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IN HER ORBIT - Megan Katseye

♪ PLAYING ` dream girl - crisaunt

𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵

Megan has always moved like she’s made of something lighter than everyone else like gravity treats her differently. Maybe it’s the way she walks into the practice room, headphones around her neck, hair catching the light like it’s been waiting for her. Maybe it’s the way she smiles at you, slow and soft, like she’s greeting a memory instead of a person.

You’re stretching on the floor when she finds you, her shadow falling over your legs before her voice does.

“There you are,” she says, and it sounds like she’s been looking for you all day.

You glance up, and she’s already crouching down, eyes bright, lips curved in that way that makes your pulse skip. She smells like vanilla and something warm something that makes you think of late nights and whispered secrets.

“You okay?” she asks, brushing a stray hair behind your ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like touching you is a habit she never had to learn.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just tired.”

Megan hums, thoughtful. “You always say that.” She sits beside you, knees touching yours. “But you never let me take care of you.”

Your heart stutters. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” she says, voice dipping into something softer. “But I want to.”

She leans back on her hands, looking at you like you’re something she’s trying to memorize the kind of look people give sunsets or songs they don’t want to forget. Her gaze lingers on your face, your lips, your eyes, and you feel warm all over.

“You ever notice,” she murmurs, “how you glow when you’re not trying to?”

You blink. “I— what?”

Megan laughs quietly, shaking her head. “See? That.” She nudges your shoulder with hers. “You don’t even know how pretty you are.”

Your breath catches. She says it so casually, like it’s a fact she’s known forever.

Before you can respond, she reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face toward hers. Her touch is feather‑light, almost unreal.

“You make it really hard,” she whispers, “not to stare.”

The room feels too small. Too quiet. Too full of her.

“Megan…” you start, but she’s already leaning closer, her forehead resting against yours, her breath warm on your lips.

“I like you,” she says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “More than I should. More than I planned to.”

Your hands find her waist without thinking, and she melts into the touch like she’s been waiting for it.

“Good,” you whisper back. “Because I’ve been falling for you.”

Megan smiles not the confident, camera‑ready one. The real one. The one she only shows you.

“Then come here,” she murmurs, pulling you into her arms, “and let me keep falling with you.”

And when she kisses you soft, slow, like she’s savoring a dream she doesn’t want to wake up from you realize something:

You’re not dreaming.

She just makes everything feel like one.

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