hi, sorry, hi!”

connor stops mid step, clearly surprised. his face breaks into a grin the second he realises you’re talking to him.

“hey,” he acknowledges, laughing a little, stepping closer.

you don’t even think, you reach out, lightly grabbing his arm to get his attention fully. “hi. i’m so sorry, i’m being rude, i’m mid interview, but i wanted to say hi.”

he laughs, shaking his head. “no, it’s okay, hi to you too.”

he leans in and pulls you into a quick side hug, arm warm and around your shoulders. it’s brief, cameras immediately swing toward the two of you.

“good to see you,” his words quiet against your ear.

“you too,” you reply, beaming up at him. “seriously.”

he gives a little nod, still smiling, before letting you go and continuing on toward his own interview spot.

the second he’s gone, you turn back toward the camera, pressing a hand to your chest dramatically.

“i’m fine,” you announce, “woo! i'm totally fine.”

the interviewer laughs, “you alright?”

you fan yourself with your hand, a little over the top. “it should be illegal.”

“what should?”

you glance between where connor disappeared and now realising where hudson is doing his own interview a few feet away, then back to the camera.

“is it weird if i say that they both smell and look so good?” you fangirl, “it’s actually unfair to the rest of us.”

“i mean,” you continue, grinning, “how is anyone else supposed to compete with that? i walked onto this carpet confident and now i’m just-”

you flutter your hand again, mock dazed.

“ruined,” the interviewer finishes for you.

“ruined,” you confirm.

hudson glances over again, catching the tail end of your dramatics. he watches you with an amused, fond smile, completely unaware that he's just watched you just publicly sing his praises.

“and final question,” the interviewer says, still smiling. “if you were cast in season two… who would you want scenes with?”

you don’t even hesitate.

“both,” you blurt out, “together, preferably.”

the interviewer laughs as the segment wraps, thanking you. you step back, still riding the buzz, cheeks warm, heart thudding.

as you finally move toward the ballroom entrance, hudson finishes his interview too, catching up to you as you go and take your pictures.

walking side by side with you now, he raises his brows, amused. “did i hear my show just got aggressively promoted?”

you grin. 

“i regret nothing.”

she doesn’t look up right away. just stares out at the street, jaw set, eyes fixed onto nothing. smoke curls upward, catching moonlight for a second before vanishing.

you hesitate at the edge of the porch. you don’t want to intrude. but something in your chest tugs, “couldn’t sleep?” you ask quietly.

her head tilts toward your voice, “guess not.”

it’s flat, not rude or anything, just tired.

you step closer, boots thudding softly against the wood. the porch boards creak under your weight, she shifts slightly, making room without looking at you.

you sit beside her, leaving an inch of space between your shoulders. for a moment, neither of you speaks.

the cigarette burns low. rosita flicks ash into the ashtray on the table beside her with a sharp tap.

“i don’t know how he did it,” you voice breaking, clearing it after.

she glances at you, brow furrowing, “what do you mean?”

you exhale, staring out at the empty street, “i don’t know how he could have possibly left someone like you.” your swallow, “so strong. were so dedicated to him. so… genuine.”

she scoffs softly, shaking her head. “you don’t have to-”

“sasha’s great,” you continue, quick to add it, not wanting this to sound cruel. “she really is. but… shit.” you finally turn to look at rosita. “that man doesn’t know what he’s lost out on.”

for the first time all week, her mouth curves, not a full smile, but something close to it, “he’s a dick,” she takes another drag.

you huff out a quiet laugh, “yeah. agreed.”

she glances at you sideways, then holds the cigarette out, offering.

you take it, your fingers brushing hers for half a second longer than necessary. the paper’s warm when you bring it to your lips. you inhale, then blow the smoke out the side of your mouth, away from her.

“by the way,” you add casually, handing it back, “you look pretty.”

she lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “bullshit.”

you tilt your head, studying her openly now. her eyes are puffy, lashes clumped slightly from tears she probably wiped away hours ago. her hair’s pulled back messily, loose strands escaping at her temples, she’s wearing an oversized hoodie that looks slept in.

“you don’t mean that,” she gestured vaguely to herself, “i am,” you reply simply. she snorts, “you’re full of shit.”

you shake your head, passing the cigarette back again, “i disagree.”

she takes it, eyes flicking to you despite herself. you watch her lips as she inhales, the way they part just slightly, the glow reflecting in her eyes. when she exhales, her shoulders ease, just a fraction.

“you’re pretty when you’re thinking.”

her fingers still mid flick. ash drops, forgotten.

that makes her swallow. you can see it, the way her throat moves, the way her jaw tightens.

you lean against the back of the bench, gaze drifting up toward the star, “it’s not just that, though.” she doesn’t interrupt.

“i like the way you correct people when they underestimate you, but never make a big deal out of it. the way you laugh with your whole body when something actually gets you.”

rosita stares straight ahead now, cigarette forgotten between her fingers.

“and the way,” you continue, quieter, “you show up for the people around you. every single time..”

her laugh this time is shaky, “you make me sound better than i am.”

“i make you sound like you,” you disagree. “and i'm not gonna lie you’re… kind of incredible.”

the silence returns, stretches between you, thick but not uncomfortable. somewhere down the street, a door creaks, a breeze lifting the hem of your jacket.

rosita finally turns to you, cheeks warm, eyes shining, “you always notice people like this?”

“only the ones who matter,” you reply honestly.

that does it.

she looks away, lips pressing together, shoulders drawing in as if she’s suddenly unsure what to do with herself. she rubs her thumb along the cigarette filter, then stubs it out.

“shit,” she mutters.

you smile gently, not pushing. “i should probably go wake the next person for their turn.”

she nods, relief and disappointment tangled together in the motion. “yeah, of course.”

you stand, joints protesting after hours on your feet. for a second, you hesitate, resting a hand on the porch post near her, close but not touching.

“sleep well, rosita,” you smile at her.

she looks up at you again, eyes searching your face. “you too.”

you step off the porch, hands in your pockets as you start back down the street, your steps quiet against the pavement.

a yawn slips from her as she stands, the fight finally leaving her body. for the first time in days, sleep feels possible. she wouldn’t say it out loud, not to you, not to anyone, but your presence had loosened something inside her.

enough for her to finally rest.