#reconciliation

"I told you to rent the SUV."

“And I said, we don’t need one!” Lando protested, his voice cracking slightly as he gestured wildly at the frosted window.

“Clearly, we do because your dysfunctional car drifted into a pine tree that is now blocking the very exit we need. Lando, we are fucking stuck here."

You stood by the window of the cabin, arms crossed, staring out at the disaster in the driveway. The McLaren Artura—a vehicle worth more than most houses and designed exclusively for dry asphalt—was buried up to its wheel arches in a Finnish snowdrift and a huge pine tree just mocking both of you. It looked ridiculous.

You stared at the car, a bitter laugh bubbling in your chest. It was so typical. Lando Norris: the boy who lives life like a game. He never planned for the bad weather. He never planned for the hard days. He just assumed everything would work out if he went fast enough.

That was exactly why you were leaving him. You were tired of being the passenger in a life that was moving too fast to actually be lived.

Inside, the air was already turning stale and cold. The "smart heating system" Lando had insisted on installing two years ago was currently flashing a red error code that probably meant Game Over in Finnish, and the WiFi router was dead.

Lando was pacing the length of the living room rug. He was wearing a bright neon green Quadrant beanie that clashed violently with the rustic timber walls, looking less like a Formula 1 driver and more like a glow stick experiencing an existential crisis.

"My stream," he muttered, tapping his phone screen aggressively. "I was supposed to be live in a few hours. The chat is going to think I died."

"Priorities, Lando," you sighed, turning away from the window to face the room. "We are trapped in a blizzard with no heat, no internet, and..." You gestured to the coffee table.

There, the reason why you both are here in the first place, sitting in the center of the room like a radioactive device, was the thick manila envelope. The divorce papers.

Lando’s eyes flicked to the envelope, then immediately away, bouncing to the ceiling, the floor, the window—anywhere but the evidence of your failing marriage. He pulled his beanie down lower. "I’m going to check the fuse box again."

"You don't know what a fuse box looks like.”

“I can be an engineer if I wanted to!" he yelled over his shoulder, fleeing into the kitchen.

—————————

Two hours later, the engineering attempt had failed, and the silence was louder than the wind howling outside. You were both huddled on opposite ends of the oversized leather sofa, wrapped in whatever blankets you could find.

Since talking about why you were divorcing was too painful, and talking about the weather was too depressing, you had resorted to arguing about the assets, specifically the things in the last house that you were unable to sell. It was petty, it was stupid, and it was the only thing keeping you from crying.

"I don't want the deer," Lando said, pointing a gloved hand at the terrifying taxidermy head mounted above the fireplace. "It looks like it’s judging me… kind of reminds me of you, actually.”

"Well, I don't want it!" you snapped, pulling your blanket tighter. "You bought it! You said it gave the place 'scandi-vibes'!"

"I was drunk! That shouldn't be legally binding!"

You looked at the deer, and a memory hit you so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of you. You remembered that day. It was two years ago, during the winter break. You were stumbling through the Helsinki Christmas market, Lando laughing so hard his nose was bright red, holding that stupid deer head like a trophy. He had kissed you right there in the snow, promising that this cabin would be your escape—a place where cameras couldn't follow.

Now, the cabin was just another asset to liquidate, and the deer was just a dusty witness to the end.

He huffed, sinking lower into his hoodie. He looked ridiculous and looked exhausted. But also, annoyingly, he looked cold. He hadn't brought a proper coat because Lando lived life on the edge, and now he has to suffer through it, and clearly, you don’t give a fuck if he freezes for the next 48 hours. His teeth were chattering, a soft click-click-click sound that was chipping away at your resolve.

Don't do it, you told yourself. Do not offer him your scarf. He is a grown man. He is a millionaire. He can buy a scarf factory. But god, he looks like a shivering puppy.

"What about the Nespresso machine?" you asked, trying to distract yourself from the urge to choke him with your scarf.

"You take it," he said quickly.

"But you love that machine. You named it 'Brew-is Hamilton'."

"Yeah, well," he mumbled, picking at a loose thread on the sofa cushion, refusing to meet your eyes. "I don't know how to use the milk frother properly. You were the one who made the good foam. 

"It’s useless to me. It doesn't taste right if... if you don't make the foam."

The next blow. He was basically saying, It’s useless to me without you. This house is just bringing up past memories that you would like buried with the snow.

You looked away, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Fine. I take the machine.”

—————————

Night fell, and the temperature plummeted. The generator gave a final, dying wheeze and cut out, plunging the cabin into darkness save for the dying embers in the fireplace.

"Dinner," you announced, trying to keep your voice steady. You rummaged through the pantry with your phone flashlight. It was a grim selection of non-perishables left over from your last visit. "Okay. We have pickled beets, a jar of sardines... or plain crackers."

"I am not eating a fish from a jar," Lando said from the floor, where he had moved to be closer to the fire. "That is a crime against humanity. That is worse than Oscar’s dry sense of humor."

"It’s that or starvation, Norris."

“Fine…Crackers, please.”

You joined him on the rug, the only warm spot left in the house. You sat shoulder-to-shoulder, not touching, sharing the box of dry crackers and the bottle of expensive red wine that was supposed to be for the 'Closing Sale' toast.

You took a sip, trying to stop your own shivering. The cold was seeping through your socks, biting at your toes. You shifted your legs, tucking them under you, but it didn't help.

Lando paused mid-chew. He didn't turn his head, but his gaze dropped to your socks, tracking the subtle, involuntary tremor of your knees. He knew that fidget. He knew exactly at what temperature you stopped functioning. Without a word, without even looking up from the cracker he was inspecting, Lando reached out.

His hand clamped around your ankle. He tugged your legs straight, then lifted your feet and tucked them securely under his thighs, sandwiching them between the warmth of his legs and the rug.

You froze.

It was muscle memory. A habit from three years of marriage. Your feet were cold; he warmed them. It was a reflex attested through a shared life you once both knew.

You looked down at his hand resting on your shin. The gold wedding band was gone; he’d taken it off for the legal proceedings, but the skin on his ring finger was still pale, a stark of white against his tan. A ghost of the promise he claimed he couldn't keep.

He chewed his cracker, and he paused. The realization hit him a second later that you.

He went rigid, his hand hovering over your shin. But he didn't let go, and you didn't pull away, either. The heat from his legs was seeping into your frozen toes, a painful, wonderful reminder of the intimacy you were throwing away.

"Jesus," he hissed, his hands tightening around your ankles to generate more friction. "Are you actually part of the undead, now? "

"Rich," you mumbled, eyeing the sad, half-eaten cracker in his other hand. "Coming from the man trying to survive a blizzard on a dry biscuit."

But neither of you moved. The air between you was charged, heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and the vanilla perfume you hadn't changed in years.

The fire popped, a loud crack that broke the trance. You looked at the coffee table. The manila envelope was barely visible in the firelight, but its presence felt heavy, suffocating.

"Just sign it, Lando," you said, your voice trembling. You pulled your feet out from under him. The loss of warmth was immediate and brutal. "The pen is right there. It’s been six months of you dodging the lawyers. Just finish it."

Lando flinched. He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. The neon beanie slipped back, revealing messy curls. The mask of the "Cool F1 Driver," the streamer, and the joker dropped completely. He just looked like a boy who was lost.

"I can't," he said quietly.

"Why?" You grabbed the envelope and tossed it toward him. It landed on the rug with a soft slap. "It’s just paper, Norris. You drive at 200 miles per hour, but you can't hold a pen?"

"I opened it, okay! The papers you sent me the first time… I held it over and over again!" he shouted suddenly, his voice cracking, eyes flashing with sudden, wet anger. "I had the pen in my hand! I sat there for hours!"

"Then why didn't you?"

He looked at you, his eyes swimming with tears, his chest heaving.

"Because it felt like signing your name out of my life," he choked out. "Once I put the ink on the paper, I can't undo it. I can fix a bad lap. I can apologize to the team. I can fix a crash… But, I can’t fix this."

He wiped his face aggressively with his sleeve, sniffing loudly.

"I didn't want this," he whispered, the fight draining out of him. "I didn't know how to carry the weight of the title and the weight of your heart at the same time, so I dropped you. I dropped us. I thought if I focused on the car, you’d still be there when I got out, and fuck, Y/N, I was wrong.” He stepped closer, hands twitching as if he wanted to reach for you but was terrified to touch.  “I let you slip through my fingers, lap by lap, race by race. I was so obsessed with the car that I didn't see I was driving our marriage off a cliff. And the worst part? You stayed. You sat in the stands and cheered for me while I was letting you rot in silence. I want to get on my knees and beg you to start over, to tell you I’ll change—but how can I ask you to forgive a man who watched you drown for a year and did nothing but smile for the cameras?" He looked at you dead in the eyes now. “I’m sorry, Y/N, for everything I've done to us. But believe me when I say, Fuck the championship. Fuck the legacy. It’s all just noise. I thought if I won, I’d be enough for you, but all I did was ensure I’ll never be enough again. I let you down in the worst way possible. I left you alone when I was right there beside you. I’d give it back. I swear to God, I’d give every point, every podium, every second of it back if it meant you wouldn't look at me with those dead eyes. Please... just tell me it isn't too late."

The silence that followed his confession was louder than any cheering crowds that had drowned you out during your entire marriage.

Fuck the championship.

Three words. Three words that would have saved you six months ago. If he had said them when you were crying on the bathroom floor in Monaco, or when you were staring at the ceiling in an empty hotel room in Vegas, you would have stayed. You would have fought.

But now? Those words just felt like a eulogy.

You looked at him. The desperation in his eyes was raw and terrifyingly real. This wasn't Lando the Superstar; this was your Lando, stripped down to the bone. He was offering to burn down his empire just to keep you. God, it hurt. It hurt because you believed him. You knew he meant it. He would give every trophy back.

But he couldn't give back the time. He couldn't undo the loneliness.

But the love? The love was always right there between the two of you, terrified and freezing. It hadn't left. That was the cruelest joke of all. You didn't want to leave him because you stopped loving him; you were leaving him because loving him had started to kill you.

But looking at him now, shattered and breathless, the horrific truth finally hit you: He hadn't neglected you because he didn't care. He had neglected you because he thought he had to be a god to be worthy of you.

He was just a boy who had convinced himself that the only way to keep you was to be the best in the world. He had driven himself into the ground, chased every point and every win, not for his ego, but because he was terrified that if he was just Lando, he wouldn't be enough. He had broken your heart trying to protect it with trophies and glory when all you ever wanted was him.

If you walked away now, you weren't just leaving a bad marriage. You were leaving a man who had finally woken up. You were pulling the trigger right when he was ready to lay down his armor.

Is asking for a divorce really the right call?

You made a choice.

You reached over and picked up the thick manila envelope.

Lando flinched, squeezing his eyes shut, turning his head away as if expecting you to force the pen into his hand.

Riiiiiiiiip.

The sound was tearing and loud in the quiet cabin.

Lando’s head snapped up. He stared, mouth slightly open, as you tore the document down the middle, then stacked the halves and tore them again.

"My lawyer is going to kill me," he whispered, staring at the confetti in your hands. "That was the original copy."

"Let him sue us," you said, your voice trembling but firm. You tossed the shredded paper onto the floor. "We’re snowed in. We have at least twenty-four hours before a tow truck can get here. Maybe forty-eight."

You crawled across the small space on the rug and he followed you. You didn't kiss him. It was too soon for that. But he sat next to you, shoulder to shoulder, pressing your side against his.

"We don't sign today," you said softly. "We talk about us, about the schedules, about everything.”

Lando let out a shaky breath, a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. He leaned his head sideways until it rested heavily on your shoulder. His hand found yours in the dark, his fingers tangling with yours, holding on tight.

"Okay," he murmured, the tension finally leaving his body. "We talk."

He paused, sniffing loudly, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles.

"But can we also talk about getting better snacks for this cabin? Because if we get back together, I am banning the sardines."

You let out a wet laugh, leaning your head on top of his neon beanie. “Deal."

—————————

The next morning, the sun rose over a brilliantly white, frozen landscape. The Finnish tow truck driver arrived at 9 AM, shaking his head as he winched the flashy McLaren out of the snowdrift. He walked up to the cabin to get a signature, knocking loudly on the thick timber door.

Nobody answered.

Inside, the fire had long burned out, but the room was warm. Buried under the single faux-fur throw, two figures slept tangled together, limbs knotted in a desperate seek for warmth, surrounded by the torn remnants of a divorce decree scattered like snow. They didn't hear the knock. They were too busy making up for lost time.

"So we're having another sleepover tonight, bud," He tells his son excitedly over his own kiddie-sized cup of chocolate chip ice cream. Isaac cheers from your lap.

"Garett, he's got school in the morning, and I'm running out of clean underwear."

"Just take a pair of mine, I know you prefer them," he winks at you, and you roll your eyes at his antics. Isaac’s face is covered at this point in moose tracks. Before you can even shuffle your son off your lap, Garrett is standing up to grab a hefty handful of napkins (how you forgot this crucial step is beyond you) and dampen a few with water. He sits down and places the remaining dry ones under his cup of ice cream before saying

“Alright, look at me real fast, bud,” and wiping down his face. The toddler squirms in defiance, but Graham doesn’t give up. “So did Phil find you?”

“Yeah, we talked with Grandpa, he was.” You trail off a moment, “Maybe he could make like every other fallen athlete and take up acting. Cindy seems nice, the poor thing.” Graham rolls his eyes, not at you but in anger. It’s all very normal between the two of you, and it makes you both ache. When you became pregnant, you knew this would put Graham's career in jeopardy, so you decided to keep your life private.

A select few knew the whole story, and hockey fans could recognize the last name on any day care form you filled out. So it was decided that while Garrett was in school, Phil would set you up with an apartment and hand you a credit card with your name on it “for any expenses the baby might have,” and when Garrett graduated and joined the NHL, you could choose to go back to school or get a job. But at a certain point, you and Graham decided not to stay together. Something about wanting to allow him a more normal college experience. He tried desperately to talk you out of it. At 18, he didn’t want to admit he was ecstatic that you would be a permanent part of his life.

Eventually, he agreed to seeing other people, and he slept around, although this time he was much more cautious about birth control. He knew you had a boyfriend for a few months when you were 19, but that he dumped you when he realized how difficult raising Isaac was, and that you weren’t as uninhibited as any other girl he could be dating. It took everything in him not to pummel that man.

The drive home from the parlor was quiet except for the sounds of wind against the windows and the engine rumbling. Periodically, Isaac would babble in his sleep after suffering a minor sugar coma. But all Garrett could do was watch you stressfully comb your fingers through your hair in his peripheral vision. Your life must be so difficult. The house was a wreck with a post-win party, so he drove you to your apartment, which was now dish-free and spotless.

“Gare,”

“I don’t wanna hear it. It’s all for Isaac.”

“Thank you.” You smiled as he walked his son to his bedroom and helped him into his pajamas. Teeth were brushed, stories read, and prayers said. The toddler was out for the night. Garret rejoined to see you absolutely melted into your couch and suddenly felt stiff in his cargo pants.

“Hey, Garrett.” You asked as he crossed the threshold. He hummed in response, “Can you get me a glass of wine? There should be some in the fridge.”

“Course,” he responded. When he returned, he had left his jacket by your door and set down the bottle and two of your glasses. Something fancy your aunt gifted you from Pottery Barn. He sat down and fought the smile when you dug your ever-freezing feet under his hamstring despite the giant knitted blanket cocooning you.

“Drinking tonight, Graham?”

“I won, and one won’t kill me.”

“Morning lift tomorrow?”

“Seven a.m.” He confirms

“Jesus, have mercy,” you laugh as he hands you your glass. He sips it, and you watch his face contort. “Yeah, sorry, I’ve been into these really crispy, almost tart whites lately. Hope I’m not pregnant and this is some craving.”

“Oh, have you been hooking up with someone?”

“No, no,” you trail off, sipping the glass, “just ever since I gave birth, I get so scared it’s going to happen again. Isaac is my whole world, but I’m not looking to make a solar system any time soon.”

“ I get that,” he tries another sip before putting the glass down in disgust. “he seems like a lot and like you have a lot to deal with.”

“Oh, I make do.”

“What if you didn’t have to?”

“Why is Phil going to hire me a nanny? I swear the debt keeps growing.”

“No, nothing like that. I was thinking that you know, once I graduate. Maybe we can move in together. Give Isaac a better shot at a real family.”

“Garrett,”

“You don’t have to answer me tonight. Just think about it.” A silence falls over the living room. Even the murmur of the TV, which seemed to be permanently set to level 7, turned into a dull hum. You twiddled your toes under his leg and then curled them so they crack. You finish your glass, and Garrett hands you his rejected one.

"Thank you," you laugh, "Gare?" There's such an innocence to the way your voice pitches up. Once again, he hums in response. "When was the last time you had sex?" Oh, that's not innocent. He pretends to think about it. Pretends to count the days. After a beat he clears his throat.

"Last week, it was Friday."

"Really? What's his name?" he snorts at your quip

"Yeah, right, asshole. Her name was Jenna."

"Ugh, Jenna, I would kill to have had sex last Friday "

"When was the last time for you?" You take a glug of your glass

"Just you know, 8 months ago."

"Eight months!"

"Shhhhh!" you reprimand

"Sorry,” he curls his lips, "eight months?"

"Hey, I don't want to talk about it

"You're the one who brought it up

"I know, I know. But I don't wanna know what to do, Gare. I can't handle the apps, I don't have time for bars, and I swear to god my vibrator will burst into flames if I pick it up again." Finally, he turned around and faced you. His face was hard and concentrated, the way you imagine it was under his helmet. He begins to say something and then stops himself, licks his lips, and starts again.

"You're probably tired. Why don't I run you a shower and get you in bed?"

"No," you trail off again, a lilt in your voice, "I want a bath."

“Ok, I’ll set you up a bath.” He says so in an informational tone. Almonds like he’s trying to convince you that he can draw you a bath even if he doesn’t believe a tub actually exists. Down the hall, Isaac’s bathroom only has a shower, sink, and toilet. But when he snoops in your bedroom, he sees two doors. One for your closet, the second for an en suite. First step, he fills the tubs with the hottest water he can, remembering the time the two of you tried showering together and he felt himself get cooked alive. Then he located a few tea lights you had and a Bic lighter before setting out the small lit candles. He finds a bag of bath mix, hangs it around the faucet, and the water starts forming aromatic bubbles. It’s around this point that he turns around and finds you watching him from the doorway with this serene expression.

“Baths are almost ready.”

“I can see that,” you set your glass and the bottle of wine on the edge of your bath. Then you peel off the top layers of your outfit. Socks, jeans, sweater, and toss them on top of your hamper. You turn on the shower and resume stripping, having found a claw clip to put your hair in. It’s at this point that Garrett turns fully around and covers his eyes. “Come on, I’m just running off.”

“And I’m just being polite.” He hears the shower stream cut off, and you step out towards your tub

“Gare, I gave birth to your baby.”

“Doesn’t matter, you haven’t told me you want me to see you naked.” You step into the bath with a plop and release a big sigh as the hot water envelopes you

“Ahh, you got it just right.” You pick up your refreshed glass

“What scalding hot,”

“Just preparing for hell.” You laugh, “You don’t want in on this?” Garrett cocks an eyebrow at you before stalking over and dunking half his fingers into the water. As expected, it feels like a double boil. He responds no, no, but stays leaning on the ledge of the bath so he can watch you sip your wine. “In that case, can you rub my feet?” One of yours sprouts from the water.

“Sure, kid,” he says as he stands across from you and works his hands into the knots in the fascia of one foot. You are able in the same way as Isaac does. When one is down, you hide that foot under the bubble and lift the opposite. He can’t stop smiling to himself. You look so relaxed, you might actually begin to melt. When both feet have been properly relaxed, you make a bit of a guilty face.

“Gare, can you rub my shoulders?”

“Of course, (Y/n).”

The air is exceptionally misty in your bathroom, and Garrett has to navigate the mess of hair and the space between your porcelain tub and your bare shoulders to reach you. The first contact with them sets goose bumps on both his arms. He tries to ignore them. Concentrate on your pleasure. But he is further distracted by you sighing once again. A couple of directions are exchanged, lowers before you sigh again. “That’s the spot.”

He couldn’t locate reasons to change a thing. The water makes trickling noises as you shift in tandem with his ministrations. “You don’t need me to do this, you know.” Your eyes have been shut for the last few minutes, but you still raise an eyebrow. “I mean, you could always drop him off at daycare and get a massage. At a real spa. From a professional.”

“You know how I feel about daycares.”

“Or hire someone to come here. Phil’s money is a sea one massage won’t drain his savings.”

“I don’t like having a stranger's hands all over me. You-you’re familiar. It’s comfortable.” He doesn’t respond with real words, just kind of grunts somewhere in the back of his throat. “Alright, this water is getting cold, and I’m gonna get pruny.” Garrett removes his hands and immediately misses the feeling of your shoulders between his fingers and thumbs.

“Let me go get you some pajamas.” He dries his hands on one of your towels on the way out, and you roll your eyes at his utter aversion to your nudity. Or the immense respect he’s shown for constantly protecting your naked form. He knocks on the door, and when you quietly ’yell’ I’m decent, he just places some folded up PJs on the bathroom counter. After you’ve dressed, you find him, disgruntledly separating and putting laundry into your washing machine.

“When was the last time you did your laundry, young lady?”

“I was getting to it,” you defend, “it’s really hard to keep up with everything that Isaac dirties.”

“Well, the best care you can take of him is to take good care of yourself.” He shuts the washing machine, pours some soap into the little drawer, and sets it to cold and delicates. “This preserves the color.” He winks at you as if a giant, burly hockey player lecturing you about your laundry wouldn’t turn you on. He had already drawn your curtains and flicked on your nightlight.

“This is all too much, Gare.”

“I’m a dad taking care of my kid. Now go to bed.” He peels back your comforter.

“Only if you can give me more cuddles.”

“I’m not getting in your bed in day clothes.”

“Then put your jeans on the laundry chair.” You point to the seat in the corner of your room where you rarely had the chance to read. He rolls his eyes and juts his chin in the direction of your bed. As you tuck in, you watch him peel out of his pants and lay them over your chair. Shamelessly, you admire the view.

“Coping a peak?” He teases

"You know it." Before he can even attempt to settle you are sprawling across his chest and digging your body into the mattress. The contact sets his body alight. He tries to relax but he feels every muscle tense up the way they did when he drove you to the hospital. "Gare," you say after a beat "your hearts pounding."

"Yeah I can feel that."

"Are you okay?"

"Just peachy keen. Try to get some sleep."

"Please," you sigh and roll over. Immediately garrett rolls with you to spoon you. You immediately pull his hand up by the wrist. "Are you comfortable, Gare?'

"Never been better." He plays it cool. You're halfway between tipsy and drunk and fall asleep for the first time since the lines turned pink in a blissful mist. The story is not the same for Garrett. He's having a complete moral dilemma. The boner he's sporting could cut diamonds, but he is way too comfortable to get up and jerk off. Your hair smells like your expensive bergamot-and-mint shampoo. Every inch of your body feels softer than the blankets that you rub your hands on in the store. He decides that no sexual relief is worth waking you up or disturbing you. It's a few minutes later when he feels a contact high from bergamot and mint, and finally feels himself pulled under by slumber.

His sleep lasts only a brief wink because he wakes to the sensation of a warm writhing something. You're murmuring something in your sleep and grinding against him. It takes him a few groggy moments to put all of this together. By the time he has rubbed the sleep from his eyes, your babbles have become coherent.

"Gare," you sigh. Oh, oh, he snaps into game mode. But as soon as he is conscious, he is thrown back into his moral dilemma. Wake you up, potentially embarrass you, and piss you off. Or stay still and fight himself while you wet dream against him. he opts for the potentially more dangerous option and gently shakes you awake. You awake slowly, similar to him, still reeling from the change of scenery.

"Why did you wake me?"

"Uh, I think you were-you were squirming. I did n't-I felt like a cat post." It appears that the content of your dreams comes back to you.

"Oh my god, Garrett, I'm so sorry." You immediately try to jump out of your bed, but are stopped by a gentle hand on your wrist

"Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa. I'm not mad, I'm just. I'd like to be a part of whatever fantasy you were having." You're tucked into his chest, and your hands fly up to cover your eyes. "What?" he laughs

"It wasn't a fantasy." You remove your hands from your eyes. "I was dreaming of prom night, in the hotel, when we accidentally conceived Isaac."

"The sex was," he trails off, finding the right words

"It wasn't good-I know we figured it out later. But from what I hear, Mr. Last Friday, you've learned some tricks."

"I have," He licks his lips, feeling his heart just pound in his chest. "Do you want me to show you them?" You nod like an embarrassed little kid. "Okay," His smile is infectious, but is once again replaced by a studying look. "I can kiss you, right?" You don't give him a chance to feel doubt. You leap across his chest and take his head in both your hands, and kiss as much of your love for him. He makes quick work to pull both of your knees around his waist.

He traces up and down the back of your thigh as you move your mouth against his, only surfacing for a moment to demand, "Take your clothes off, now." You sit up in his lap so he can sit up and peel his shirt off. He barely has the time to throw it to the side before your mouth latches onto the side of his neck. You feel his hand on the drawstring of your sweatpants

"Your turn," He smiles and helps you pull them down your hips. The flimsy fabric joins his shirt in the somewhere else that all clothes end up in during sex. He leans back to admire the view. Despite grabbing the first clean pair of underwear he could find, he finds the hip-hugging apricot panties you’re wearing far sexier than any overpriced strappy lingerie.

“Stop, it’s really nothing special.”

“It’s you, everything is special.” He squeezes your hips before kissing you again. This time, he begins trailing his lips down your neck. As your posture melts, he feels you lean into his touch. Slowly, his right hand slides down your body as his left stays supporting your neck. He pauses for a moment before rubbing your clit over your cotton underwear. And the sounds you make, he might as well quit school and hockey and spend the rest of his life pleasing you. Finding the straddle awkward, he positions you on his left thigh and slowly slides your legs down before you kick them away.

“Is this okay?” He slowly slides his index finger inside you

“Yes, gare fuck-another.” Whoa, he rarely heard you swear, but from the feel of it, you were fucking soaked. He obeys, adding his middle finger, and you look like a woman possessed. The sounds pouring out of your mouth are incessant and unabashed. He works you out on his fingers until you're brought to the brink, and right as you're about to finish, he pulls his hand out. "What's not fair?"

"You really thought I was going to fuck you without eating you out?" Your face flushes at his tone. So assertive. so confident. "You're out of your mind." You flip over and place a pillow under your lower back. The moment his lips attach to your clit, you're brought right back to the edge. "Gare-Garrett that f-feels really good."

"Yeah?" He comes up a moment only for you to shove his head right back in

"Yeah," you're nearly groaning with relief as he takes his time, "Was starting to th-think that I was becoming numb to orgasms." He slides his fingers back into you, and once again, your back forms an arch like those in Missouri. The orgasm arrives like an assassin. A silent killer. One moment you're stuttering, the next a 'fuck!' flies out of your mouth with a Garrett's name not that far behind. He comes up, wiping his mouth with an infectious smile on his face.

"Oh my god,"

"I thought you weren't supposed to take the Lord's name in vain."

"You shut up and fuck me." You pull him down and kiss him again. Even the taste of your own cum on his lips doesn't deter you. Even as you kiss him, you strip from the big old band tee he'd given you. He stands up, and you watch unashamedly, savoring the view. Even in his boxers, you're taking perverted eyefulls of his sculpted body. He pulls his boxers down and slowly climbs at you. One more kiss before he lines himself up.

You want to pretend like this is super easy. Like you were made to fit together. But at 8 months out of practice, there is some serious discomfort. He pulls back and slows down, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's just been a while.'

"We can stop-"

"No!" you cut him off. "Please keep going," you pull him back so you're chest to chest. I just need you to go slower, that's all."

"Okay," He licks his lips in concentration. He lines himself up again and takes it even slower. You feel every inch and contour as he slides himself in. That delicious burn. Finally, after what feels like years, he bottoms out. "I'm in, but I'll wait until you say."

"Thank you, Garrett, just give me a minute."

"You know," He tucks some hair behind your ear, "I don't mind it here. I could get comfortable." You slide your hands down his bare waist and feel the soft skin wrapped over contoured muscle. The pain subsides, and you give him verbal confirmation that he's in the clear. He moves slowly, painstakingly slow.

"Alright, Gare, I'm not made of sugar."

"You can just tell me to speed up."

"Fine, pick up the pace, Garrett." He obeys, once again pulling his hips back with a testing swing. As you moan, he gradually raises the speed. It's like this positive feedback loop where the more you moan, the faster he goes. "Yes," you whimper. "Yes!" Finally, Garrett allows himself to be vocal, letting pleasured grunt after groan tumble through his nose.

"Oh fuck, you feel so good."

"I do?"

"Yeah, you do so so fucking good, ah, please tell me you're close."

"Yeah, I'm." He puts his lips back on your throat. Anyone else would be embarrassed. Anyone else would be embarrassed, but the sex lasts very short before you're both tumbling over the edge. And you're not embarrassed. You feel the best you ever have. Garrett looks like he could probably sympathize. Your ears are ringing with joy. You don't remember the in between of the obligatory clean up and post sex cuddles. Maybe it's because with Garrett, you don't have to think; he just understands you. You fall asleep wrapped in his arms.

………..

The morning greets you with a kind of warmth you were unaccustomed to. Not because you were wrapped in the hundred-pound arms of the love of your life. In fact, you wake up to an empty bed and his clothes gone. You would sit and sulk, but there's a text waiting for you on your phone. I had to run out and get a toothbrush and some proper clothes for church.'

the thing about jointly adopting a dog with your best friend at two in the morning during finals week is that it seems like a great idea until four years later when you’re texting said friend about custody arrangements and she responds with “we can meet but i’m bringing my lawyer” and you’re ninety percent sure she’s joking but only ninety percent.

you’re back in los angeles after four years in san francisco, and the first order of business before unpacking, before setting up your new apartment, before doing literally anything else is apparently meeting your ex-best-friend (a term that makes you cringe) in a coffee shop to negotiate visitation rights for a blind chihuahua named spork.

your lawyer is a pad of paper with “TALKING POINTS” written at the top in sharpie. angela’s lawyer is apparently just her, sitting across from you in ripped jeans and a vintage hoodie, looking simultaneously like she wants to hug you and like she wants to throw her iced coffee in your face.

“so.” she says.

“so…” you echo.

spork is not present for this negotiation. angela had texted he’s at home, didn’t want to stress him out which is probably code for “i didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of seeing how much he’d freak out over you being back.”

the coffee shop is too loud. some indie song is playing overhead and a group of film students are having an intense argument about auteur theory two tables over. angela is doing that thing where she tears her napkin into tiny shreds, which means she’s either nervous or annoyed or both.

“you look good.” you try, because someone has to start this conversation.

“thanks. you too.” she doesn’t look up from the napkin execution. “very san francisco of you.”

“what does that mean?”

“i don’t know. you just look expensive now.”

you glance down at your outfit. jeans and a plain t-shirt, nothing fancy. “i’m wearing target.”

“expensive target, then.”

this is going well. super well. you’re absolutely nailing this reunion.

“look,” you say, “i know this is weird—”

“it’s not weird.”

“—but we’re both adults and we both love spork—”

“i love spork,” angela interrupts. “you sent me money sometimes and asked how he was doing over text. that’s not the same thing.”

there it is. the thing you knew was coming but still hits like a punch to the gut.

“that’s not fair.” you say quietly.

“no, you’re right. i’m sorry.” she doesn’t sound sorry. she sounds tired. “i’ve just had him for four years. by myself. and now you’re back and you want to what, split custody? like he’s not a living thing that’s been with me this entire time?”

“i paid for half his vet bills—”

“money’s not the same as being there when he had that seizure last year. money’s not the same as sleeping on the bathroom floor with him when he had that stomach thing. money’s not—” she stops, takes a breath. “i’m not trying to be a bitch about this.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

her eyes flash. “you left. you left and you took this job and you barely called and when you did call it was always ‘how’s spork’ and never ‘how are you’ so forgive me if i’m a little bitter about you waltzing back into la and expecting everything to be the same.”

the film students have gone quiet. you think they might be eavesdropping. great.

“i didn’t waltz,” you mutter. “i got transferred. my company opened an office here.”

“you could’ve said no.”

“why would i say no? my entire life was here before i left.”

“was it?” angela asks, and there’s something sharp in her voice. “because it seemed pretty easy for you to go.”

you don’t know what to say to that. because she’s right and she’s wrong and this whole conversation is veering into territory you’re not ready to navigate in a coffee shop in silver lake at eleven in the morning on a tuesday.

“can we just—” you pinch the bridge of your nose.

“can we figure out the spork thing? please?”

angela sits back, arms crossed. “fine. what do you want?”

“i want to see him. spend time with him. he’s my dog too.”

“our dog.”

“right. our dog.”

she’s quiet for a moment, studying you in that unnerving way she does. angela’s always been able to read you too easily, see past whatever bullshit you’re trying to pull. it’s one of the things you loved about her. love about her. fuck.

“okay,” she says finally. “we can do a trial run. you can take him on weekends or something.”

“weekends?”

“you have a better idea?”

“that’s like… glorified dog-sitting. i want actual custody.”

“he’s not a child. we don’t need to go to court about this.”

“you’re the one who threatened to bring a lawyer!”

“i was joking!”

“i said i was only ninety percent sure!”

the barista looks over at you. you both immediately lower your voices.

“fine.” angela says. “fifty-fifty. we split the week. but i’m keeping him at my place primarily because that’s where all his stuff is and where he knows the layout and i’m not disrupting his routine just because you decided to come back.”

the way she says “decided to come back” stings more than it should.

“fine,” you agree, even though nothing about this is fine. “we can alternate. i’ll take him monday and tuesday, you take him wednesday and thursday, and we switch off weekends.”

“that’s a lot of back and forth.”

“you just said fifty-fifty!”

“i know what i said, i’m just saying it’s not practical—”

“oh i’m sorry, is my presence inconvenient for you?”

angela’s jaw clenches. “that’s not what i meant.”

“then what did you mean?”

she stares at you for a long moment, and you watch something complicated cross her face. anger, maybe. or hurt. or some combination of the two that you don’t have the right to parse anymore.

“forget it,” she mutters. “mondays and tuesdays are fine. i’ll text you my address.”

“i know your address.”

“i moved.”

“oh.”

of course she moved. four years is a long time. people move, people change, people build entire lives in the absence you leave behind.

angela stands up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “i’ll drop him off monday around six. try not to rearrange your furniture without warning him first.”

it takes you a second to realize she’s referencing the time spork ran into a wall because you’d moved the couch two feet to the left. it was during exam season junior year and you’d been stress-cleaning at two in the morning, and angela had come running out of her room at the sound of the collision, and you’d both ended up on the floor with spork between you, checking him over while trying not to laugh at how ridiculous the whole situation was.

you’d caught her eye over spork’s head and she’d been smiling, really smiling, and for a second you’d thought—

but that was then. that was college. that was before.

“i’ll keep the furniture exactly where it is.” you say.

“good.”

she’s halfway to the door when you call out, “angela.”

she turns.

“it’s good to see you. i know this is weird and you’re pissed at me, and you have every right to be, but… it’s good to see you.”

something in her expression softens, just slightly. “yeah. you too.”

and then she’s gone, and you’re sitting alone in a too-loud coffee shop with cold coffee and a napkin full of talking points you never used, wondering how the hell you’re going to survive this custody arrangement when just looking at angela makes your chest feel like it’s caving in.

monday arrives too quickly and not quickly enough.

you’ve spent the weekend making your apartment as dog-friendly as possible. you’ve bought new food bowls, a fancy orthopedic dog bed, the specific brand of treats angela mentioned spork likes in a text from eight months ago that you definitely didn’t keep starred in your messages.

at 6:15pm, there’s a knock on your door.

spork is older than you remember. grayer around the muzzle, moving a little slower, but the second you kneel down he’s immediately in your lap, tail going absolutely feral, making these little whimpering sounds that dogs make when they’re too happy to contain it.

“hey buddy,” you murmur, and your voice cracks embarrassingly. “hey, i missed you. i missed you so much.”

he’s licking your face with the enthusiasm of a dog who has been personally victimized by your absence, and you’re trying really hard not to cry in front of angela, who’s standing in your doorway with spork’s travel bag and a complicated expression.

“he remembers you,” she says quietly.

“of course he does.”

“i wasn’t sure if he would. it’s been a long time.”

four years, two months, and sixteen days.

you finally stand up, spork still in your arms. angela hands you the bag—it’s navy blue with spork’s name embroidered on the side, definitely not the ratty old backpack you used to transport him in.

“there’s a list inside,” angela says, not quite meeting your eyes. “his medication schedule, his food portions, things that trigger his anxiety. he doesn’t like loud noises or sudden movements. he needs his eyedrops twice a day for the cataracts. and he sleeps better with a light on because the complete darkness disorients him even though he can’t see anyway, we think it’s a comfort thing—”

“ang. i know how to take care of him.”

“you knew how to take care of him four years ago. he’s different now. he’s old.”

he’s ten, which is old for a chihuahua, but the way she says it makes it sound like he’s ancient. fragile. like she’s trusting you with something precious and she’s not sure you deserve that trust.

“i’ll take good care of him,” you say. “i promise.”

angela finally looks at you, and there’s something raw in her eyes. “he’s all i had, you know. when you left. he was all i had left of… everything.”

the everything hangs between you, weighted with four years of things unsaid.

“i’m sorry,” you tell her, and you mean it. “i’m sorry i left the way i did.”

“you got a good job. you were allowed to leave.”

“i could’ve handled it better.”

“yeah,” she agrees. “you could’ve.”

spork wriggles in your arms, trying to get to angela. she reaches out automatically to pet him, and for a moment you’re both holding him, your hands almost touching in his fur.

“i should go.” angela says, pulling back. “call me if anything happens. or if you have questions. or if he seems off at all.”

“i will.”

she’s backing toward the hallway, and you’re standing in your doorway, and it feels like something is ending before it even began.

“same time wednesday?” you ask.

“yeah. six o’clock.”

“okay.”

“okay.”

she’s at the elevator now. you should close the door. you should go inside and start your two days with spork and not think about the way angela looked when she said “he was all i had left of everything.”

“hey ang?” you call out.

she turns, hand on the elevator button.

“do you want to maybe… get coffee? sometime? not to talk about spork. just to talk. talk about us.”

she’s quiet for so long you think she’s going to say no. then: “maybe. let me think about it.”

the elevator dings. she steps inside. the doors close.

you go back into your apartment with spork and try not to think about how maybe isn’t yes but it isn’t no either, and how that’s probably the best you’re going to get right now.

turns out, taking care of a blind geriatric chihuahua is both exactly like you remember and completely different.

spork still hates the sound of the blender. still loves classical music. still has a vendetta against anyone smelling lavender, which you discover when your neighbor stops by to borrow sugar and spork loses his tiny mind.

but he’s also slower now. more anxious. he follows you from room to room like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loses track of you, and it breaks your heart a little bit every time.

you work from home on tuesday, and spork sleeps under your desk, his little body warm against your feet.

you send angela a photo, “someone’s making sure i’m productive”

she responds three hours later, “he’s supervising. he takes his job very seriously”

you: he’s literally asleep

angela: he’s SUPERVISING

wednesday arrives too fast. you pack up spork’s things and try not to feel weird about the fact that you’re going to angela’s new apartment. the one you’ve never been to. the one she got after you left.

it’s in los feliz, which makes sense. angela always loved this neighborhood. you used to come here for brunch on weekends, back when weekends meant something different.

her apartment is on the third floor. you can hear music playing inside when you knock—something indie and vaguely melancholic. very on-brand.

angela opens the door in paint-stained sweatpants and a tank top, her hair piled on top of her head. there’s a smudge of what looks like acrylic paint on her jaw.

“you paint now?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

she touches her face self-consciously. “i’m taking a class. it’s stupid.”

“it’s not stupid.”

“you haven’t seen my paintings.”

“i bet they’re good.”

“you’re required to say that. dog custody diplomacy.”

but she’s almost smiling, and you count that as a win.

spork knows exactly where he is the second you step inside. he immediately starts his usual routine—three steps forward, bump into the couch, recalibrate, continue to his water bowl. angela’s set up the furniture the exact same way as the old apartment, you realize. so he knows the layout.

“you kept the same configuration.” you say.

“it’s easier for him. he’s got the whole place memorized.”

you look around while angela gets spork settled. the apartment is so quintessentially her it makes your chest tight. vintage concert posters on the walls, a healthy collection of plants somehow thriving, a bookshelf full of comedy books and scripts. there are photos too—her at various comedy shows, her with friends you recognize and some you don’t. none of you, you notice. not a single one.

“nice place.” you offer.

“thanks. it’s smaller than the old one but the light’s better.”

the old one. the apartment you shared. the place where you’d spent four years learning exactly how angela took her coffee and what her pre-show anxiety looked like and how she’d sing in the shower when she thought you couldn’t hear.

“do you want something to drink?” angela asks. “i have water. and… water.”

“you don’t have coffee?”

“i have coffee but i’m out of milk and you drink it with milk.”

she remembers how you take your coffee. you’re trying not to read into that.

“water’s fine.”

you end up sitting at her kitchen counter while she fusses over spork, and it’s so familiar it hurts. this is what you did every day for four years. existed in each other’s spaces like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“he was good?” angela asks, not looking at you. “no problems?”

“he was perfect. we watched a lot of true crime documentaries. he’s very opinionated about unsolved cases.”

that gets a smile out of her. a real one. “he always takes the side of the most obvious suspect.”

“right? he’s got no patience for nuance.”

“he’s a simple man with simple needs.”

you’re both looking at spork now, who’s passed out in his bed, absolutely exhausted from the ordeal of changing locations.

“i’m glad he got to see you,” angela says quietly. “he’s been different since you left. more anxious. i think he missed you.”

“just him?”

it comes out before you can stop it. angela’s eyes snap to yours.

“that’s not fair,” she says.

“i know. i’m sorry.”

“you don’t get to—” she stops, takes a breath. “you left, y/n. you made that choice. and i respected it even though it sucked, and i took care of spork and i built my life here and i was fine. i am fine.”

“okay.”

“i’m just saying, you don’t get to come back and make me feel guilty for being hurt.”

“i’m not trying to—” you run a hand through your hair. “i’m not trying to make you feel guilty. i just… i missed you. both of you. and i know that’s my fault for leaving but i did. i missed you.”

angela’s gripping the edge of the counter. “why did you leave?”

“i told you. the job—”

“no, i mean why did you really leave? because we were fine. we were good. and then you got this offer and you just… went. you didn’t even try to find something here. you didn’t ask me what i thought. you just made the decision and left and i—” her voice cracks. “i didn’t understand. i still don’t understand.”

this is the conversation you’ve been avoiding for three years. the one you knew was coming the second you decided to move back to la.

“i was scared,” you admit.

“of what?”

“of us. of what we were. what we were becoming.”

angela stares at you. “what were we becoming?”

“ang, come on. we lived together. we adopted a dog together. we fell asleep on the couch together more nights than not. we were…” you trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

“we were friends,” angela says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

“were we? because i’ve had friends. and none of them ever made me feel the way you did. the way you do.”

“stop.”

“angela—”

“no, you don’t get to do this.” she’s backing away now, arms wrapped around herself. “you don’t get to leave for four years and come back and say this shit like it changes anything.”

“i’m not trying to change anything—”

“then what are you trying to do?”

“i don’t know! i’m trying to figure out how to be around you again without feeling like i’m constantly fucking it up!”

the silence that follows is deafening. spork snores peacefully, oblivious to the emotional carnage happening above him.

“you should go.” angela says finally.

“ang—”

“please. just… go. i’ll see you monday.”

you want to argue. want to stay and force this conversation to its conclusion. but angela won’t look at you, and you’ve already pushed too hard, so you just nod and head for the door.

“y/n.” calls when your hand’s on the doorknob.

you turn.

“i missed you too,” she says. “for the record. i missed you so much it felt like i couldn’t breathe sometimes. but that doesn’t mean i’m ready to just… pick up where we left off. i don’t even know where we left off.”

“neither do i.” you admit.

“so maybe we figure that out first. before we try to figure out anything else.”

“okay. yeah. we can do that.”

you leave before you can say anything else stupid, and you sit in your car for ten minutes before driving away, and you don’t let yourself cry until you’re safely back in your own apartment.

this is fine. everything’s fine.

the custody exchanges become a routine. mondays and wednesdays at six. you drop off, angela picks up. sometimes you chat for a few minutes. sometimes it’s just a quick handoff. you’re both being very careful, very polite. it’s awful.

your friends ask how it’s going.

“fine.” you lie. “we’re co-parenting like mature adults.”

“are you talking about the thing?” your best friend asks.

“there’s no thing.”

“there’s definitely a thing. there’s always been a thing with you two.”

“we’re just friends.”

“you lived together for four years and jointly adopted a dog. that’s not normal friendship behavior.”

“we were in college. everything’s weird in college.”

“you’re avoiding the thing.”

you are absolutely avoiding the thing. the thing is too big and too complicated and you’re not ready to look at it directly yet.

but then it’s week three, and you show up for the wednesday exchange, and angela looks terrible. not terrible like she looks bad—she could never look bad—but terrible like she hasn’t slept. like she’s been crying. her eyes are red-rimmed and her hair is messy in the way that means she’s been running her hands through it, and she’s wearing the hoodie she always wears when she’s upset.

“what’s wrong?” you ask immediately, spork forgotten in your arms.

“nothing. i’m fine.”

“you’re not fine.”

“it’s not your problem.”

“angela, what happened?”

she’s not looking at you. “i had a show tonight. it went badly.”

angela doesn’t talk about when shows go badly. she’s got this thing where she pretends everything’s fine even when it’s not, where she processes her feelings internally and then makes jokes about it later once she’s dealt with it.

the fact that she’s admitting this means it went really badly.

“i’m sorry,” you say. “do you want to talk about it?”

“not really.”

you stand there in her doorway, uncertain. spork is trying to get to angela, so you hand him over. she takes him automatically, burying her face in his fur.

“i bombed,” she says, muffled. “like completely ate shit. there was this heckler and i tried to handle it but i just… froze. and then i tried to recover but everything i said just made it worse and people were leaving and i could see the club owner looking pissed and i just—” she stops. takes a shaky breath. “i feel like i’m not getting anywhere. like i’ve been doing this for years and i’m still bombing at open mics.”

your heart breaks a little. “you’re brilliant, ang. one bad show doesn’t change that.”

“it’s not one bad show. it’s like… constant rejection and constant feeling like i’m not good enough and i’m so tired, y/n. i’m so tired of trying so hard and getting nowhere.”

she’s crying now. proper crying. and you’re still in the doorway, and every instinct you have is screaming at you to hug her, to fix this, to make it better.

“can i come in?” you ask quietly.

she nods, stepping back.

you close the door behind you and gently take spork from her arms, setting him down in his bed. then you turn back to angela, who’s just standing there looking lost.

“come here,” you say.

she falls into your arms like she’s been waiting for permission. you hold her while she cries into your shoulder, one hand rubbing circles on her back the way you used to when she’d get stressed about exams or auditions or life in general.

“you’re good at this,” you murmur. “you’re so good at this. i’ve watched your stuff online. you’re funny and smart and you have a voice that matters.”

“you watched my stuff?”

“of course i watched your stuff. all of it. every video you posted, every show you mentioned. i’ve been watching from san francisco like a creepy stalker.”

she laughs wetly against your shoulder. “that is pretty creepy.”

“i’m supportive creepy. there’s a difference.”

you end up on her couch, angela curled into your side like no time has passed at all. spork has somehow made it up onto the couch too and is sprawled across both your laps, snoring peacefully.

“i’m sorry i fell apart on you,” angela says after a while. “i know we’re doing the whole civil co-parenting thing.”

“hey, emotional breakdowns are part of the package. it’s in the custody agreement. page seven, subsection three.”

“there’s no page seven.”

“sure there is. right after the part about alternating holidays.”

she elbows you halfheartedly. you can feel her smiling against your shoulder though.

“i’m glad you’re here,” she admits quietly. “even though i was so mad at you. even though part of me still is. i’m glad you came back.”

“me too.”

“and not just for spork.”

your heart does a complicated thing in your chest. “no?”

“no. i just—” she pulls back slightly to look at you. her eyes are still puffy from crying but there’s something soft in them. “i don’t know how to do this. be around you and not be everything we were before. but i don’t want to not be around you.”

“we could try being different things,” you suggest. “new things. we don’t have to be what we were in college.”

“what would we be?”

“i don’t know. friends who are actually friends? who talk about real shit instead of just spork’s bowel movements?”

“his bowel movements are important.”

“they are very important. i’m just saying we could also talk about other things.”

angela’s quiet for a moment, considering. “like what?”

“like how you’re feeling. how comedy’s going. what else you’re doing besides the shows. i want to know about your life, ang. i want to actually be in it again, not just adjacent to it.”

“that sounds suspiciously like a friendship.”

“it is a friendship. we’re building it from scratch. no assumptions, no history, just… starting over.”

“we have a lot of history.”

“okay, starting over but acknowledging the history. new friendship, built on the foundation of the old friendship, co-parenting a blind chihuahua.”

she’s smiling now. really smiling. “when you put it that way it sounds almost normal.”

“we’ve never been normal.”

“true.”

spork shifts between you, grumbling in his sleep. angela reaches down to pet him absently, and her hand brushes yours. neither of you pulls away.

“so we’re doing this?” she asks. “the friendship thing?”

“if you want to.”

“i do. but i have conditions.”

“of course you do.”

“you have to actually tell me things. no more disappearing into your own head and making decisions without talking to me first.”

“that’s fair.”

“and you have to come to my shows. not all of them, but like… some of them. when you can.”

“i can do that.”

“and you have to be patient with me. because i’m still kind of mad at you and i don’t know how long it’ll take for that to go away.”

“i can be patient.”

she studies your face like she’s looking for the catch. “okay. we can try the friendship thing.”

it’s not a resolution. it’s not a happy ending. it’s just two people who used to know everything about each other trying to figure out how to know each other again.

but it’s a start.

you end up staying for another hour, just talking. angela tells you about the comedy scene, about the other performers she’s been working with. you tell her about san francisco, about the job you left behind, about why you came back. (the promotion was part of it, but mostly you were just tired of being away.)

when you finally leave, angela walks you to the door with spork in her arms.

“same time monday?” she asks.

“actually,” you say, “what if we did something different?”

“different how?”

“what if instead of just trading him back and forth, we did like… joint custody days? where we’re both there?”

angela raises an eyebrow. “like parallel parenting?”

“sure. we could take him to the dog park or something. together.”

“that’s either a really good idea or a terrible one.”

“probably both.”

she considers it. “okay. we can try it. but if spork gets confused and runs into things, i’m blaming you.”

“that’s fair.”

you’re halfway down the hallway when she calls out: “thanks. for tonight. for staying.”

you turn.

“anytime, angel.”

and you mean it.

the joint custody days become a thing.

saturday mornings at the dog park in griffith. angela brings coffee (she bought milk, you notice). you bring treats. spork mostly just stands in one spot and judges the other dogs, but he seems happy to be outside.

“he’s very critical,” angela observes as spork refuses to acknowledge a golden retriever trying to befriend him.

“he has standards.”

“he’s a seven-pound chihuahua.”

“a seven-pound chihuahua with standards.”

it’s easy, this. easier than you expected. you fall into conversation like you’re remembering how, talking about work and comedy and the new thai place that opened down the street from angela’s apartment. she tells you about the painting class (she’s terrible at it but it’s fun). you tell her about your terrible boss who keeps scheduling meetings at eight am.

it feels like friendship. like maybe you’re actually pulling this off.

week five, angela texts you on a thursday night, “emergency. need backup”

you call immediately. “what’s wrong? is spork okay?”

“spork’s fine. i’m dying. can you come to my show tomorrow?”

“you’re not dying.”

“i’m performing new material and i’m absolutely dying. i need a friendly face in the audience.”

“you want me to come to your show.”

“yes. please. i’ll owe you forever.”

you shouldn’t. you’re supposed to be taking this slow, rebuilding the friendship carefully. going to her show feels like too much too fast.

“what time?” you ask.

you can hear her relief through the phone. “nine. it’s at the improv lab in hollywood. and y/n? thank you.”

the show is good. better than good. angela’s fucking hilarious, and watching her on stage—confident and bright and so wholly herself, makes you remember why you fell into friendship with her in the first place. she’s magnetic.

afterward, you wait by the side of the stage while she talks to other performers. she spots you and her whole face lights up, and something in your chest goes warm.

“you came,” she says, slightly breathless.

“of course i came.”

“and?”

“you were incredible. seriously. the bit about your landlord? i almost cried laughing.”

she’s beaming. “really?”

“really.”

you end up at a diner at midnight, splitting fries and talking through the show. angela’s buzzing with adrenaline, talking fast and excited, and you just listen and watch her and think about how much you’ve missed this. not just angela, but this version of her. the one who’s pursuing her dreams and fighting for what she wants.

“i’m really proud of you.” you say at some point.

she pauses mid-fry. “yeah?”

“you’re doing it. the thing you always said you’d do.”

“it’s not exactly sold-out stadiums.”

“yet. it’s not sold-out stadiums yet.”

her smile is soft. “you always believed in me more than i believed in myself.”

“someone has to.”

you drive her home because she took an uber to the show. spork is waiting by the door when you arrive, and angela scoops him up immediately.

“successful show,” she tells him. “your other mom came to support me.”

“other mom?”

“what? we’re co-parenting. that makes us both his moms.”

“i thought you didn’t want to do the mom thing.”

“i changed my mind. spork has two moms now. he’s very progressive.”

you’re laughing, and angela’s laughing, and spork is trying to lick both your faces at once, and it’s midnight on a friday and you’re standing in angela’s apartment like you have a right to be there.

“i should go,” you say, even though you don’t want to.

“yeah. okay.”

neither of you moves.

“this is good,” angela says quietly. “what we’re doing. the friendship thing. it’s good.”

“yeah. it is.”

“i’m less mad at you than i was.”

“that’s progress.”

“don’t push your luck.”

but she’s smiling, and you’re smiling, and when you finally leave you sit in your car for five minutes just processing the fact that maybe you’re actually going to be okay.

it’s week eight when spork escapes.

you’re supposed to have him for the weekend, but you run out to grab coffee for literally ten minutes and apparently that’s all the time a blind chihuahua needs to squeeze through a door you definitely thought you closed all the way.

you return to an empty apartment and immediately panic.

you call angela. she doesn’t answer. you call again. and again. and finally, “what’s wrong?”

“spork’s gone. he got out. i’ve been looking for twenty minutes and i can’t find him and angela i’m so sorry, i thought i closed the door—”

“okay, breathe. where are you?”

“my apartment. i’ve checked the hallways and the stairs and—”

“i’m coming. stay there in case he comes back.”

she shows up fifteen minutes later in sweatpants and a jacket thrown over her pajamas, her hair unbrushed. you’ve never been so relieved to see anyone.

“tell me exactly what happened,” she says.

you do. she listens, already pulling out her phone to text neighbors and post in the building group chat.

“he can’t have gotten far,” she reasons. “he doesn’t move that fast. and he usually sticks to familiar places.”

“what if he’s scared? what if he’s hurt?”

“he’s fine. he’s survived this long by being a stubborn little shit. he’s not going to let a little thing like being blind and lost stop him.”

you spend the next hour searching. knocking on doors, calling his name, checking every corner and crevice. angela is methodical about it, creating a grid pattern, refusing to panic even though you can see the worry in her eyes.

you’re on the verge of calling animal control when your phone rings. unknown number.

“hello?”

“hello, i think i have your dog? little chihuahua? he was sitting outside my door.”

you almost drop the phone. “where are you?”

“apartment 3b.”

angela’s apartment building. he went to angela’s apartment building.

you look at angela. she’s already halfway to the stairs.

he’s there, sitting patiently outside 3b like he knew exactly where he was going. a kind-looking older woman—has given him water and is petting him gently.

“he just showed up about twenty minutes ago,” she explains. “seemed very determined. i recognized him from the elevator.”

angela scoops him up, and you can see her hands shaking slightly. “thank you so much. we’ve been looking everywhere.”

“how did he even know how to get here?” you ask once you’re back in the hallway.

“i have no idea. it’s like four blocks.”

“he can’t see.”

“i know.”

you both just stare at spork, who seems perfectly content now that he’s accomplished his mission of finding angela.

“he wanted you.” you say.

angela’s quiet for a moment. “or he wanted us both. and he knows we’re usually together at my place.”

the implication of that hangs in the air.

“do you want to come up?” angela asks. “you look like you need a drink.”

“it’s two in the afternoon.”

“fine. coffee then. you need coffee.”

you end up on her couch with spork between you, both of you still coming down from the adrenaline. angela makes coffee with the muscle memory of someone who’s done this a thousand times—one sugar for her, milk for you.

“i’m sorry,” you say. “i should’ve been more careful.”

“it’s not your fault. he’s an escape artist. he’s done this before.”

“he has?”

“yeah. a few months after you left, he got out and i found him three blocks away, sitting outside our old apartment building.”

your old apartment building. the one you lived in together.

“he was looking for you,” angela says softly. “or for both of us. for what things used to be.”

you look down at spork, this tiny blind dog who somehow navigates the world through sheer determination and stubbornness.

“he keeps trying to get us back together,” you observe.

“he’s a dog. he doesn’t understand that things change.”

“maybe he understands better than we do.”

angela looks at you. really looks at you. “what are you saying?”

“i’m saying maybe he’s onto something. we’re both miserable with this back and forth. we’re constantly texting each other anyway. we hang out more than we actually trade him off. and he clearly wants us both around.”

“so what, we just… what? live together again?”

“or something like that. i don’t know. i’m just saying this isn’t working. the separation thing.”

“we’re not together, y/n. we can’t separate from something we never were.”

there it is. the thing you’ve been dancing around for eight weeks.

“what were we?” you ask. “in college. what were we actually?”

angela’s quiet for a long time, petting spork. “i don’t know. we were us. that’s all i ever knew how to explain it.”

“and what are we now?”

“i don’t know that either.” she looks up at you, and there’s something vulnerable in her eyes. “but i know i like having you around again. i know spork is happier when we’re both here. and i know i’m tired of being mad at you for leaving when all i really wanted was for you to stay.”

“i’m not leaving again.”

“you can’t promise that.”

“i can. i am. i’m promising you right now that i’m not leaving. this is where i want to be.”

“in los angeles?”

“with you.”

the words hang there. too honest. too much. but you don’t take them back.

angela’s eyes are shiny. “don’t say shit like that if you don’t mean it.”

“i mean it. i’ve meant it for four years. i just didn’t know how to say it when we were twenty-two and i didn’t know what i wanted from life. but i know now. and what i want is this. you and me and our ridiculous blind dog who keeps running away to prove a point.”

“this is insane.”

“probably.”

“we don’t even know what this is.”

“we can figure it out.”

“what if we fuck it up?”

“then we fuck it up together.”

angela laughs, but it’s watery. “you’re really committing to this joint custody thing, huh?”

“i’m committing to whatever you want to try. friendship, roommates, co-parents, whatever. i just want to be in your life, ang. however you’ll have me.”

she’s crying now. proper crying. spork is trying to lick her tears away, which just makes her cry harder.

“we should probably start with roommates,” she says finally. “work our way up.”

your heart is doing olympic-level gymnastics in your chest. “really?”

“yeah. but we’re getting a bigger place. your apartment is too small for two people and a dog.”

“our apartment was smaller.”

“we were also poor college students. we can afford better now.”

“so we’re doing this.”

“we’re doing this.” she wipes her eyes. “but slowly. like, actual slow this time. not our usual version of slow where we jump in headfirst.”

“i can do slow.”

“and we have to talk. about everything. about what we were and what we are and what we want to be.”

“okay.”

“and you have to promise you’ll tell me if you’re freaking out or having doubts or thinking about leaving.”

“i promise.”

she’s looking at you like she’s trying to decide if she believes you. then she reaches over spork to take your hand, lacing your fingers together.

“i’m still a little mad at you.” she says.

“that’s fair.”

“but i’m really glad you came back.”

“me too.”

spork, satisfied with his matchmaking efforts, falls asleep between you. you sit there for a while, just existing together, and it feels like something is settling into place. not fixed and not perfect, but together. finally.

“we’re going to need to work on his escape artist tendencies,” angela says eventually.

“or we just accept that he’s smarter than both of us.”

“he’s a blind chihuahua who walks into walls.”

“a blind chihuahua who successfully orchestrated our reunion. give him some credit.”

it’s just you and angela and spork on a saturday afternoon, making a plan to look at apartments together, figuring out how to be in each other’s lives again.

it’s a start.