dorcas having a crush on aria is so funny because aria is somehow the loudest girl alive and still completely oblivious when someone actually likes her.
dorcas will be standing there, visibly softer around her, letting aria get away with things she would hex anyone else for, and aria is just like, wow, dorcas is being weirdly nice today. anyway where’s regulus?
regulus, meanwhile, is trying so hard to redirect aria.
“you should talk to dorcas.”
“why?”
“because she likes you.”
“everyone likes me.”
“that is aggressively untrue.”
he keeps trying to set them up purely so aria will stop following him around and flirting with him every five minutes, but aria never gets the hint.
dorcas is waiting for aria to notice.
regulus is begging aria to notice.
aria is too busy leaning over regulus’s shoulder like, “miss me, pretty boy?”
and regulus is just standing there like a haunted man watching his one escape route flirt with him instead.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
For years, Dorcas Meadowes had watched Aria Parkinson burn.
Not in a clean way. Not bright and noble, not like a candle in a chapel window or a wand-tip lifted against the dark. Aria burned like something thrown into a bonfire by mistake. Like paper with handwriting still on it. Like a dress hem catching flame. Like laughter turned too sharp and glittering to be real.
She was always there.
Somehow, always there.
A flash of pale skin and dyed-blonde hair, the ends changing colour often enough that Dorcas had stopped trying to keep track. A grin too wide for her face. A laugh that cut through corridors before she appeared around corners. A voice made for getting into trouble and getting other people dragged in after her.
She was the younger girl hovering at the edge of their group as if she had been born there and rejected from it in the same breath. She dealt to Evan with a casualness that made Dorcas’s eyebrow twitch the first time she noticed, like Aria had simply decided school rules were a decorative suggestion. She appeared beside Barty like a second heartbeat, loud where he was vicious, manic where he was sharp, both of them speaking in half-finished thoughts only the other seemed to understand. She brought Briar with her often, sweet Briar trailing behind with wide eyes and cautious hands while Aria stormed ahead like a little hurricane in boots.
And Regulus.
Always Regulus.
Dorcas had watched that too.
She had watched Aria follow him around with a crush so open and shameless that everyone seemed to think that made it easy to laugh at. Aria’s feelings were treated like another one of her performances, another spectacle, something to roll eyes at over dinner or sneer about in corridors. Dorcas had seen the way Regulus ignored her, the way the others smirked, the way Aria would grin wider, louder, meaner, pretending every dismissal was just part of the joke.
The thing was, Dorcas had never found it funny.
At first, she had found Aria entertaining. That was all. Annoying, yes. Impossible, frequently. Trouble wrapped in lip gloss and smoke and cheap jewellery. But entertaining.
She was always doing something.
Swinging her legs over a corridor banister. Laughing too loudly in the library. Coming to breakfast with her hair still wet and her tie somehow on backwards. Making Evan look exasperated while handing him a small folded packet under the table. Leaning over Barty’s shoulder to whisper something that made him choke on pumpkin juice. Getting glared at by half the hall and grinning like applause sounded the same as hatred if you were brave enough.
Dorcas had watched her because everyone watched her.
Then, somewhere along the way, Dorcas began watching differently.
She noticed the gaps.
The little shifts.
Aria’s laughter after someone insulted her, always a second too late, always too loud. The way her hands shook before she tucked them into her sleeves. The way she ate like she had forgotten meals were supposed to be regular things and not accidents. The way her eyes moved when people were talking about her, pretending not to listen while absorbing every word like poison through skin.
Dorcas noticed how often Aria was alone.
Even when she was surrounded by people, she was alone.
It was a strange thing to realise about someone so noisy.
Aria filled rooms. She turned heads. She became the centre of everything by force, by sparkle, by sheer refusal to be ignored. But Dorcas started to see the difference between being seen and being held. Aria was seen constantly. Mocked constantly. Measured, dismissed, ridiculed, desired for entertainment, blamed for chaos, used for whatever usefulness she offered and then shoved away when she got too much.
But held?
No.
Not held.
Not properly.
Dorcas did not know when sympathy became something warmer. She did not know when amusement turned to fondness, when fondness turned protective, when protection became a quiet ache behind her ribs every time Aria staggered into sight with a grin that looked nailed onto her face.
It might have been the day Aria came into the common area smelling of smoke and winter air, talking so quickly Dorcas could hardly follow, and Dorcas noticed mascara smudged under one of her eyes like she had rubbed at it too hard.
It might have been when she heard people laughing at Aria’s crush on Regulus, whispering about how pathetic it was, and Dorcas’s temper went cold and bright enough that she had to leave before she said something unforgivable.
It might have been when Aria leaned across a table to steal one of Dorcas’s sweets without asking, winked at her, and said, “You’d miss me if I died, Meadowes,” as if it were a joke.
Dorcas had not laughed.
Aria had.
That was the first time Dorcas remembered thinking, with a strange and frightened clarity, that she wanted to keep Aria alive.
Not in a dramatic way. Not in a way Aria would understand or believe if Dorcas ever said it. But in the simple, stubborn way of wanting to be there. To stand between her and the world that kept swinging. To take her face in both hands and say, Stop. You don’t have to be bigger than your hurt. You don’t have to swallow the whole sky just because no one taught you how to be a person-sized thing.
Aria never noticed.
Dorcas did not blame her.
Aria was too busy surviving herself.
That was what Dorcas thought, when she found her by the lake.
The night was dark and wet around the edges, the kind of cold that slid under clothes and sat in the bones. The grounds stretched out silent beneath a heavy sky. No moonlight worth speaking of. The lake was a vast black sheet, its surface shifting quietly, breathing like some old creature asleep in the dark.
The dock jutted out over it, slick with mist.
Aria was sitting at the edge, knees pulled up loosely, one leg dangling over the side. Her shoes hovered inches above the water. Smoke curled from the blunt between her fingers and drifted around her head like a crooked halo. She was hunched forward, shoulders too sharp beneath her clothes, hair falling loose around her face.
For a moment, Dorcas did not move.
She stood at the start of the dock and watched the tiny orange flare as Aria lifted the blunt to her mouth.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
The smoke disappeared into the night.
Aria looked very small out there.
Too small.
Then, as if sensing Dorcas’s eyes on her, Aria turned her head.
Her face lit up.
Not softly. Not naturally. It snapped open like stage curtains.
“Dorcas!” she cheered, throwing one arm up so suddenly Dorcas’s heart kicked hard against her ribs. “Fuck me, look who’s wandered into my tragic little lake scene.”
Dorcas stepped onto the dock carefully. The wood creaked beneath her shoes.
“Aria.”
“Meadowes,” Aria corrected brightly, pointing the blunt at her like it was a wand. “You’ve got to do it properly. With the drama. With the cheekbones. Meadowes.”
“You’re high.”
Aria gasped. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“That is an outrageous accusation.” She looked at the blunt in her own hand, then back at Dorcas, eyes huge and glassy and glittering.
Dorcas moved closer, keeping her steps slow. “How long have you been out here?”
Aria squinted at the lake like it might answer for her. “Time’s fake.”
“That long, then.”
“Or that short. Who’s to say? You? Me? The squid? God?” Aria leaned back on one hand, grinning up at Dorcas as she approached. “Sit down. You’re looming. It’s making me feel judged.”
“I am judging you.”
“See? Knew it.”
Dorcas lowered herself onto the dock beside her, close enough to catch the sharp, green scent of weed and damp fabric. Not close enough to crowd. Aria had always been a creature of sudden movement. Dorcas had learnt that over the years. Get too close too quickly and she either bit, bolted, or turned it into a performance.
Aria watched her sit with exaggerated interest.
“You’re very graceful,” she said.
Dorcas looked at her.
Aria nodded solemnly. “Like a panther. Or a murder ballet dancer.”
“A murder ballet dancer.”
“Yeah. Like if a ballerina had knives and childhood trauma.”
Dorcas almost smiled. “That’s specific.”
“I’m an artist.”
“You’re sitting by the lake in the middle of the night, high out of your mind.”
“Artists suffer.”
“You’re shivering.”
Aria looked down at herself as if surprised to find a body there. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” She took another drag and blew the smoke sideways, away from Dorcas. “That’s embarrassing.”
Dorcas rested her hands loosely in her lap. “You should go inside.”
Aria groaned, tipping her head back. “Boring.”
“You’re cold.”
“I’m always cold.”
“You’re upset.”
That did it.
Only a fraction. Only a blink. But Dorcas saw it.
Aria’s grin twitched.
Not vanished. Never vanished. Aria’s grin was too disciplined for that. But it faltered at the edge, like a flame bending in wind.
Then she laughed.
“Upset?” Aria echoed. “Me? No. I’m fantastic. I’m a delight. I’m the jewel of Hogwarts. I’m beloved by all.”
“Aria.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Actually, I’m Aria.”
“Don’t.”
“Ooh.” Aria leaned towards her, eyes bright, voice dropping into a theatrical whisper. “That sounded stern.”
Dorcas held her gaze. “I’m not here to scold you.”
“Shame. Some people pay extra for that.”
“Aria.”
“What?” Aria snapped, then immediately smiled again, too wide. “What? I’m fine.”
Dorcas looked out over the lake.
It was easier not to stare too hard. Sometimes, she had noticed, Aria answered more honestly if she did not feel watched. If she thought the attention had been loosened, even slightly, she let pieces slip.
“You don’t look fine.”
Aria snorted. “People say that when they want something.”
“What do you think I want?”
“Dunno.” She flicked ash into the lake. “A confession. A sob story. Entertainment. Maybe you’re collecting secrets. Maybe you’re bored.”
“I’m worried.”
Aria went still.
The word sat between them.
Worried.
A small word. Plain. Dangerous.
Aria stared at Dorcas for a moment, then burst into laughter so loud it skidded across the water.
“Oh, that’s good,” she said. “That’s really good. Worried. About me. Fucking hell.”
Dorcas’s voice stayed even. “Yes.”
“No, no, say it again. I want to hear it properly.”
“I’m worried about you.”
Aria clapped once, delighted. “Brilliant. Gorgeous. Ten points. You’re wasted in Slytherin, you should’ve done theatre.”
Dorcas did not react.
Aria shifted, restless now, energy kicking up under her skin. “You know, you’ve got this face when you’re trying to be calm. Like you’re about to perform surgery or murder somebody.”
“I’m not going to murder you.”
“Pity.”
“Don’t say that.”
Aria’s eyes flashed.
“What?” she asked lightly.
“Don’t.”
“What, murder?” Her grin sharpened. “Death? Dying? Corpse stuff? Is that not polite lake conversation?”
Dorcas finally looked at her fully. “Not when you’re sitting at the edge of a dock, high and shivering.”
Aria stared back.
For a second, there was only the slap of water against wood.
Then Aria rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful.
“Oh my God, Meadowes, relax. I’m not going to dramatically fling myself into the lake like some tragic little maiden in a painting.”
Dorcas’s jaw tightened.
Aria saw.
Of course she saw.
She saw everything she could use to escape tenderness.
Her grin came back brighter. “Unless I did it for comedic timing.”
“Aria.”
“Would you rescue me?”
“Yes.”
“You’d ruin your robes?”
“Yes.”
“You’d get your hair wet?”
“Yes.”
“You’d be so brave.” Aria leaned closer, voice syrupy and teasing. “My hero.”
Dorcas’s breath caught despite herself.
Aria was close enough that Dorcas could see the damp shine of her lower lashes, the faint tremor in her mouth, the tiny white pressure marks where her fingers gripped the blunt too tightly.
“Come inside,” Dorcas said.
“No.”
“You need to warm up.”
“No.”
“Then give me that.”
Aria drew her hand away with a scandalised gasp. “My medicine?”
“It’s not medicine.”
“It’s medicinal to me.”
“It’s making you worse.”
“Everything makes me worse.” Aria said it cheerfully. Too cheerfully. “Food, sleep, school, people, family, air. Should I stop breathing too, Doctor Meadowes?”
Dorcas held very still.
Aria’s smile stayed on.
But her eyes were burning.
Dorcas softened her voice. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Aria.”
“Nothing happened.”
“You’re out here alone.”
“I like the lake.”
“You’re crying.”
Aria’s hand flew to her face.
Dorcas wished she had not said it so plainly.
Aria rubbed hard under her eye, furious and messy. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay.”
That seemed to wrong-foot her.
Aria frowned. “Okay?”
“If you say you’re not, then you’re not.”
Her suspicion sharpened. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re not going to argue?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you already know.”
Aria’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Then she laughed again, but it was thinner this time. Brittle. A sound like ice cracking.
“You’re weird tonight.”
“I could say the same.”
“I’m always weird.”
“You’re different.”
Aria looked away.
The blunt was burning forgotten between her fingers. Smoke curled upward, slow and ghostly.
Dorcas watched her profile in the dark. The little slope of her nose. The pale curve of her cheek. The hard set of her jaw, like she was holding herself together with her teeth.
“Talk to me,” Dorcas said.
Aria groaned. “No.”
“You don’t have to tell me everything.”
“Good, because I won’t.”
“You can tell me one thing.”
“No.”
“One thing that hurt.”
Aria laughed under her breath. “Just one?”
Dorcas said nothing.
Aria looked at her then. Really looked at her, and for one flickering second, the mask thinned enough that Dorcas saw the exhaustion underneath.
It frightened her.
Then Aria sprang to her feet.
The dock rocked beneath them.
Dorcas’s hand shot out instinctively. “Aria.”
“Swim with me.”
“What?”
“Swim with me.” Aria spun on the dock, arms flung wide, hair flying around her face. “Come on. It’ll be romantic.”
“No.”
Aria made a wounded noise. “You didn’t even consider it.”
“It’s freezing.”
“Coward.”
“Yes.”
“Dorcas.”
“No.”
“Meadowes.”
“No.”
Aria came closer, bending down to tug at Dorcas’s sleeve with both hands. Her fingers were cold. “Come on. Come on, come on, come on. Don’t be dull.”
Dorcas gently pried her hand away. “You’re not getting in the lake.”
Aria’s eyes sparkled with wickedness.
Dorcas’s stomach dropped.
“Aria.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you’re Dorcas.”
“Aria, step back from the edge.”
“Make me.”
Dorcas stood slowly.
Aria’s grin trembled at the corners.
“Come here,” Dorcas said.
There was no command in it. No anger. Just a careful gentleness that seemed to hit Aria harder than shouting would have.
For a second, Aria looked like she might obey.
Then she laughed, bright and wild.
And jumped.
Dorcas lunged, but Aria was already gone.
The lake swallowed her with a black splash.
Cold shot through Dorcas as if she had fallen in herself. She dropped to her knees at the edge of the dock, heart hammering.
“Aria!”
A second passed.
Then another.
The water churned.
Aria surfaced with a gasp and a shout, hair plastered to her face, clothes dragging heavy around her limbs.
“Holy shit!” she yelled, laughing. “That is cold!”
Dorcas gripped the edge of the dock. “Get out.”
Aria kicked backward, grinning up at her. “You look so upset.”
“Get out of the water.”
“No.”
“Aria.”
“No,” she sang, paddling messily, fully clothed and too high to be safely anywhere near deep water. “It’s nice. I live here now.”
Dorcas forced herself to breathe slowly. Panic would not help. Panic would make Aria either panic too or mock it until both of them were useless.
“You’re going to freeze.”
“Then I’ll be preserved. Like fruit.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Everything’s funny if you’re committed enough.”
“You’re too high to swim properly.”
“Rude.”
“True.”
Aria splashed water at the dock. It hit Dorcas’s sleeve and scattered over the wood.
Dorcas did not move.
Aria’s grin slipped again.
“You’re meant to laugh,” she said.
“I don’t feel like laughing.”
“Oh, come on. That was good.”
“You scared me.”
The words were quiet.
Aria floated in place.
For once, she did not immediately reply.
Dorcas stayed kneeling at the edge, her palms pressed to the wet wood, watching every movement Aria made. The lake tugged gently at Aria’s soaked clothes. Her hair clung to her cheeks. Her lips were already losing colour.
“Come out,” Dorcas said softly.
Aria looked away. “No.”
“Please.”
Aria’s shoulders jerked.
It might have been from the cold.
It might not.
“You don’t get to do that,” Aria said.
Dorcas frowned. “Do what?”
“Be nice.”
“I’m not doing it to trick you.”
Aria laughed once, harshly. “Everyone’s doing something to trick me.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“No,” Aria snapped, spinning back towards her. “You’re worse, actually. You just sit there with your calm little face and your clever little eyes and you act like you can see through me, and I don’t like it.”
Dorcas took that without flinching.
Aria’s breathing was getting faster.
“I don’t need you to psychoanalyse me,” Aria said. “I don’t need you to sit there and do your little concerned voice and ask your little questions.”
“I’m not trying to psychoanalyse you.”
“You are. You keep asking. Why are you asking?”
“Because I care.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you fucking don’t!”
Her voice cracked across the water.
Dorcas went silent.
Aria’s face twisted.
The anger came all at once.
It rose out of her like something dragged from the bottom of the lake, black and dripping and alive.
“You don’t care,” Aria shouted. “No one cares. No one fucking cares unless I’m funny or useful or doing something they can laugh at. No one cares when I’m quiet. No one cares when I can’t breathe. No one cares when I’m so tired I feel like my bones are full of fucking sand. They just want me to be louder. Funnier. Easier.”
Dorcas’s chest hurt.
Aria’s voice climbed, jagged with tears.
“And then you come out here and you ask like it matters. Like you’re going to do anything with the answer. Like you’re not just going to hear it and realise I’m actually just pathetic and annoying and too much and not enough and whatever else everyone already knows.”
“That isn’t what I think.”
“Why do you care?” Aria screamed. “Why? Why do you care? No one else fucking does. No one else asks. No one else sees it. No one else gives a shit, so why can’t you just let it go?”
Dorcas stayed low, steady, hands open against the dock.
“Because I can’t.”
Aria let out a furious sob and slapped the water with both hands.
“Maybe I should just drown myself,” she shouted. “Maybe that would be better. Maybe everyone would be happier. Rid the world of a problem, yeah? No more Aria being too loud. No more Aria making a mess. No more Aria wanting things she’s not meant to want. No more stupid little freak chasing people who don’t even fucking look at her.”
“Aria.”
“No.” She shook her head violently, water flying from her hair. “No, don’t say my name like that.”
“Look at me.”
“Fuck off.”
“Look at me.”
“No.”
“Aria.”
Something in Dorcas’s voice must have reached her, because Aria’s eyes snapped up.
They were huge. Wild. Terrified beneath the fury.
Dorcas softened every part of herself she could.
“You are not a problem.”
Aria’s mouth trembled.
“You are not a problem,” Dorcas said again. “You are a person. You’re hurt. You’re exhausted. You’re high and you’re freezing and you’re in the lake, and I need you to listen to me.”
Aria’s breathing came in little broken bursts.
Dorcas kept her voice low.
“I’m not angry with you.”
Aria laughed, but it sounded like pain. “You should be.”
“I’m not.”
“I jumped in the lake.”
“Yes.”
“Fully dressed.”
“Yes.”
“That’s very annoying.”
“It is.”
Aria’s lips twitched for half a second, then crumpled.
Dorcas leaned forward slightly. “I’m still not angry.”
Aria looked down at the water.
Her arms moved weakly around her, keeping herself afloat. The movement was growing clumsy. The cold was getting into her properly now; Dorcas could see the tremor in her shoulders, the stiffness creeping into her hands.
“Come out,” Dorcas said. “Please.”
Aria did not move.
Dorcas swallowed.
“I need you to come out because I can’t hold you from there.”
Aria’s face changed.
Just a little.
A crack in the armour.
Dorcas reached one hand down, palm open. Not grabbing. Not demanding.
“Come here.”
Aria stared at her hand.
The lake lapped softly against the dock.
For a long moment, Dorcas thought she might refuse out of pure habit. Out of pride. Out of terror. Out of the awful belief that accepting care meant admitting she needed it.
Then Aria kicked slowly towards the dock.
Dorcas kept her hand extended.
“That’s it,” she murmured. “Good. Just a little closer.”
“Don’t,” Aria whispered.
Dorcas stopped immediately. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m going to break.”
Dorcas looked at her, throat tight. “Aren’t you?”
Aria’s eyes filled again.
She looked away.
Dorcas did not apologise. It would have made it cheaper somehow. Instead, she kept her hand there, steady as a promise.
Aria reached for the dock.
Her fingers slipped the first time.
Dorcas’s hand twitched, but she did not snatch. She waited until Aria tried again, until her wet fingers clamped around the edge. Then Dorcas caught her wrist with careful firmness.
“I’ve got you.”
Aria flinched at that too.
Dorcas pretended not to notice.
The climb out was awkward. Aria was soaked, her clothes heavy, her limbs trembling from cold and weed and adrenaline. She tried to haul herself up with one arm and failed, breath catching in a furious little noise.
“Shut up,” she muttered, though Dorcas had not said anything.
“I didn’t.”
“You were thinking something.”
“I was thinking you’re cold.”
“Boring thought.”
Dorcas braced herself and helped pull.
Aria kicked against the side of the dock, scraped one knee, swore sharply, then dragged herself up with Dorcas’s help until she collapsed onto the boards in a wet, shivering heap.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Aria sat hunched beside her, dripping water onto the dock, hair stuck to her face and neck. Her shoulders were curled inward. Her hands rested limply in her lap. The blunt was gone, swallowed by the lake or the dark.
Dorcas sat next to her again.
Not too close.
Close enough.
Aria stared at the planks beneath them.
Her teeth chattered once before she clenched her jaw hard enough to stop it.
Dorcas said, “You’re going to make yourself ill.”
Aria gave a tiny shrug.
It was worse than any of the screaming.
Dorcas reached out, then hesitated.
Aria did not look at her.
“Can I fix your hair?”
Silence.
The question hung there, absurdly gentle after everything.
Then Aria gave another tiny shrug.
Dorcas took it as permission.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted the wet strands from Aria’s face. Her fingers moved lightly, smoothing hair back from Aria’s cheek, untangling it from her eyelashes, tucking it behind one ear. Aria sat frozen beneath the touch.
Dorcas had thought she would make a joke.
She did not.
That frightened Dorcas too.
Aria’s face was bare now without the hair hiding it. Bare in a way Dorcas had rarely seen. No grin. No glittering performance. No vicious little wink. Just sitting soaked and shaking on a dock in the dark, trying not to cry and failing silently.
Dorcas’s breath left her slowly.
“Oh, Aria.”
Aria shut her eyes.
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
No sound.
Just tears.
Dorcas lifted both hands and cupped Aria’s face.
Aria’s skin was freezing.
Her eyes flew open.
Dorcas held her gently, thumbs resting near her cheekbones, not trapping, not forcing. Aria could have pulled away. She did not.
“Hey,” Dorcas whispered.
Aria’s lips parted. No words came.
“Hey,” Dorcas said again, softer. “I’m here.”
Aria’s face crumpled for half a second, then she swallowed it back so violently Dorcas felt it under her hands.
“No,” Dorcas murmured. “You don’t have to do that.”
Aria shook her head inside Dorcas’s hold.
“You don’t have to swallow it.”
A tiny, broken noise escaped Aria.
Dorcas moved closer.
“It’s all right.”
Aria shook her head again, tears spilling faster.
“It’s all right,” Dorcas repeated. “I’ve got you.”
That was what did it.
Aria broke.
Not beautifully. Not delicately. She broke like something overfilled, like a glass knocked from a table, like years of swallowed sound finally splitting her ribs open.
A sob tore out of her, raw and startled, as if it had frightened her too. She folded forward, and Dorcas caught her immediately, drawing her close, wrapping both arms around her soaked body.
Aria clung to her.
Hard.
Fists twisted in the front of Dorcas’s robes. Face buried against her shoulder. Whole body shaking with the force of it.
Dorcas held on.
She held Aria like she had wanted to for years and had never once allowed herself to imagine properly. She held her through the first violent wave, through the second, through the way Aria tried to apologise and sobbed too hard to form the word.
“Don’t,” Dorcas whispered into her wet hair. “Don’t apologise.”
Dorcas tightened her arms around her. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I’m so tired.”
“I know.”
“I can’t keep doing it.”
“I know.”
“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”
“You don’t have to do it like this.”
Aria choked on another sob. “I don’t know how else.”
Dorcas closed her eyes.
The lake moved beside them, dark and indifferent. The night pressed cold around their bodies. Aria was soaked through, shivering violently, and still Dorcas held her because letting go felt impossible.
“We’ll figure it out,” Dorcas said.
Aria shook her head against her shoulder. “No.”
“Yes.”
“You can’t fix me.”
“I didn’t say I could.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Holding you.”
Aria went still for half a breath.
Then cried harder.
Dorcas stroked one hand over the back of her head, gentle, steady, smoothing wet hair with fingers that trembled only after she allowed them to.
“I don’t need you to be fixed,” Dorcas said. “I don’t need you to be quieter. I don’t need you to be easier.”
Aria’s fingers curled tighter in Dorcas’s robes.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know more than you think.”
Aria pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were red and shining, lashes clumped with tears and lake water. She looked wrecked. Furious with herself for being wrecked.
Dorcas kept one arm around her.
Aria sniffed, expression twisting in weak accusation. “You’ve barely ever spoken to me.”
“I’ve spoken to you.”
“Not like this.”
“No,” Dorcas admitted. “Not like this.”
“Why?”
Dorcas looked at her.
There it was.
The edge.
The place she had stood at for years without stepping over. She had kept quiet because Aria had wanted Regulus. Because Aria had seemed too bright, too far away, too tangled in her own storms to notice anyone watching from the shore. Because Dorcas had not wanted to become another person asking something of her. Because wanting Aria felt like holding a match near spilled petrol.
But Aria was looking at her now.
No performance. No joke held up like a shield.
Just hurt.
Just a question.
Dorcas swallowed.
“Because I didn’t know how to say it without making things harder for you.”
Aria blinked. “Say what?”
Dorcas’s hand, still at Aria’s back, stilled.
She could hear her own pulse.
“I care about you.”
Aria let out a wet, humourless little laugh. “You said that already.”
“No.” Dorcas’s voice lowered. “I mean I care about you.”
Aria stared.
The meaning landed slowly.
Dorcas watched it move through her face. Confusion first. Then disbelief. Then panic. Then something painfully small and hopeful that vanished almost before it arrived.
“No, you don’t,” Aria whispered.
“Yes, I do.”
“No.” Aria shook her head, trying to pull back, but Dorcas loosened her arms immediately rather than restraining her. Aria only made it a few inches away before stopping, like she did not know where else to go. “No, that’s not—no.”
“Aria.”
“No, because you’re Dorcas.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re you.”
Dorcas gave a tiny, sad smile. “Still aware.”
“And I’m me.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to me.”
Aria stared at her as if Dorcas had started speaking in a language she almost recognised but could not translate.
“You can’t,” Aria said.
“I can.”
“No, you can’t. You don’t—” Her voice cracked. “You don’t even like me.”
Dorcas frowned. “Who told you that?”
Aria made a helpless, jagged gesture with one hand. “Everyone. The world. Your face.”
“My face?”
“You glare.”
“I glare at most people.”
“You glare at me.”
“Mostly because you alarm me.”
Despite everything, Aria let out one startled breath that was nearly a laugh.
Dorcas’s thumb brushed carefully beneath her eye, wiping away a tear. “You do alarm me.”
“Great.”
“You also make me laugh.”
Aria’s expression flickered.
“And you annoy me,” Dorcas added.
The flicker sharpened into something almost familiar. “Rude.”
“You are annoying.”
“Wow. Romance is dead.”
Dorcas’s heart stumbled.
Aria seemed to realise what she had said at the same time.
The word hung between them.
Romance.
Aria froze, eyes wide.
Dorcas did not look away.
“You’re clever,” Dorcas said softly. “Too clever. You notice everything except when someone is trying to be kind to you.”
Aria’s mouth trembled.
“You’re funny,” Dorcas continued. “Not because you’re making yourself into something for other people to laugh at. You’re actually funny. Sharp. Strange. Ridiculous.”
Aria blinked quickly.
“You’re brave. Reckless, yes. Infuriatingly reckless. But brave. You walk into rooms where you know people have already decided what they think of you, and you still take up space.”
“I’m loud,” Aria whispered.
“You’re allowed to be.”
“I’m too much.”
“You’re a lot,” Dorcas said. “That isn’t the same thing.”
Aria’s eyes filled again.
Dorcas cupped her face properly, both hands gentle against her cold cheeks.
“You’ve been trying to become bigger than the hurt,” Dorcas said. “Bigger than the laughing, bigger than the ignoring, bigger than the way people look at you like you’re only worth noticing when you’re entertaining them. But you don’t have to be enormous to deserve care.”
Aria’s breathing hitched.
“You don’t have to be useful,” Dorcas said. “You don’t have to be funny. You don’t have to chase anyone. You don’t have to bleed glitter just so people don’t complain about the mess.”
Aria stared at her with tears slipping silently down Dorcas’s fingers.
Dorcas’s voice shook now, only slightly.
“I like you when you’re loud. I like you when you’re quiet. I like you when you’re grinning like you’re about to commit a crime. I like you when you’re sitting beside me and saying nothing because the world has finally become too heavy. I like the girl under all of it. I have for a while.”
Aria’s face crumpled.
“No,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You feel sorry for me.”
“I do,” Dorcas said honestly. “But that isn’t why.”
Aria flinched.
Dorcas held her steady with her voice.
“I’m sorry you’ve been hurt. I’m sorry people have made you feel disposable. I’m sorry you learnt to turn pain into a joke before anyone thought to ask where it came from. But pity isn’t what makes me look for you in rooms. Pity isn’t what makes me angry when people talk about you like you’re not standing there. Pity isn’t what made me come out here tonight.”
Aria swallowed hard.
“What did?”
Dorcas looked at her.
“The thought that you might be alone.”
Aria’s eyes shut.
Another sob broke loose, quieter this time. Dorcas drew her close again, and Aria went, collapsing into her with no fight left in her body.
“I didn’t know,” Aria cried into her shoulder. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t—”
“I know.”
“I thought you hated me.”
“I never hated you.”
“I thought everyone did.”
Dorcas’s hand moved slowly over her back.
“I don’t.”
Aria clung tighter.
The cold was beginning to bite through Dorcas’s own clothes now, Aria’s soaked weight pressed against her. Still, Dorcas did not shift away. Aria was shaking less violently but crying in deep, exhausted waves, her whole body sagging into Dorcas as if she had been carrying herself for years and had only just discovered she could put the weight down.
“I’m horrible,” Aria mumbled.
“No.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“You don’t know.”
“I know enough.”
“You don’t.”
“Then tell me.”
Aria went quiet.
Dorcas stroked her hair.
“You don’t have to,” she said after a moment. “Not tonight.”
“I don’t want you to change your mind.”
The confession was so small Dorcas almost missed it.
Something in her chest turned over.
“I won’t.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
“Everyone does.”
“I’m not everyone.”
Aria pulled back slowly. Her face was blotchy from crying, eyes swollen, lips trembling from the cold. She looked embarrassed suddenly, like the crying had sobered her into shame.
Dorcas hated that most of all.
Aria wiped at her face with her sleeve, but the sleeve was wet too, useless. “I’m disgusting.”
“You’re freezing.”
“I look disgusting.”
“You look like you jumped into a lake fully clothed.”
Aria gave a tiny, broken laugh. “That’s worse.”
“It was a very poor decision.”
“Yeah.”
“Possibly one of your worst.”
“Bit harsh.”
“You asked me not to treat you like you’d break.”
Aria stared at her, then laughed again, properly this time, though it cracked in the middle and almost became another sob.
Dorcas smiled faintly.
There she was.
Not fixed. Not fine. Not all better, because pain did not vanish just because someone held it kindly for a while.
But there.
Aria looked at Dorcas’s smile like it hurt.
“What?” Dorcas asked.
“Nothing.”
“Aria.”
She swallowed. “I don’t know what to do with this.”
“With what?”
“You.”
Dorcas’s heart beat once, hard.
Aria’s eyes dropped to Dorcas’s mouth for the briefest second.
Then away.
Dorcas saw it.
She did not move.
“Do you want me to stop?” Dorcas asked.
Aria shook her head before the question had even finished.
“No.”
“All right.”
“I mean—” Aria flushed despite the cold, panic flaring. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I mean.”
“That’s all right too.”
“It isn’t. I’m meant to be good at this.”
“At what?”
Aria gave a helpless little gesture. “This. Flirting. Wanting. Making things into jokes before they make me stupid.”
“You don’t have to be good at it.”
“I hate being bad at things.”
“I know.”
Aria narrowed her eyes weakly. “You keep saying that.”
“Because I do.”
“You’ve really been watching me?”
Dorcas held her gaze. “Yes.”
“For years?”
“Yes.”
Aria’s face did something complicated.
“That’s creepy,” she whispered.
Dorcas blinked.
Then Aria’s mouth twitched.
Dorcas exhaled, almost a laugh. “Fair.”
“I mean, romantic. Maybe. But also creepy.”
“I’ll accept that.”
“You’re taking this very well.”
“I’ve had time to prepare.”
That made Aria stare again.
The joke faded.
“You really mean it.”
“Yes.”
Aria’s eyes shone. “Why?”
Dorcas brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek.
“Because when you’re happy, really happy, not performing, you look like sunlight.”
Aria made a tiny sound.
“Because you talk like the world is daring you to shut up and you’ve decided to take that personally. Because you’re ridiculous with Barty, gentle with Briar when you think no one notices, shameless with Evan, hopeless around Regulus in a way that makes me want to shake him and wrap you in a blanket at the same time.”
Aria’s cheeks flushed darker.
Dorcas smiled softly. “Because you care more than you pretend. Because you’re softer than you pretend. Because every time someone treats you like a joke, I want to remind them you’re a person.”
Aria’s eyes overflowed again.
“And because I want to be near you,” Dorcas said. “Even when you’re impossible. Especially then, sometimes.”
Aria breathed out shakily.
“Dorcas.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know how to be wanted nicely.”
The sentence split Dorcas open.
She kept her hands gentle. She kept her voice steady. For Aria. For the girl trembling beneath the cold and the high and the years of being taught that wanting was something to be ashamed of, something to laugh at before anyone else could.
“Then we’ll go slowly.”
Aria looked at her mouth again.
“Slowly,” she repeated.
“As slowly as you need.”
“What if I mess it up?”
“You will.”
Aria blinked.
Dorcas’s lips curved. “So will I.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s honest.”
“I hate honest.”
“No, you don’t.”
Aria’s smile faded into something unbearably fragile.
“No,” she whispered. “I don’t.”
The space between them changed.
The night seemed to hold its breath.
Dorcas did not lean in first. She would not. Not after the lake. Not after the shouting. Not after Aria had spent years being watched and mocked and wanted wrongly by the world around her. Dorcas would not take a single step Aria did not choose to meet.
So she waited.
Aria trembled.
Her eyes searched Dorcas’s face as though hunting for the trick. The cruelty. The punchline. The inevitable moment where warmth turned into laughter and she was left standing exposed, foolish, ridiculous for believing anyone might mean what they said.
Dorcas let herself be searched.
Aria found nothing but her.
Slowly, very slowly, Aria leaned forward.
Then stopped.
Dorcas whispered, “You’re allowed.”
Aria’s breath shuddered.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“That’s all right.”
“I’m high.”
“I know.”
“I’m crying.”
“I know.”
“I’m soaking wet.”
“Very much so.”
A tiny laugh escaped Aria, trembling and scared.
Dorcas smiled. “You don’t have to kiss me.”
“I want to.”
The words came out fast, almost panicked, like Aria had to throw them before she could snatch them back.
Dorcas went still.
Aria’s eyes widened.
“I mean—”
“I want you to,” Dorcas said softly.
Aria stared at her.
Then she kissed her.
It was gentle.
Almost clumsy.
Nothing like Aria’s usual performances, nothing loud or feral or designed to dazzle. Her mouth touched Dorcas’s like a question asked in the dark. Cold lips. Salt tears. Lake water. Smoke faint on her breath. She kissed like she expected to be pushed away, like she was already bracing for the laugh.
Dorcas kissed her back softly.
No rush.
No demand.
Just warmth where there had been cold.
Aria made a small broken sound against her mouth and clutched at Dorcas’s robes again, not pulling away but holding on, holding on like the dock might vanish beneath them if she let go.
Dorcas lifted one hand to the back of Aria’s head and cradled her there, tenderly, careful of every tremor.
The kiss ended slowly.
Aria stayed close, forehead almost touching Dorcas’s, eyes still shut.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Aria whispered, “Oh.”
Dorcas’s laugh was barely more than breath. “Oh?”
Aria opened her eyes.
There was wonder in them.
Wounded wonder, but wonder still.
“I didn’t think it’d feel like that.”
Dorcas brushed her thumb over Aria’s cheek. “Like what?”
Aria swallowed.
“Safe.”
Dorcas’s throat tightened.
Aria seemed horrified by the admission the second it left her. She tried to look away, but Dorcas kept her hold gentle and gave her room to move. Aria did not move far.
“It can feel like that,” Dorcas said.
Aria’s face twisted. “Don’t promise things.”
“I’m not promising everything.”
“Good.”
“I’m promising this.”
Aria looked back at her.
Dorcas spoke carefully. “I’m here tonight. I care about you tonight. I want you alive tonight. I want you warm and dry and not alone tonight. We can do tomorrow when it gets here.”
Aria’s eyes filled again, but she did not break the same way this time. The tears came quietly.
“That’s too much,” she whispered.
“No,” Dorcas said. “It’s just tonight.”
Aria nodded once, but she looked as if she had been handed something enormous and did not know where to put it.
Dorcas shifted, opening her arms. “Come here.”
Aria hesitated only a second.
Then she crawled into Dorcas’s lap like all the strength had finally left her. Dorcas gathered her in, holding her close against the cold, one arm around her waist and the other curved protectively over her shoulders.
Aria tucked her face into Dorcas’s neck.
Her body was still damp and chilled, but the shaking had softened. Her breathing was uneven, catching now and then with the aftermath of sobs. Dorcas held her through each one.
“You’re going to smell like lake,” Aria mumbled after a while.
“So are you.”
“I already smell like lake.”
“And weed.”
“Don’t be judgemental.”
“I’m being observant.”
“You’re always observant.”
“With you, yes.”
Aria went quiet.
Dorcas rested her cheek lightly against Aria’s wet hair.
“Is that bad?” Dorcas asked.
“No,” Aria whispered. “I think I wanted someone to notice.”
Dorcas closed her eyes.
“I noticed.”
Aria’s fingers curled in the fabric at Dorcas’s side.
“I didn’t think anyone would.”
“I know.”
“I thought if they did, they’d leave.”
“I’m still here.”
“You’re very stubborn.”
“Yes.”
“That’s annoying.”
“You’re one to talk.”
A small laugh trembled out of Aria, softer than Dorcas had ever heard from her. No sharp edges. No teeth.
Just Aria.
Dorcas held her tighter.
The lake shifted beneath the dock. Mist clung to the edges of the water, and the night remained cold, but something in the dark had changed. Not healed. Not solved. Nothing as simple as that. Dorcas did not trust simple things when it came to pain.
But Aria’s head was tucked beneath her chin.
Aria’s hands were no longer fists.
Aria was breathing.
And when Dorcas pressed a careful kiss to her hair, Aria did not joke. Did not flinch. Did not turn it into something louder than it needed to be.
She only leaned closer.
“I’m tired,” Aria whispered.
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
Dorcas smiled into her hair. “All right.”
A pause.
Then, smaller, “Say it again.”
Dorcas’s arms tightened around her.
“I know.”
Aria exhaled.
The sound was thin and shaky and almost peaceful.
Dorcas looked out over the water, black and endless under the night, and thought of all the years she had spent watching Aria burn from across rooms, across tables, across corridors crowded with people who saw only the fire and never the girl inside it.
She thought of every laugh too loud to be joy.
Every grin too sharp to be happiness.
Every time Aria had made herself enormous because no one had been careful with the smallness of her.
Dorcas pressed her lips once more to Aria’s damp hair.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” she whispered.
Aria did not answer for a long moment.
Then her hand found Dorcas’s and held it.
Not dramatically.
Not desperately.
Just held it.
As if learning the shape of being held back.
“I don’t know how,” Aria murmured.
Dorcas threaded their fingers together.
“Then I’ll stay while you learn.”
Aria’s breath caught.
Then she tucked herself closer, small and shaking and alive in Dorcas’s arms.
Aria Parkinson the type of popular girl who everyones amused by and who talks to everyone but who no one actually really likes or talks to unless they need something from her
