#yellowjacketsfics

It starts with a record.

One of Natalie’s — something old, worn, barely still playable. You’d pulled it off the shelf without thinking, slid it from the sleeve with careful fingers, and set it spinning. The first track crackled to life, distorted and raw in a way that felt both intentional and accidental.

That perfect kind of messy.

You sat back on your heels, arms folded over your knees. “This was your favorite, huh?”

Natalie, perched sideways on the couch, her legs slung over the arm, gives a nod without looking up from the joint she’s lazily rolling. “Poly Styrene’s the reason I dyed my hair green the first time.”

You smile faintly. “That must’ve been a sight.”

“She was chaos. Pure chaos. God, I wanted to be her.”

There’s a lull after that — the song buzzing under the silence — until you shift a little and say it without really meaning to start anything:

“I think punk’s kind of changed, though.”

Natalie’s eyes lift.

“Changed how?” she asks, cautious but amused.

“I don’t know. It just feels like… now it’s more about the image than the actual message. Everyone’s got safety pins in their ears and spiked collars but still treat people like crap. Like… what’s even the point anymore?”

Natalie snorts. “Jesus Christ. That is such a you thing to say.”

You tilt your head. “A me thing?”

“Yeah,” she says, lighting the joint and taking a drag. “You get this weird holier-than-thou tone when you talk about people being performative, like you think you cracked some universal code.”

“I’m not—”

“I mean, come on. Punk’s always been about attitude. About not giving a fuck. That’s the point. It’s loud. It’s rude. It’s not supposed to be nice.”

You stand, brushing off your jeans, and walk toward the couch where she’s lounging like a cat in the sun, lazy and sharp. “See, I think that’s where you’re wrong.”

Natalie raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

You nod. “I think being kind — being radically, genuinely kind — is the most punk thing you can do now.”

She stares at you like you just spoke in another language.

“…What?”

You lean back against the wall across from her, arms crossed. “Think about it. The world’s so mean. Everyone’s pissed off, posturing, pretending they don’t care about anything. But you look someone in the eye and care? Not in some fake, superficial way — like really see them, give a shit? That’s rebellion.”

Natalie takes another drag, blowing the smoke out of the side of her mouth. “That’s not rebellion. That’s therapy.”

You laugh. “No. Therapy is rebellion too, but that’s a whole other conversation.”

She exhales hard through her nose. “Okay, Gandhi. You’re seriously trying to convince me that giving someone a hug is more punk than, I don’t know, setting fire to your high school’s flagpole?”

You smile faintly. “Kindness doesn’t mean softness. It’s not weakness. It’s actually way harder than just burning everything down. Anybody can destroy something. It takes real guts to build something. To care enough to try.”

Natalie looks at you for a long moment, jaw flexing like she’s fighting the urge to argue just for the hell of it.

“…You know,” she says eventually, “when I was fifteen, I thought punching my dad in the face made me punk.”

You don’t interrupt. You just nod for her to go on.

“But it didn’t fix anything. It just gave me a black eye and got me kicked out for two nights.” She flicks ash into a chipped mug. “You know what actually felt punk? Sleeping on my friend’s floor and waking up to her mom making pancakes like I was normal. Like I mattered.”

You blink, taken aback by the confession. It’s not like Natalie to hand you something like that so freely. Not without armor.

“That’s what I’m saying,” you murmur. “Being angry makes sense. It’s earned. But it can’t be everything. There’s gotta be more than just rage or apathy.”

She looks at you for a long beat. “I grew up thinking love made you weak.”

You swallow. “And now?”

“…Now I think maybe it just makes you vulnerable. Which is worse.” But her voice softens like it’s not quite a threat anymore.

You step forward — not closing the space entirely, but enough to feel the air shift. “You know vulnerability isn’t a bad thing, right?”

Natalie meets your eyes. There’s something cautious flickering behind hers. “Yeah, well. You try growing up like I did and not turning it into a goddamn weapon.”

“I’m not asking you to put your heart on a platter, Nat,” you say. “I’m just saying… maybe the new punk is giving a shit about people. Maybe it’s not who can scream the loudest, but who can sit still and listen.”

She shifts, staring at you like you’ve cracked her open without touching her. Her voice drops, almost dry. “You’re seriously the sappiest person I’ve ever met.”

You shrug. “Still got better taste in music than you.”

“Lies,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile curling at her mouth.

And then it’s quiet again, just the static from the record player spinning something scratchy and old and true. You stand there, not needing to say anything else. Natalie watches you, eyes flickering over your face like maybe she’s memorizing it in spite of herself.

“…You really believe that?” she asks, finally. “That kindness is punk?”

“I do.”

And for the first time all night, she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t scoff or roll her eyes or push back just to feel the pressure.

She just nods once. Barely. But it’s enough.

Finally, she sighs. “You’re so annoying when you’re right.”

You grin. “So you admit it?”

She stands up, closing the space between you — not threatening, not quite flirtatious. Just present. “No. I said when you’re right. Not that you are.”

“But I am.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” she mutters, eyes flicking down to your mouth and then away again.

“I know,” you say, voice softer now. “That’s the punkest thing about you.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Shut up.”

You bump your shoulder into hers and walk back toward the player, flipping the record to side B. The next song picks up where the first left off — loud, messy, the sound of rebellion, sure. But somehow, it doesn’t feel so angry this time.

It feels honest.

And for Natalie, that’s enough.

The sun’s at that sharp angle that makes everything gleam just a little too bright. Sweat sticks to skin, shoelaces are fraying, and half the crew’s been nursing the same drinks for the past hour like they forgot how thirst works.

The skate park is old and half-broken in the way that makes it good — warped ramps, patchy graffiti, concrete smooth from years of wheels carving it down to something clean. The speaker someone rigged from a backpack’s been shuffling through a mess of playlists: some crust punk, some shoegaze, even a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Phoebe Bridgers track someone forgot to skip.

Natalie drops into the bowl again, her board thudding softly underfoot. She doesn’t try anything flashy — just cruises along the curve, leaning into it, weight settled in her knees. Every now and then she glances over to where everyone else is spread out like lazy cats in the shade: Taissa in a folding chair with her sunglasses halfway down her nose, Lottie stretched out in the grass next to Shauna, who’s chewing absently on the end of a plastic straw. Van’s circling the smaller ramp on a longboard she refuses to give up, and Travis is just now arriving, a bag of gas station snacks tucked under one arm like it’s a baby.

“You’re late,” Natalie calls as she skates past him.

“You’re early,” Travis fires back, mouth already full of sour straws.

“You’re both annoying,” Taissa adds, not looking up from her phone.

Natalie slows her board to a stop and walks it over, flipping it up with the back of her heel and letting it settle beside her. She tosses herself down onto the bench like gravity’s a suggestion and rests an arm behind her neck.

She’s been thinking about it for days now. Ever since that conversation with you — the one that caught her off guard, the one she pretended didn’t make her think as hard as it did.

It wasn’t that she didn’t believe you. She just… hadn’t considered it before. And now it wouldn’t leave her alone.

She kicks a rock near her foot. “Alright, group poll.”

“Jesus,” Van mutters from the other ramp. “Already?”

“Just answer the damn question.”

Shauna tilts her head, mildly intrigued. “What’s the question?”

Natalie eyes the group like she’s sizing up whether they’ll take this seriously or not. “What does ‘punk rock’ actually mean to you?”

There’s a beat of silence — not judgmental, just unexpected.

Lottie squints toward her. “Did something happen or are we just doing philosophy hour?”

“Just answer it,” Natalie says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been thinking about it lately.”

“Thinking,” Travis echoes. “Dangerous territory.”

Natalie throws a piece of gravel at him.

“Anyway,” she goes on, “I used to think punk was just… being pissed. Loud. Messy. Flipping the bird to the system and anyone who tried to put you in a box. But now I’m not so sure that’s it. Not really.”

“Wow,” Taissa says dryly, “this must be serious. You’re opening with a monologue.”

“I’m making a point,” Natalie says, unfazed. “I was talking to someone the other night — and she brought up this idea that maybe punk isn’t about being chaotic for the sake of it. Maybe it’s about care. Like, real care. Empathy. She said it takes more guts to build something than to destroy it.”

Van drops her board and walks it over toward the bench, interest piqued. “That sounds kind of beautiful.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know I was dating a poet,” Natalie says, smirking.

Taissa glances over the top of her sunglasses. “Wait—this is the girl you’ve been hiding from us?”

“Not hiding,” Natalie corrects quickly. “Just… buffering.”

“You’ve never said the word buffering in your life,” Shauna mutters.

Natalie ignores her and keeps going. “Anyway, it messed me up a little. Not in a bad way. Just made me think.”

Travis finishes digging through the snack bag and shrugs. “I don’t know. I think it can still be both, right? Like, caring about something and setting a couch on fire if it feels right.”

“That’s your solution to everything,” Van says. “Setting things on fire.”

“Not everything,” he grins. “Sometimes I just run.”

“I kind of get what she’s saying though,” Lottie chimes in, twirling a blade of grass between her fingers. “I think punk should mean freedom. Like — being allowed to be angry, but also allowed to be soft. To feel stuff and not have to apologize for it.”

Shauna nods slowly. “I used to think it was about being different. Just different for the sake of it. Like, wear weird clothes, listen to bands nobody knew, act out. That kind of thing.”

“And now?” Natalie asks.

Shauna shrugs. “Now I don’t know. I guess I think that was kind of the point too, in a way. But it was missing something. Doing all that without knowing why just makes you a try-hard.”

Van sits down cross-legged, picks at a sticker on her board. “I’ve always thought punk was about not apologizing for liking what you like. Like, if you want to scream to Bikini Kill in the car? Do it. If you want to knit sweaters while listening to The Cramps? That’s punk too. It’s all just—whatever feels honest.”

Taissa leans back, arms folded. “Punk’s a state of mind. It’s not a look or a playlist. It’s about not asking for permission to be exactly who you are.”

Everyone goes quiet for a moment — not heavy, just… considering.

Natalie presses the toe of her shoe into the gravel. She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds.

Then, quietly: “That’s what she said, kind of. That being kind in a world that’s cold is a kind of defiance.”

Van nudges her lightly. “You’re really into this girl, huh?”

Natalie rolls her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“No, it’s cute,” Lottie says with a smile. “You’re soft about her.”

“God, stop.”

“She sounds cool,” Taissa offers, more gently. “You should bring her around.”

Natalie hesitates, but only for a breath. “I will. Just want to keep her to myself a little longer.”

Travis grins. “That’s punk.”

Natalie side-eyes him. “You don’t even know what that means.”

“Does anyone?”

Shauna shrugs. “Maybe that’s the point.”

Natalie lets herself laugh, really laugh. Because maybe it is the point. That no one has it fully figured out, and maybe that’s exactly what keeps it alive — that refusal to be pinned down, defined, boxed in.

She leans back on her elbows again, glancing up at the sky.

It’s not that she’s changed her mind completely. She still believes in anger. In making noise when you need to. But now, when she thinks about punk, she thinks about you. About how you look when you’re listening, about the way you always seem to care harder than anyone expects you to.

And that — she thinks — might be the most radical thing of all.

The sky’s already fallen into itself by the time she knocks at your door — that late blue kind of dark that turns the city soft, muffled behind its own noise. You open it before she can knock again, barefoot, your hair a little messy like you’d just gotten out of the shower and didn’t bother to do much else. There’s a familiar look in her eyes when she sees you, one you’ve come to recognize: the silent exhale, the shift in her shoulders, the way her gaze softens before she even steps inside.

She holds up the takeout bag like it’s some kind of offering. “You’re lucky I love you,” she says flatly. “The line was insane.”

“You probably flirted with the cashier again.”

“I did not,” she lies, slipping past you. “But I could have.”

“You flirt like a wet sock, Scatorccio.” you call after her, and she just laughs — that short, rough-edged sound that always lands somewhere between amused and surprised, like she’s not used to being allowed this kind of ease.

The apartment smells like lemon soap and whatever candle you lit earlier — something musky and warm that’s burned halfway down its glass. The TV’s already on in the background, volume low, a muted anchor mouthing grim words behind a banner of breaking news: another school board under investigation for corruption. The visuals cycle through footage of shouting parents, grainy protest signs, blurred-out faces.

Natalie doesn’t comment right away. She sets the bag down on the kitchen counter, fingers already digging through it for containers, your forks, the little packets of soy sauce that always get thrown in whether you ask or not. You grab two glasses from the cabinet without asking if she wants water — she always drinks yours instead of getting her own.

But when she notices you carrying the plates over to the dining table, she follows automatically.

No couch tonight. No legs tucked up on the cushions or food balanced on her knees. That’s something she’s picked up from you, without ever calling attention to it — this quiet insistence on sitting to eat. On treating even simple dinners like they deserve a moment.

She likes it more than she lets on.

You sit across from each other, the cheap takeout boxes warming your palms. You eat in comfortable silence for a while — chopsticks clicking gently against plastic, the occasional shared glance, your foot nudging hers under the table without meaning to.

The newscaster’s voice plays low in the background, even and practiced.

“…documents reveal nearly $800,000 in misallocated district funds — originally budgeted for student mental health programs and building repairs. The superintendent has declined to comment, citing ongoing litigation…”

Natalie stops mid-bite. Her brow furrows, just slightly.

“This follows similar scandals in six other districts this year alone — prompting new questions about oversight, public accountability, and who these systems are really built to protect…”

You look up, meeting her gaze. She’s chewing slower now.

“That shit on the news,” she mutters. “You seen it?”

You nod without looking at the screen. “It’s hard to miss.”

There’s a beat, then: “It’s getting worse, right?”

You don’t reply right away. You watch the screen: a flicker of footage from a protest — high schoolers outside a district office, hand-painted signs raised above their heads. One of them reads WE’RE NOT DOLLAR SIGNS in smeared red paint. Another: WHO’S WATCHING THE WATCHDOGS?

You nod toward the screen. “They are.”

Natalie looks at you.

“Everyone thinks rebellion looks like a riot,” you murmur, “but sometimes it’s just a kid cutting up their mom’s sheets to make a banner.”

She lets that hang there.

You take a sip of water. The condensation beads against your fingers.

Natalie shifts in her seat, wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. “It’s getting louder.”

“Because it has to,” you say. “Some people don’t even realize it’s happening. But this — all of this — it’s its own kind of punk.”

She huffs a short breath, like she hadn’t thought about it that way. “Punk with Excel spreadsheets and court hearings.”

“Punk with purpose,” you offer, tapping your fork against the plate. “It doesn’t always have to wear chains and scream to be radical.”

Natalie leans back in her chair. She’s not smiling exactly — it’s something else. Something quieter. A shift behind her eyes like she’s storing the words somewhere.

“So… the others asked about you.”

You glance up from your food, eyebrows raised.

“They asked when they’re gonna meet you,” she clarifies, like you hadn’t already figured it out.

You smile — slow, easy. Not teasing just yet. Not until her eyes flick up to yours like she’s waiting for you to flinch.

“Let me guess,” you say, feigning deep thought. “Van said you’re not ready.”

Natalie squints. “She did.”

You grin. “She’s a menace.”

“Tell me about it,” Nat says, but the edge in her voice is all affection.

You reach across the table, picking at the hem of the sleeve she pushed up earlier, fingers brushing her forearm in that absentminded, knowing way you have — grounding, not clingy. “Are you not ready?”

Natalie shrugs, lips pressed together. “I mean… I don’t think it’s about that. Not really.”

“No?”

She shakes her head, letting her foot find yours again beneath the table. “It’s just—it’s not bad. I don’t feel weird about you. I just… I don’t know. I think I wanted to keep this thing mine for a little. Before it turns into something everybody has an opinion about.”

You tilt your head. “That’s fair.”

There’s nothing heavy about the pause that follows. It’s easy — a quiet understanding settling between bites and sips of water. You reach for a napkin, pass her one without looking, and she takes it like it’s a habit now.

The TV hums along behind you, some senator’s face flashing on the screen with a headline that doesn’t deserve your time. Natalie’s not paying attention anymore.

“You don’t have to rush it,” you say finally. “Whenever you’re ready, that’s when we do it.”

Her shoulders drop just a little more.

And then: “Van’s still gonna give me shit.”

You laugh, soft. “She’ll survive.”

“She won’t,” Natalie mutters. “She’ll haunt me.”

“Then you better tell her I’m the kind of ghost that organizes your spice rack and asks about your childhood trauma.”

Natalie grins — a real one. Small, teeth barely showing, but it reaches her eyes. “God. You’re so weird.”

“You like it.”

She nods, not even pretending otherwise.

You reach for her hand, the one closest to the empty dumpling tray. She lets you take it, doesn’t say anything while you trace a slow line down the back of her knuckles.

“I like that you still sit at the table with me,” you say, after a moment.

Natalie glances around. “Feels better. I don’t know. Real, I guess.”

She watches you now — like she’s seeing something she hadn’t the words for until right now.

“That’s punk too,” she murmurs.

“What is?”

“This. You. Choosing a life that makes sense to you, even if it’s not loud or messy or…” She trails off.

“Even if it’s dinner and the news and the same chair every night?” you ask, amused.

She shrugs, squeezes your hand. “Yeah. Even that.”

You lean back in your seat, letting your gaze drift back to the muted television. The protest footage has shifted now — a nighttime shot, kids in beanies and oversized hoodies, sitting in the rain outside a city hall building. No chants. Just presence. Just quiet, deliberate defiance.

Natalie looks too. Her eyes linger.

Neither of you says anything more about it.

But something in the room shifts — not dramatic, not loud — just a shared understanding that there’s a bigger world out there pressing against the edges of your quiet one. And even in here, where it smells like garlic sauce and warm soy, where she knows where you keep your forks and how you fold your napkins, you’re both watching something unfold.

It’s not always about noise.

Sometimes it’s about knowing what’s worth staying angry for.

Or who’s worth softening for.

Or what kind of rebellion starts when someone chooses kindness, even when the world keeps asking for rage.

And Natalie, who’s always believed in being a little wild, a little sharp — Natalie sits at your table and watches the world burn a little more every day.

When dinner’s done, you both stack the containers in the sink. Natalie dries her hands on the towel you leave slung over the oven handle — she always uses it, even when there’s a newer one closer by. You flick the TV off with the remote before heading back to the living room, but she tugs your hand at the last second, steers you toward the bedroom instead.

She doesn’t say anything else. Just lays down sideways across your bed, shoes kicked off, head on your pillow like it’s hers now.

You curl beside her a minute later, hand slipping beneath her shirt, resting at the warm curve of her waist.

The world outside keeps spinning.

But for now, all Natalie cares about is this: a quiet room, full stomach, your heartbeat steady against hers.

The apartment was still, soaked in the low hum of early morning. Pale light crept through the blinds, soft and silvery, catching the edges of picture frames and the faint glint of a half-drunk water glass on the nightstand. Somewhere out on the street below, a car rolled by too quickly, tires hissing against pavement. But inside, the world was quieter, warmer—slowed to a hush in the shared bedroom you’d come to call home.

The three of you were a tangle beneath the comforter, limbs lazily intertwined like you’d all molded around each other overnight. You were curled in the middle, sandwiched snug between Van and Taissa, the bed long enough only if nobody moved too much. Not that any of you ever minded. Van’s arm was thrown over your waist, the steady rise and fall of her chest pressed into your back. Taissa was in front of you, forehead resting lightly against yours, her hand laced in yours beneath the pillow.

It smelled like the lavender body wash Taissa always bought, and faintly of Van’s hoodie that still clung to the scent of old cologne and cheap cigarettes that lingered since their little gathering at some basement party travis dragged them both to. The heat between your bodies was gentle, unhurried. You barely had to move to know they were there. And most mornings, that was enough.

But Taissa stirred first.

She moved carefully, trying to slide her hand from yours without waking you. You felt it anyway. The absence of her warmth made you shift instinctively, a quiet hum escaping your lips as you burrowed further into the pillow.

Van murmured something behind you, half-asleep, then slung her arm tighter around your waist. “Where are you going,” she mumbled, her voice gravel-thick and muffled.

“Class,” Taissa whispered, her voice apologetic. “It’s Tuesday, remember? My crime and punishment seminar.”

You cracked your eyes open to find her already sitting up, the covers draped around her waist. Her long legs dangled over the side of the bed, toes brushing the rug. She looked back at the both of you like she didn’t actually want to go, but knew she had to.

Van groaned into the back of your neck. “You know what else is criminal? Leaving your loving girlfriends in bed like this.”

Taissa laughed softly, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. “If I don’t go now, I’ll be sprinting across campus like a lunatic.”

You reached up sleepily to catch her wrist before she could move too far. “Just five more minutes,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Her smile softened. “You say five, and it always turns into ten.”

Van tightened her hold on you in agreement, nose nudging against your hair. “Yeah, and those ten minutes are always the best ones.”

“You two are dangerous,” Taissa said, running her thumb over your knuckles. “Every time I try to be responsible, you drag me back in.”

“And yet, you always come back,” Van teased, peeking up at her through sleepy lashes. “Wonder why that is.”

Taissa didn’t say anything to that. Instead, she leaned back in toward you both. You shifted enough to meet her halfway, and she kissed you gently—lips warm and familiar, a silent promise more than anything rushed. Her hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing slow, and then she tilted just enough to reach Van.

Van met her with a low sigh, mouth curling into a smile against hers. “You really gonna leave after that?” she muttered, lazily chasing another kiss.

“I have to,” Taissa said, though she kissed her again anyway. “But I’ll come back with dinner. My treat.”

That got a little hum of satisfaction out of you. “You’ll bring dumplings?”

“I’ll bring the dumplings,” she confirmed.

“Dessert too?” Van asked, cracking one eye open.

Taissa arched an eyebrow. “You want me to fail law school and blow my paycheck?”

“Yes,” you and Van said in unison, sleep-rough and smug.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Just brushed her fingers over your hair and kissed the crown of your head before finally pulling herself out of bed for real. She shuffled toward the dresser, pulling a hoodie over her tank top, tugging on jeans one leg at a time as she tried not to trip over your laundry pile. You watched her through half-lidded eyes, warm beneath the covers and pressed into Van’s chest.

Van yawned behind you, voice quieter now. “Text when you’re out, yeah?”

Taissa nodded, already slipping on her sneakers by the door. “I will.”

She paused in the doorway, hand on the knob, casting one last look back at the two of you curled together in the sheets. “Love you,” she said, soft but certain.

“Love you more,” Van murmured, already halfway back into sleep.

You smiled, not bothering to open your eyes again. “Love you too.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and quiet fell again—just the soft whoosh of the heater, and the occasional creak of the ceiling above. Van pulled you closer, arm draped lazily over your ribs, and pressed her face into your shoulder with a sleepy sigh.

“She better come back with those dumplings,” Van muttered into your skin.

“She will,” you said, letting yourself sink back into her warmth.

And just like that, the apartment settled again, two-thirds full and still somehow whole.

The café just off campus was mostly quiet this early—only a couple of grad students hunched over laptops in the corner, some classical playlist humming low over the speakers. The air smelled like espresso and fresh croissants, warm enough to draw in students escaping the brisk morning air that hadn’t quite burned off yet.

Taissa slid into the booth by the window, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms, a faint crease still pressed into her cheek from sleeping on her arm. She set her coffee down with a soft clink and exhaled, the kind of breath that carried the weight of getting up too early and trying to stay awake for a professor who talked in circles.

Shauna arrived a minute later, eyes puffy with sleep and a too-large thermos of black coffee clutched in her hand like it owed her something. Her ponytail was uneven, and she looked about one bad mood away from snapping at the next person who spoke above a whisper.

She dropped into the seat across from Taissa and groaned. “Jackie is so annoying in the morning.”

“I thought she wasn’t a morning person,” Taissa said, stirring her coffee idly.

“She’s not,” Shauna said, dragging a hand over her face. “That’s the problem. I got up quietly, didn’t turn on the light, didn’t even unplug my phone from the charger until I was halfway dressed—and she still woke up just to pull me back into bed.”

Taissa blinked, amused. “She literally reached for you?”

“Like a feral cat under a blanket. Grabbed my arm and went, ‘Where are you going, it’s cold.’” Shauna mimicked her voice, nasal and dramatic. “I was like, Jackie, you don’t even like cuddling once you’re awake.”

“She just likes the option of you being there,” Taissa said, biting back a grin.

Shauna raised her thermos like a toast. “Exactly. Meanwhile, you look like you haven’t slept either. Don’t tell me it was class again.”

“It was,” Taissa said, “but also… yeah. I got tackled this morning.”

Shauna perked up. “Van or Y/n?”

“Both,” Tai deadpanned. “It’s impossible waking up before them. Van immediately could tell the shift in the room and Y/n is wrapped around me so tight some mornings that I can’t move without waking her up first. Told me how criminal it was to leave them like that.”

Shauna nearly spit her coffee out. “She did not say that.”

“She did. And then—no joke—Y/n tries those puppy eyes and insists on five more minutes, so now I’m stuck buying them dinner with dessert—Van insisted on that too.”

Shauna shook her head, leaning back in the booth, clearly imagining it. “That’s a bold stance from someone who forgets her bike lock combo every week.”

Taissa smirked. “She makes a good case, though. Then Y/n started mumbling in her sleep, grabbing at my hoodie like I was her emotional support animal. I felt bad leaving.”

Shauna snorted. “Okay, see, at least yours makes it sweet. Jackie acts like me leaving is a personal betrayal.”

“She text you about it yet?” Taissa asked.

Shauna flipped her phone over and showed her the lock screen with a new message from Jackie:

‘bring back banana bread or don’t come back.’

Taissa nearly choked on her coffee.

Shauna looked smug. “Clingy and demanding. I hit the jackpot.”

They both laughed, leaning into the comfort of shared chaos. It wasn’t a new conversation—not really. They’d already admitted weeks ago that their girlfriends had a firm grip on their morning routines, but it still caught them off guard. The way Jackie refused to let Shauna go without acting like she’d been abandoned, or how Van came up with increasingly absurd excuses for Tai to stay. And you—Taissa would never say it out loud, but you made it impossible with the way you looked at her through barely open eyes, sleep-warm and soft-voiced, like she was the most important thing in the room.

Shauna looked at her knowingly. “You gave in for like… five more minutes the first time around, didn’t you.”

Taissa didn’t answer right away, but her face said enough.

Shauna raised her brows.

“I gave them ten,” Tai admitted. “Maybe twelve.”

“Yeah,” Shauna said, smirking behind her coffee. “That tracks.”

The doors to the lecture hall swung open with a low creak, letting in the warm, late afternoon air that smelled faintly of sun-heated pavement and grass clippings from the groundskeeping crew. You stepped out into the filtered light, your backpack slung over one shoulder, thumb tapping through a half-read text from Taissa.

‘At study hall. Don’t wait up. Just don’t let Van feed you garbage for lunch again.’

You smiled, already spotting them as you reached the glass doors that led to the courtyard—Van leaning back against the tiled wall with her arms crossed, her denim jacket bunched slightly at the elbows. She looked up first, that slow, easy smile tugging at her mouth the second her eyes met yours.

As soon as Van saw you, she pushed off the wall and walked toward you with that unmistakable grin—half smug, half soft. The kind that made you slow your steps without even meaning to.

“There she is,” Van said, her tone soft but clear, as if she’d been waiting on you.

You walked toward them, your steps instinctively slowing the closer you got. Van straightened a little, unfolding her arms, and there was no rush in the way she reached for you—just a quiet, steady motion, her hand brushing your side first, fingers skimming the fabric of your shirt before she rested them gently at your waist.

“Hey,” she said, her voice lower now, just for you.

“Hey,” you echoed, your hands coming up to rest lightly on her forearms, your backpack slipping further down your shoulder. Van tilted her head slightly, asking without words, and you answered by leaning in, letting her kiss you. It wasn’t hurried, not something sharp or showy—just soft and grounding, the kind of kiss that felt like a question and a homecoming all at once. Her fingers flexed at your sides like she was trying to memorize how you felt in that exact moment.

When you pulled back, your foreheads lingered close. Van’s eyes were still half-lidded, her breath warm against your skin.

“You okay?” she asked, voice low.

You nodded, smiling faintly. “Long lecture.”

“Boring or brutal?”

“Both.”

Van leaned in again, this time just brushing a kiss against your temple. “You survived.”

“Oh, she’s thriving,” Natalie said, interrupting with mock exaggeration. “Clearly. I mean, damn, Palmer. Did you need to kiss her like you were about to enlist?”

Van didn’t even look over. “Sorry, Nat. Would’ve saved the affection for you if I hadn’t seen the remnants of Lottie’s lip gloss on your cheek.”

Natalie froze, hand halfway to her mouth. “Wait—what? Did she?”

You turned in time to see her swipe at both cheeks, trying to catch a reflection in the dead black of her phone screen.

“There’s nothing there,” Travis said flatly.

Natalie shot Van a glare. “You’re a dick.”

Van looked proud of herself. “Takes one to know one.”

You laughed softly, resting a hand on Van’s chest. “You’re mean.”

“Playfully mean,” she corrected, kissing the side of your head again. “It’s different.”

Natalie rolled her eyes and picked her phone back up. “Are we walking or just standing around waiting for Van to compose poetry in your ear?”

“I’m composing lunch plans,” Van said. “Same thing.”

You gave her a look. “Please don’t let that involve hot dogs from the student union again.”

“No promises,” she murmured, already guiding you gently toward the courtyard doors with a hand at the small of your back, like she hadn’t just been leaned against the wall pretending she wasn’t half-scrolling through cat videos on Travis’s phone.

The three of you fell into step together as the doors opened and the golden stretch of campus spilled out in front of you, sunlight flickering off the rooftops and the sound of laughter rising somewhere in the distance.

The courtyard was golden with the late afternoon sun, long shadows cast across the brick walkways and the dry edges of the grass where summer hadn’t quite let go. Students dotted the open space in clusters—some hunched over laptops on the ground, others sprawled across benches, eating takeout or just talking while music played low from someone’s portable speaker nearby. It was the kind of hour where everything softened a little, where the day had slowed just enough to feel breathable again.

You walked with Van, Natalie, and Travis past the sculpture lawn and toward the wide stone tables near the east side, where you could already spot Jackie’s unmistakable posture—half-sitting, half-slouching, one foot resting on the bench as she scrolled through her phone. Lottie sat across from her, posture straighter, one hand curled around a can of seltzer, the other absently tracing patterns on the tabletop as she talked.

Jackie looked up as the four of you approached, shielding her eyes with the back of her hand. “Look who it is,” she called. “You guys actually made it before sundown.”

“Barely,” Van muttered, nudging her shoulder against yours.

The table was wide enough to hold everyone without crowding, the stone cool beneath your hands as you slid onto the bench beside Van. She set her paper bag down and peeled it open, passing you your drink without being asked. Natalie claimed the spot beside Lottie with little ceremony, tossing her bag down before dragging out a half-eaten granola bar she’d clearly forgotten about until now. Travis took the other end of the bench, hunched over a chicken wrap he unwrapped with practiced boredom.

The conversation drifted around you—quiet and scattered, the way it always was when everyone was halfway through eating and still winding down from the day.

Jackie leaned forward on her elbows, picking at the edge of her sandwich. “Shauna said she was gonna meet me after,” she said, almost like she was trying to remind herself out loud. “But knowing her, she’s probably knee-deep in her notes with Tai and won’t realize it’s been two hours.”

Lottie gave a small smile, nodding once. “She texted me earlier. Said they were making a color-coded system for their flashcards.”

Jackie groaned, “Of course they are.”

Van glanced up from her pasta salad, one brow raised. “Honestly, I’m just impressed Shauna willingly walked into study hall. That place gives me flashbacks.”

“To what?” Natalie asked, half-laughing as she flicked a piece of lint off her jacket. “The time you tried to cram for a stats midterm with only Sour Patch Kids and Red Bull?”

Van pointed her fork at her. “That almost worked.”

“Keyword: almost,” you said, nudging her knee under the table.

Travis didn’t look up as he opened a bag of chips. “You failed that midterm.”

“Yeah, but emotionally?” Van shrugged. “I passed with flying colors.”

Jackie shook her head. “No offense, but if I studied like you two—” she gestured vaguely between you and Van, “—I’d be curled up in a fetal position under my desk.”

Van smirked. “See, that’s the difference. You panic. I accept my fate.”

“She’s not lying,” you added, sipping from your drink. “I once watched her open a quiz and immediately decide to guess every other answer just so she could leave early.”

“Time management,” Van said, mouth full. “Learn it.”

Natalie snorted. “You’re the only person I know who sees a quiz and thinks, ‘Speed run.’”

Across the table, Lottie broke open a small tupperware of strawberries and passed a few toward Jackie, who took one without looking.

“I like being outside right now,” Lottie said, her voice soft, almost absentminded. “It feels quieter than inside.”

“Because it is quieter than inside,” Jackie muttered, mouth full of fruit.

Van leaned back on one hand, glancing up at the tree above you. “This campus only looks peaceful when you’re not late to something.”

You laughed quietly at that. “Or when Tai’s not power walking ten steps ahead of me.”

“She does that thing where she’s not even walking fast,” Van said. “She just walks better. Like she’s moving through time more efficiently than the rest of us.”

“She’s a Scorpio,” Natalie deadpanned. “It’s what they do.”

Jackie snorted. “What’s that make Shauna then?”

Lottie answered without hesitation, “Aries.”

“That explains the control issues.”

“She’s organized,” you said, trying to defend her a little—but you couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips.

“Organized,” Van repeated. “Like alphabetizing the spice rack?”

“She said it ‘soothed her.’” You shook your head. “Tai just let her do it.”

“That’s love,” Natalie said, tipping her can of soda toward you. “Or resignation.”

“Same thing after a certain point,” Van said under her breath.

For a while, no one said anything—just the quiet rhythm of forks scraping containers, the crinkle of wrappers, Jackie’s phone lighting up once before she turned it facedown again.

The sun had shifted lower now, light slanting in gold between the trees, casting long shadows across the grass and catching on the metal benches nearby. Somewhere across the courtyard, a bike bell rang, and someone laughed too loudly near the fountain.

You leaned into Van a little, her shoulder warm against yours. She didn’t say anything, just bumped her knee gently against yours beneath the table and went back to her food.

It wasn’t a moment that needed anything else.

The apartment smelled like fried rice and warm soy sauce by the time you and Van finished unpacking the take-out bags.

Van grabbed a couple of plates from the cabinet while you carefully set the containers across the coffee table—Taissa’s usual: shrimp lo mein, sesame chicken, and extra dumplings, even though she always claimed she wouldn’t eat more than a few.

“She’s gonna complain about how greasy this is,” Van muttered, stacking forks and napkins onto the edge of the table, “then eat the entire box of dumplings and fall asleep halfway through the movie. Like clockwork.”

You glanced over your shoulder with a half-smile. “And you’ll still act surprised.”

“Only ‘cause she always swears she won’t,” Van said, then dropped onto the couch with a huff. “Honestly, she’s gonna work herself into grey hairs before we hit thirty.”

You sat down beside her, tucking your feet under you. “You say that like you wouldn’t kiss each one.”

Van didn’t deny it, just smirked a little and reached for the remote.

The TV screen was already paused on the movie—some low-stakes comedy you’d all agreed on earlier in the week but never got around to watching. You adjusted one of the throw blankets over the back of the couch, tugging the edge into your lap.

Taissa’s name popped up at the top of your phone screen just then.

‘omw now. sorry again, i’m starving. professor kennedy is the devil incarnate. but y’all can use my card—treat yo selves, boo.’

Van peered at your phone from beside you. “Text her that we already did. But don’t tell her it’s from that place, I wanna see if she guesses it just from the smell.”

You shot back a quick reply and left out the name.

The apartment was quiet in the way that felt easy—dishes clinking softly in the sink, Van’s leg bouncing rhythmically beside yours, the low hum of the fridge in the background. You leaned into her side, and she instinctively slipped her arm behind your shoulders.

“She’s probably exhausted,” you murmured.

“Always is,” Van tilted her head toward you. “But she won’t say it unless we ask. Taissa Turner is known to try and push the boundaries of the space and time continuum.”

You nodded, already hearing it in your head—Taissa brushing it off with a soft, “It’s fine,” before you or Van gave her a look that made her actually sit down for once.

Fifteen minutes later, the front door clicked open.

Van perked up immediately. “If she doesn’t guess the food in ten seconds, I’m keeping the dumplings.”

Taissa’s voice drifted in before she was even fully inside. “If you touch those dumplings, I swear—”

Van grinned and yelled back, “Cheater!”

You stood up to greet her as she came in, dropping her bag by the door and kicking her shoes off with a heavy sigh. Her jacket was already half-off, slung over one shoulder, and her braid was a little undone from the wind.

“Hi,” you said, stepping into her space.

Taissa smiled as she leaned in, pressing a tired kiss to your cheek, then another against the corner of your mouth. “Hi, my loves.”

Van joined you a second later, wrapping her arms around both of you like she couldn’t pick just one. “You smell like library dust and institutional stress,” she said into Taissa’s shoulder.

“Thanks, babe,” Taissa said with a tired sort of fondness, her words muffled slightly against Van’s shoulder.

She hadn’t meant to linger in the doorway that long, but the warmth of you both—your presence, your quiet coordination, your knowing glances and how you always seemed to account for her without her asking—it caught her off guard. Not in a heavy, overwhelming way. More like the way light breaks in after a long overcast day.

You were already close, your hand brushing along her lower back like second nature, while Van let her go just enough to give her space. And still, somehow, Taissa found herself unable to move right away. Her eyes shifted between you, softened, then fell closed as she exhaled slowly.

You were about to ask her something—whether she wanted water, if she was too tired to eat—when she leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. Just slow, deliberate. Like she needed to remind herself she was home before her brain caught up with her body.

Then Van, with that quiet smile that always made Taissa’s breath catch, stepped in again. “You okay?”

“Mm.” Taissa kissed the corner of Van’s mouth. Then the center. “Better now.”

You didn’t say anything—just reached up to push a loose strand of her curls back behind her ear.

The motion made her blink a few times. Maybe it was the soft lighting, or maybe it was the exhaustion, but her expression shifted again—softer now, more open.

It wasn’t always easy for her to say how grateful she felt. Gratitude, real gratitude, never came out all in one piece. It built itself in layers: small touches, drawn-out silence, lingering eye contact. The way she kissed both of you now, one after the other, like it was her way of saying thank you without cheapening it with too many words.

Her heart bled behind the struggles of admitting her feelings—they wanted to burst out of her body every second Taissa came into contact with either of you. She knew she’d do anything for you two, and she hoped you knew that too.

Van let herself fall onto the couch first, arms stretching dramatically across the cushions. “Come on, serious talk—if you keep kissing us like that, we’re not gonna start the movie for another hour.”

You laughed, already easing down beside her.

Taissa gave a small shrug as she moved with you, eventually sitting right where she knew she wanted to be: legs stretched out and you tucked in close. But you didn’t stay seated beside her for long. After a moment of her lips brushing your jaw again—one, two, three times—she pulled you gently into her lap.

You didn’t resist. Just curled into her without hesitation, your knees bracketing her hips. Van grinned and slid closer behind her, her legs spreading slightly so Taissa could lean into her, too.

“You’re a menace,” Van murmured into the side of Taissa’s neck as she settled there, wrapping her arms lightly around both of you.

“And you love me for it,” Taissa muttered, already reaching for the food on the table in front of you.

Your laugh was quiet, but warm against her collarbone. “She’s not wrong.”

The remote rested nearby, but no one had touched it yet. The show you’d picked out played the Netflix preview on a loop, muted. The three of you sat like that for a while—close, tired in the same kind of way that only made your bodies tangle tighter together, plates slowly being passed around, bites shared back and forth.

Taissa fed you a dumpling between sentences. Van tossed a napkin onto the table after stealing one from your plate and pretending she hadn’t. You kicked lightly at her shin under the blanket.

Nothing loud. Nothing complicated. Just soft music from the TV, the rustle of takeout containers, and the quiet kind of laughter that came easy after a long day.

And still—beneath all of that—Taissa kept looking at you and Van like she hadn’t figured out how to say it yet: how much she loved this. How much she loved you.

So instead, she leaned in again and kissed your temple. Then turned, shifted slightly in Van’s hold, and kissed her too. No rush. Just… there. Real.

The spring air in the school parking lot was thick with leftover sun, humid enough to leave a shine on the back of Jackie’s neck as she leaned against the side of Jeff’s truck. She was waiting for Shauna—like usual—while Jeff and a handful of his baseball buddies crowded around the tailgate, tossing half-finished jokes back and forth like they were playing catch. Jackie wasn’t really listening. Not at first.

It was mostly harmless noise. Cussing about practice, trash talk about next week’s away game, some dumb inside joke that had them wheezing like it was the funniest thing in the world. But then one of them laughed harder than the rest—this drawn-out, choking kind of laugh that set off the others like a chain reaction. They slapped each other’s arms, nearly doubled over, and when Jackie finally looked over to see what had gotten them all so worked up, her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t hard to figure out. They weren’t being discreet—not really. One of them had their phone out, shoulders shaking with laughter as he mimicked something with his mouth. Slow. Over-exaggerated. A twisted imitation.

Jackie followed the direction of his glance.

You were crossing the lot just ahead—shoulder bag bouncing against your hip as you walked beside Natalie. Van trailed behind, casually flipping her lighter open and closed, not noticing the laughter echoing behind her. You didn’t seem to hear it either. Or maybe you did and just kept your eyes trained on the pavement ahead, careful and guarded the way Jackie had seen you move through crowds before—like it was a habit, not a choice.

Her jaw tightened.

You weren’t even near them, and yet somehow, you were still the target. Not because you said anything. Not because you did anything. Just because you existed slightly outside their narrow understanding of normal.

“Jesus,” she muttered, pushing off the truck.

Jeff raised a brow. “What?”

“You really think that shit’s funny?” Her voice didn’t even raise at first. It was sharper, clipped. “Making fun of her for that?”

Jeff blinked, surprised. “Jackie—come on. It’s not that serious. We’re just messing around. Everyone laughs about it.”

“Well, I don’t.” She was frowning now, jaw tight. “She didn’t do anything to you. She never even talks to anyone unless she has to. And you’re out here treating her like a joke because what—she’s different? Slow to speak? That’s real bold of you.”

“She’s not gonna care, Jackie. Everyone laughs—”

“Yeah? Everyone?” she cut him off, stepping in closer now. “I don’t. She didn’t ask to be laughed at. She didn’t do anything to you. She’s just walking to her car, and you’re out here acting like it’s comedy hour.”

Jeff shifted, trying to keep his voice low now that others nearby were starting to glance over. “Why are you so mad about this?”

“Because it’s disgusting,” Jackie said plainly. “And it’s not who I thought you were.”

He started to say something else, but the front doors of the school creaked open, and Shauna stepped out, adjusting the straps on her backpack. She spotted Jackie quickly and lifted a hand in a wave, the same way she always did—half a smile, like she didn’t know she was arriving in the middle of something.

Jackie didn’t wait.

“Jackie—Jackie, wait!” Jeff called after her.

She turned without another word, brushing past Jeff’s outstretched hand as he tried to catch her attention. Her shoulders were stiff, jaw clenched, fury still simmering just beneath the surface as she fell into step beside Shauna without breaking stride.

The afternoon sunlight slanted over the field in long gold streaks, cutting across the empty bleachers where you sat, knees drawn up, camera resting in your lap. Practice was still going—shouts echoed from midfield, sneakers scraping turf, Coach Martinez’s whistle sharp and insistent—but none of that really concerned you. You were just waiting.

Van had waved at you during warm-ups. Natalie had shot you a wink before jogging off into a drill. You didn’t usually stick around after school unless they needed rides or had asked you to help test lighting for yearbook shots, but today was one of those slow, quiet days where you didn’t mind waiting. You liked the stillness, the distance. You liked watching everything happen from just far enough away that no one really noticed you were there. Your thumb hovered over the dial on your camera, adjusting exposure out of habit, just something to keep your hands busy.

You were so locked into your own little world that you didn’t notice her until she was standing right in front of you.

Jackie Taylor.

Like she’d materialized from thin air, all long legs and pressed confidence, wearing that varsity jacket she didn’t even need to practice in. Her hair was half-up like always, her lip gloss barely smudged, and the sunlight hit her just right—like she’d walked off a teen drama set and onto the sidelines of a high school soccer field in New Jersey.

You blinked up at her.

She looked nervous. Not obviously—no, Jackie Taylor never looked unsure of anything. But you noticed the slight fidget of her fingers tugging at the cuff of her sleeve, the subtle way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other like she wasn’t entirely sure how this was going to go. You couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to you directly. Or ever, really.

“Hey,” she said, casual, like she wasn’t the most popular girl in school talking to someone who sat in the back of every class and rarely spoke unless called on. “Uh… you’re Y/N, right?”

You nodded slowly, camera still in your lap.

She smiled, and that should’ve been the first sign that this wasn’t some weird prank or dare. It was too soft. Too genuine. Like she actually meant it.

“I, um—” She cleared her throat lightly. “I know we don’t really talk or anything, but I figured I’d say something. A bunch of us are getting food after practice—like, kind of a team thing, but not… exclusive or anything,” she added quickly, one hand lifting like she was backpedaling mid-sentence. “I thought I’d let you know in case you wanted to come.”

Your heart jumped up into your throat.

She looked at you expectantly, a little unsure now—her confidence bending at the edges the longer your silence stretched on. You could feel the words start to form in your mouth, could hear the “y–yeah” on the tip of your tongue, taste how clumsy it was going to sound. It stuck there like it always did. Caught in the space between want and fear.

Jackie’s gaze flicked over you—your startled expression, the way your hands tightened around the camera, the quiet struggle playing out in real time on your face. And then, like she knew exactly what that pause meant, she softened.

“You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” she said, waving a hand gently. “It’s not a big thing. I just figured—you’ve been around so much lately, taking photos and all—I thought I’d pass along the invite.”

She gave a short, almost sheepish laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her usual polish cracked slightly at the edges.

“It’d be nice to see your face without it hiding behind a camera for once.”

She said it so offhandedly that it almost didn’t register. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just honest. Like it slipped out without her even meaning to make it a compliment—but it still hit you like one anyway.

You wanted to say yes. God, more than anything. Even if it was terrifying. Even if the idea of sitting around a table with the whole team made your palms sweat. Van and Natalie would be there—that helped. That grounded you. That made it less about the team and more about them. Familiarity. Comfort. The chance to feel like you belonged without having to prove anything out loud.

Jackie seemed to sense it—the way something shifted in you, the faint crack in your guarded expression that hinted toward maybe.

“We’re meeting right after school,” she added, starting to back away, one step already pointed toward the locker room. “In the lot. Van and Nat know where we’re going, so if you do decide to come… ask them.”

She paused, eyes glinting just a little.

“See ya there, camera girl!”

Then she was jogging off, back toward the other girls who were already filing toward the building, calling after Shauna as the door swung open. Her voice faded behind her, caught in the wind like it had never happened at all.

But it had.

And you were still sitting there, heart hammering behind your ribs, staring down at your camera like it could somehow explain what just happened.

The diner Van had picked out wasn’t anything fancy—just a low-lit corner joint with a busted neon sign and cracked leather booths that probably hadn’t been replaced since the early ’90s. It smelled like grease and syrup no matter what time of day it was, but somehow, that made it better. Cozier. Less like somewhere you had to perform in, and more like a place you could disappear into if you needed to.

By the time everyone had finished their milkshakes and scattered plates of food, the sun had dipped completely, throwing the parking lot outside into a wash of orange streetlights and long shadows. Inside, the jukebox played something low and twangy, and the air hummed with leftover laughter from the team’s ongoing debates and teasing.

No one had pushed you to talk. That was the first thing you noticed.

Even when Taissa—half-smirking, half-serious—tried to loop you into an argument with Shauna about whether Fargo or The Craft was the superior movie, you’d just shrugged slightly, eyes down on your drink, and before anyone could pressure you, Jackie had jumped in.

“She’s not taking sides,” Jackie said, chin resting in her palm, voice easy. “She’s Switzerland. Let her live.”

You glanced at her. She’d caught your eye briefly, her lips curved like she’d just made the funniest joke to herself, like maybe she knew she was playing defense for you. But she didn’t do it in a way that drew attention. It wasn’t performative. Just… natural.

Natalie, seated on your other side, had passed you a small plate of fries after finishing her own, mumbling something about how you looked like you needed backup. Van tried stealing two almost immediately, grinning like a devil, before nudging your foot under the table just to get a reaction. Her version of affection was crooked and sideways like that—an elbow, a smirk, a shared moment of mischief—but it didn’t overwhelm you. They all knew how to orbit you without crowding.

And Jackie—she kept checking in without making it obvious. A glance. A soft comment. Sliding the basket of onion rings closer when she noticed your gaze lingering on it. Laughing in a way that didn’t feel like it demanded a laugh in return.

She made space. All of them did.

But especially her.

Eventually, dinner came to a slow end. Plates pushed aside. Drinks going flat. Conversations thinning out. Natalie stood up, stretching her arms overhead and announcing that she’d bumped into Kevyn by the jukebox and was catching a ride with him. Her voice was loud and unapologetic, as always, already half out the door.

Van was nowhere to be seen when you looked up again—she’d slipped off with Taissa sometime during the end of dessert, both of them disappearing without so much as a goodbye, though you figured they’d assumed you’d understand. And you did.

Shauna had ducked out earlier, citing a study group she couldn’t miss, which left Jackie standing outside the booth alone, watching the rest of the table scatter like it always did once the bill was paid.

You were still seated when she looked over at you, holding her bag awkwardly, half-expecting someone else to suddenly reappear.

But no one did.

She gave a short breath of a laugh and rubbed at the back of her neck, something a little tired in the motion. “Guess I’m stranded.”

Your hand moved before your mind could second-guess it. You reached for your keys where they sat beside your camera on the table, fingers curling around the metal.

Jackie blinked at you. She didn’t say anything for a second, just studied your face like she was waiting to make sure. You offered a small nod.

And that was that.

She didn’t make it into a thing. No performance. No overly grateful surprise. Just a small shrug and a light, almost relieved, “Cool. Thanks,” before she followed you out the door.

The ride started quiet. She’d given you a set of turns and general directions before settling into the passenger seat, her hands folded in her lap, eyes drifting between the windshield and the blur of trees outside. But silence didn’t make Jackie nervous the way it made other people nervous. She didn’t fill it out of fear. She filled it with warmth—little stories, offhanded complaints, trailing thoughts that didn’t need responses.

“Coach Martinez has been kicking our asses lately,” she said at one point, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “I swear, he’s trying to break us before the state game even happens. We’ve been running suicides so much I actually started hallucinating in the locker room. Swear to God. Thought the vending machine was talking to me.”

You smiled a little at that, eyes fixed on the road.

She kept going.

“Mr. Delacroix in AP Lit? He’s got it out for me. I don’t care what anyone says. He gave me a B-minus on a paper I know Shauna helped me write. Which means I either suck or he hates us both.” A pause. “Could be both.”

Still, you didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

And that, somehow, seemed to mean everything to her.

Because Jackie Taylor was used to being talked at, advised, offered opinions she never asked for. Most people didn’t want to listen to her—they wanted to tell her who she was, who she could be, what box she was meant to fit in. But here you were. Quiet. Intent. Present in a way no one else ever really was.

She turned her head slightly, watching your profile in the dark for a few seconds.

Jackie liked that you actually listened to her.

Not out of politeness or because it was your turn in the conversation—but because you just did. Fully, without rushing her, without interrupting, without treating everything she said like it needed to be challenged or fixed. She never said it aloud—wouldn’t even know how to if she tried—but it settled in her quietly, sitting warm in her chest the longer the drive stretched on. Your hands on the wheel. Your eyes focused. The way you’d hum just a little in response when something struck you as funny. That was enough for her.

So when your car finally rolled to a soft stop at the end of her driveway, tires crunching against the gravel, Jackie lingered. She glanced toward the curb where her mom’s sedan and her dad’s Volvo were usually parked, both conspicuously absent. The house looked still, porch light on but no shadows moving behind the front windows.

She hesitated for maybe half a second, fingers toying with the strap of her bag.

“You, uh…” she started, suddenly not looking at you, “You wanna come in for a bit? My parents aren’t home. They’re probably at some charity thing or whatever.”

She said it like it didn’t matter. Like she wasn’t asking for anything at all.

But it did.

And she was.

You looked over at her, startled, unsure if she was serious—but the sincerity in her voice was clear. She wasn’t trying to be cool. She wasn’t just being polite. She meant it.

The word barely made it out, soft and broken at the edges.

“…Yes.”

It came out smaller than you wanted, uneven and caught in your throat, but you saw the way her shoulders eased when she heard it. Like maybe she’d braced herself for you to say no. Like maybe she hadn’t expected you to say anything at all.

She climbed out of the car first and waited for you at the steps, unlocking the front door with a fluid, practiced motion. The inside of the Taylor house was exactly what you imagined—clean, quiet, curated. Magazine-perfect in the kind of way that made it feel just slightly too pristine, like even the air had been vacuumed.

Jackie slipped off her sneakers near the entryway and gestured for you to do the same, muttering, “If my mom sees shoes on the carpet, she’ll kill me. Even if she’s not here.”

You followed her lead, your own movements unsure but careful, and then she was walking ahead of you into the kitchen, flipping on the light with a soft click. The room glowed in warm yellows—polished countertops, a bowl of untouched fruit, everything placed too deliberately to look lived-in.

She opened the fridge without asking, grabbed two water bottles, and handed you one without ceremony. “Here.”

You nodded your thanks.

Then, just like that, she turned and headed toward the stairs, pausing only once to glance back over her shoulder and make sure you were still following. You were. Of course you were.

Her bedroom was on the second floor, tucked at the end of the hallway. The door was already open when you reached it, and you stepped into a space that somehow felt more real than the rest of the house. A little messy. A little soft. Posters tacked to the walls with corners curling, a vanity cluttered with makeup and half-empty perfume bottles, books stacked on her nightstand in a way that suggested she picked them up and never quite finished them.

She moved around the room like it was second nature, tossing her bag onto the desk chair and cracking open her water bottle before flopping down onto the bed with a quiet huff.

You stood there for a beat too long, uncertain of where you were supposed to be in all this.

Jackie noticed.

“You can sit,” she said, voice light. “I don’t bite.”

You managed a small smile and lowered yourself to the edge of her bed, still clutching the water bottle like it gave you something to do with your hands. Your shoulders stayed a little stiff, but her energy was soft enough to settle some of that unease. She didn’t look at you like you were a guest. She didn’t try to make things more than they were. She just laid back, arm draped over her eyes, and sighed.

You glanced around again, taking in the smell of her room—something faintly floral, something faintly her—and the quiet that settled around you both like a blanket.

You’d never been this close to Jackie Taylor before. Not really. Not in a way that left the two of you alone in her house, alone in her world.

And what caught you off guard wasn’t how surreal it felt.

It was how easy she made it feel.

The quiet between you had stretched into something comfortable, not tense—not like it was waiting for someone to fill it. Jackie had stayed where she was, laid back across her bed like it was just another Friday night, legs crossed at the ankles, one arm propped behind her head. You sat a little stiff at the edge of the mattress, your camera still slung over your chest like a protective layer. You hadn’t touched it since coming in, but it stayed there, settled against your ribs like a second heartbeat.

Jackie tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking over to you again.

“So…” she started, her voice low, testing. Then she pointed lazily toward your camera. “That thing ever come off, or is it just part of the outfit now?”

The corner of her mouth tugged up in a little smirk, but it wasn’t teasing in the cruel way people sometimes were. It was soft. Curious.

You glanced down at it, a small breath leaving your nose—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

She shifted onto her side, elbow braced beneath her, cheek resting in her palm. “Seriously though. How’d you get into it? Photography?”

It was a rough ask. Not because it was personal, necessarily, but because you knew what would come next.

You’d have to answer.

Out loud.

Your throat tensed, the words already fumbling ahead of your tongue before you even opened your mouth. But you tried. You always tried. You owed yourself that.

“I… um,” you began, voice hushed, the syllables catching. “M–my… dad had… a c–cam—camera. I st–started… with th–that.”

Jackie didn’t blink. Didn’t look away.

But she also didn’t lean in.

She didn’t make it a spectacle. She just nodded, slow and patient, like she was listening—not to correct you or rush you along, but to hear you.

“Yeah?” she said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “That’s cool. Was he like a professional photographer or…?”

You shook your head. No.

Her expression didn’t falter. “Just liked it, then.”

You nodded again. Slower this time. The heat in your face faded just a little.

She sat back against the pillows, her voice still soft around the edges, but relaxed. “Makes sense, I guess. I’ve seen your stuff in the newsletter. Some of the soccer photos you took during preseason? They’re actually good. Like… annoyingly good.”

That pulled a flicker of something from you—surprise, maybe. You weren’t sure. But Jackie noticed. Of course she did.

“You’ve got this way of… I don’t know. Making people look like themselves,” she went on, fingers absently tugging at a loose thread on the comforter. “Even the weirdos on JV. I don’t think they’ve ever looked that cool.”

You let out the smallest huff. Jackie grinned at the sound.

And then, like she was reaching for the thread between you and tugging it a little more gently this time, she added, “I like that you don’t say much.”

Your eyes darted toward her. Not defensive. Just surprised.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she continued, amused. “Talking’s great. I love talking. Clearly. But it’s nice, y’know? When someone just… listens. Actually listens. Makes you think a little harder about what you’re saying.”

She said it so offhandedly, like she didn’t expect a reaction. And maybe she didn’t need one. That was the thing about Jackie Taylor—she could hold a conversation in the air between two people and make it feel like you were part of it even if you only said one word.

Or none at all.

The silence in the room settled again, but it felt different now. Not like a pause. Like something understood.

The thing about Jackie was that she didn’t need all the right words to figure you out. Somehow, in just the few hours she’d spent around you—at the diner, in the car, now here—she’d started reading you like a familiar page. She didn’t push or prod. She just paid attention. In a way that surprised you.

Because you weren’t supposed to be easy to read. You weren’t someone people just got. You didn’t even hang around her. You weren’t friends. You didn’t sit together at lunch, didn’t share rides or weekend plans or whatever it was the popular girls did with one another after practice.

And yet, here she was.

You hadn’t meant to ask it.

Not at first. Not while the room felt warm and soft and safe, like the kind of quiet you never wanted to break. But the question had been rising in you all night, subtle and persistent, like a tightness behind your ribs that wouldn’t ease no matter how much you swallowed it down. It came from a place of confusion. Curiosity. Mistrust, maybe—but not in a cruel way. Just in the way that came from years of being on the outside of everything and never understanding why someone like her would ever choose to look in.

So when you finally said it—voice rough and halting, too fast in some places and too slow in others—it was like forcing something jagged through your throat.

“W–why… d–did you… ask me out… with the team?”

Jackie, reclined against her headboard with one knee pulled to her chest, looked over at you. Calm. Still. Letting you speak.

“Wh–why here?” You gestured faintly to the room, to the space between you. “Why m–me?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Your throat tightened. You pushed forward before you could stop yourself.

“Y–you don’t owe me a–a–nything.” The words tumbled, one over the next. “A–and I don’t—don’t owe you. S–so why… why be nice? Why not… p–page J–jeff for a r–ride? He’s y–your…”

Your voice trailed off when you saw her face shift—not in anger. Not even surprise. Just quiet understanding. She exhaled, her expression softening in a way that made the silence after your question feel earned, not awkward.

“We’re not really speaking,” she said finally. “Me and Jeff.”

You looked at her, brows barely raised.

“I broke up with him,” Jackie went on, casually at first—like she was talking about something she’d already processed. But you noticed how her fingers curled around the neck of her water bottle, thumb brushing circles against the plastic. “A few days ago. We had a fight.”

That was all she said. She didn’t explain the fight, didn’t name the day in the parking lot, didn’t bring up the way Jeff had laughed like cruelty was some kind of currency and the people around him were just a stage. But her voice carried something under it, something quiet and unresolved. And you caught it.

Your jaw clenched slightly. Frustration flickered beneath your skin—less at her, more at yourself. The way your words had come out half-formed and shaky made heat crawl up your neck. You hated how messy your voice felt in your own mouth. How the harder you tried to make it smooth, the more it cracked apart.

You didn’t mean to look away. You just… did.

Jackie noticed.

“Hey,” she said gently, the word small and coaxing. “You’re okay.”

You shook your head, not at her—at yourself. Lips pressing together as you reached up, hand grazing the strap of your camera like it could anchor you.

She sat up a little straighter, the edge of her voice even softer now. “You don’t have to push it. I get what you were trying to say.”

You glanced at her, surprised to find no pity in her face—just this patient steadiness, this quiet refusal to make you feel like your words were something broken she had to fix.

“I didn’t… invite you to be nice,” she said, tilting her head slightly, her hair falling against her shoulder. “I invited you because I wanted to. Because you’ve been around for months now, always at games, always at practices, always on the outside of things. And I guess I just…” She paused, like she was sorting it through herself. “I wanted to see what it’d be like to pull you in.”

Your chest ached with the weight of that. Not heavy. Just full.

Jackie watched you like she could read it all on your face—the thoughts you hadn’t figured out how to shape, the mess of emotion you didn’t have words for. The thing about Jackie was that she could have said more. She could’ve clarified. Overexplained. Made it about her.

But she didn’t.

Didn’t overexplain. Didn’t rush to cover the silence between you.

She could’ve just left it there—could’ve smiled again, could’ve turned the music on, or changed the subject entirely. That would’ve been the Jackie thing to do. Keep it light. Tidy. Controlled.

But instead, something in her shifted. Something quiet and impulsive, unspoken and barely decided before her body followed through with it.

She leaned forward.

Not in some dramatic, sweeping motion. There was no buildup, no telegraphed moment of tension. Just Jackie moving slowly, instinctively, her eyes never leaving yours until they softened, fluttered shut—and then her lips met yours.

You froze. Not because it was bad. Not because you didn’t want it.

But because it had come so completely out of nowhere.

And maybe it was better that way.

Her mouth was soft against yours, still tasting faintly of vanilla from the milkshake she’d ordered hours ago, and the kiss wasn’t practiced—it wasn’t perfect. It was rushed in the quietest way, hesitant and testing. Her fingers had curled around the fabric at the collar of your shirt to anchor herself, not pulling you closer so much as grounding herself to the moment. Like if she let go, she might rethink it.

Your own hands moved instinctively, hovering for a breath before settling against the bed beside her, just under the curve of her thighs. You weren’t pulling her closer either. You just… didn’t want to fall.

The kiss was short. Fragile.

But you kissed her back. Feebly. Softly. Your lips barely moved, but that was enough. That was everything.

Jackie exhaled softly into the space between you—then she stilled.

You both heard it: the sharp clunk of a car door shutting in the driveway.

She pulled back carefully, not with panic, but with intention—like she wanted to make sure the kiss ended as gently as it had started. Like she wanted you to know that she hadn’t changed her mind. That she didn’t regret it. And she didn’t need to say it out loud. Not when it was already written all over her face.

Still close, Jackie leaned in again—only this time to wipe her thumb at the corner of your mouth, catching a faint smear of her lipstick. “You’re good,” she whispered, barely audible. She smoothed her hair out next, tucked a flyaway behind her ear, and then stood, motioning toward the door.

The two of you made it down the stairs just as the front door opened. Her parents entered mid-conversation, both dressed in business-casual evening wear, her mom holding a small white bakery box and her dad juggling his keys and pager.

“Hi, sweetheart,” her mom greeted, kicking off her heels by the entryway. “We brought back some dessert you like from that café in town.”

Jackie gave a quick, well-practiced smile, already back in polite daughter mode. “Thanks. Oh—this is Y/N. She gave me a ride home.”

Her parents looked over to you as you stood quietly by the door, half-bent as you stepped into your shoes again.

“Nice to meet you!” her mom offered cheerfully, not unkind. “You sure you don’t want to stay for dessert? It’s lemon shortbread—really good.”

You managed to shake your head, and your voice found its way through your throat, broken but firm.

“Th–thank you… b–but I should get h–home.”

Jackie’s mom smiled kindly, seeming to understand without making a show of it. “Of course. Another time then.”

Jackie trailed after you toward the front door, her fingers brushing your wrist in a way that was quiet but grounding. She didn’t say much—didn’t have to. When you stepped outside, she followed just to the threshold, barely out onto the porch where her parents wouldn’t see.

“Drive safe, okay?” she said, voice softer now, more hers.

You nodded.

Then she leaned in one last time, placed the gentlest kiss to your cheek—warm, brief, careful—and when she stepped back, there was something like a secret in her eyes. Like something had shifted between you both and neither of you was quite ready to say it out loud yet.

You walked to your car slowly.

The porch light hummed behind you.

The city was already winding down by the time you pulled up in front of Lottie’s townhouse, the street was already quiet in that particular Sunday night way—muted footsteps on the sidewalk, distant horns fading into the hum of the city. The townhouse stood in a row of others just like it, but you’d know hers anywhere: the brass number plate polished to a shine, the small balcony lined with potted rosemary and lavender.

You sat in the car for a minute with the engine off, the dashboard clock glowing 8:58 PM. You arrival was always punctual, even though you weren’t sure why. Habit, maybe. Or maybe because you still didn’t know how to walk into these moments without bracing for something.

You spotted movement through the wide front window. Lottie was there in the living room, crouched beside Esmarie, zipping up her small purple overnight bag. Your daughter was bouncing with uneven little hops, too much energy for nine at night, curls springing with each jump.

When you finally stepped out of the car, the cool air hit you, and with it, the familiar knot in your stomach. You’d learned to stand still for a moment before knocking, to give yourself time to let the sight of them sink in. It always landed the same—equal parts warmth and ache.

Finally, you stepped out into the cool air, the faint scent of rain in the breeze.

When you rang the bell, the door opened after only a few seconds

“Hey,” Lottie said.

Her voice was soft, unreadable. Lottie had always been hard to read; even when you’d been married, she’d carried herself like someone who kept half her thoughts behind a locked door. Tonight was no different.

Her voice was calm, even, like she’d practiced keeping it that way for these exchanges. She leaned lightly on the doorframe, a faint line between her brows that hadn’t been there years ago.

“Hey,” you returned. The word felt small, but it was the only one that came easily.

Before either of you could say more, Esmarie appeared between Lottie’s legs, running toward you. “Mama!” she said, her voice bright enough to cut through the quiet street.

You crouched to meet her, catching her in your arms. The top of her head smelled faintly of lavender shampoo—the one Lottie always bought—and there was a little smudge of marker on her left hand. “Hey, bug,” you murmured. “You ready for our week?”

She nodded hard enough to make her curls bounce against your cheek. You noticed the snug fit of her hearing aid behind her left ear, the one that didn’t catch much sound. You’d spent enough late nights together—back before the divorce—figuring out what toys she could play with without feeling left out, what music she could feel through vibration, what bedtime stories she could follow if you were on her good side and she was sleepy enough.

“She’s got everything,” Lottie said from a few steps back. “Inhalers are in the front pocket of her bag. I refilled her prescriptions yesterday.”

“Thanks,” you said, adjusting Esmarie on your hip. “She doing okay?”

Lottie’s eyes flicked toward Esmarie before coming back to you. “Couple of wheezy nights earlier in the week, but fine otherwise.” She hesitated, then added, “She asked about the science museum again. You might want to—”

“Take her this week, yeah,” you finished for her. You remembered the conversation from last month, Esmarie tugging at your sleeve to tell you about “the dinosaur bones with the big teeth.”

There was a pause then—one of those long silences that always seemed to happen now. It wasn’t hostile. Just… full.

You shifted Esmarie on your hip. “You good?” you asked Lottie, knowing the question was loaded.

“I’m fine,” she said too quickly, and you caught the flicker in her eyes.

The miscarriage wasn’t something either of you said out loud anymore, but it lived in the spaces between every exchange. You’d handled it like an open wound, bleeding over everything until it made a mess neither of you could live in. Lottie had gone the other way—quiet, closed off, sealing herself behind a door you couldn’t get through. Somewhere between those two extremes, the marriage had collapsed.

Still, there was no changing the fact that she was Esmarie’s mother, and you were bound to this strange rhythm: one week with you, one week with her. Every Sunday at 9 PM, without fail.

And yet, here you were, face to face every Sunday night, linked forever by the little girl watching you both with curious eyes.

Esmarie yawned, curling into your shoulder. “Can we go home now?”

“Yeah, bug,” you said softly. You looked at Lottie again, and something in her face made you remember high school—the way she used to look at you across crowded hallways before either of you knew what would happen years down the line.

“I’ll text you if anything comes up,” you told her.

“Okay.” She lingered in the doorway as you carried Esmarie down the steps. You could feel her gaze on your back, the same way you knew you’d find yourself thinking about her once you were halfway home.

At the car, you buckled her into the booster seat. She murmured, “Love you, Mama,” in that half-asleep way that always pulled at you.

“Love you too,” you said, brushing her curls back.

When you glanced back toward the townhouse, Lottie was still in the doorway. She had her arms loosely crossed, her braid falling forward over one shoulder. You gave a small nod. She raised a hand in return—not a wave, but not nothing.

╰ intersex!fem!reader series. some uses of y/n. eventual smut. implied hook ups. complicated situationship. mentions of pregnancy complications. implied character miscarriage. this story does go into some traumatic experiences with pregnancy and child birth such as—still birth, miscarriage, premature labor & birth, breech positioning, PTSD and postpartum depression. modern yellowjackets au.ᐟ

courtney eaton ⟶ 𝓬harlotte ‘𝓵ottie’ 𝓶atthews

↳ Lottie Matthews had always been deliberate about the course of her life. After earning her master’s in psychology, she married you—a year before the birth of your daughter, Esmarie—and began building the career she’d chosen despite her family’s disapproval. Two years after graduation, the news of her first pregnancy caught both of you off guard, but it never felt like a mistake. Children had always been in the long-term picture; the timing was just earlier than planned.

Esmarie’s arrival shifted everything. Between the long nights and adjusting to her early asthma diagnosis and partial hearing loss, you and Lottie learned how to navigate the kind of challenges that didn’t come with a manual. But when Esmarie turned two, Lottie found herself pregnant again. Three months later, she miscarried. The loss hit harder than either of you expected, and while you processed it outwardly, Lottie turned inward. She withdrew—not out of malice, but from a growing inability to bridge the space between grief and day-to-day life.

Her parents’ lack of support only deepened the divide. They had never approved of your relationship or her career, insisting she should have come home after school to take over her father’s business. The miscarriage became a quiet fracture point neither of you could repair. By the time Esmarie was three, the marriage had unraveled into divorce. You agreed on joint custody, swapping weeks with military precision, and though the arrangement worked for Esmarie’s sake, the tension between you and Lottie never fully left the room.

sophie nélisse ⟶ 𝓼hauna 𝓼hipman

↳ Shauna Shipman left New Jersey for Brown University with a plan—major in creative writing and literature, earn her degree, and turn her love of books into something tangible. She graduated with honors and went on to complete her postgraduate work before accepting a faculty position at Columbia University. The job was demanding, but it gave her a sense of purpose she had never quite found anywhere else. It was at Columbia that her friendship with Lottie deepened; both women had found their way into academia, and Shauna became the person Lottie leaned on most during the fallout from her miscarriage—especially when Lottie couldn’t bring herself to talk to you about it.

Outside of work, Shauna’s personal life was less structured. She had been entangled in a long-standing, on-again-off-again situationship with Jackie Taylor that began not long after high school. Their dynamic was complicated—equal parts affection, history, and unspoken frustration—and though neither seemed able to fully walk away, neither committed fully either. Shauna often let work take the place of anything resembling stability in her love life, throwing herself into lectures, research, and manuscripts to keep from thinking too hard about what wasn’t working.

In the quiet moments, Shauna knew she relied on the predictability of her career because it was the one part of her life she could truly control. Still, she kept her ties to Lottie close, knowing the friendship was one of the few constants that had survived the transitions from adolescence to adulthood.

ella purnell ⟶ 𝓳aqueline ‘𝓳ackie’ 𝓽aylor

↳ Jackie Taylor left Rutgers with a sharp eye for style and a knack for reading people, which landed her a position in the boutique world almost immediately. Over the years, she climbed the ranks, eventually becoming the manager of a high-end boutique in Manhattan that catered to a loyal and demanding clientele. The work was fast-paced, filled with long hours and meticulous attention to detail—exactly the kind of environment Jackie thrived in. She enjoyed the blend of artistry and business, and the job gave her a certain control over her life that she valued.

Outside of work, Jackie shared a Brooklyn brownstone with Shauna, Taissa, and, more recently, Van. The shared space was equal parts chaotic and comforting, with late-night conversations in the kitchen mixing with the occasional clash of personalities. Her “situationship” with Shauna had been a constant—sometimes quietly present, sometimes messily resurfacing. Living together made it impossible to truly distance themselves from one another, even during their off phases.

For Jackie, the arrangement was complicated but familiar, a rhythm she’d grown used to over the years. Between her career and her home life, she found herself balancing the image of someone who had it all together with the reality of relationships—both platonic and romantic—that were far more tangled than she liked to admit. It wasn’t perfect, but she had no intention of walking away from it.

sophie thatcher ⟶ 𝓷atalie 𝓼catorccio

↳ After high school, Natalie Scatorccio’s life veered off the rails fast. What started as weekend parties bled into a cycle of drinking and harder drugs that she couldn’t shake. She gave community college a try but dropped out within a year, convinced she didn’t have the focus for it. Instead, she poured her energy into something that felt like hers—a small tattoo shop tucked into the corner of a busy block. The work was raw and intimate, a kind of permanence she couldn’t find anywhere else.

She never really lost touch with Travis, and in many ways, he became her anchor. He was the one who talked her into counseling groups, showed up outside rehab when she didn’t want to leave, and reminded her there was something worth staying sober for. You’d been in her life just as long—since high school—and had been there through every relapse and every hesitant attempt at recovery. After her third stint in rehab, one you helped pay for, she promised you and Travis that she’d keep showing up, that she’d stay clean.

Natalie kept that promise. She became “Auntie Nat” to your three-year-old daughter, Esmarie, the one who could always make her laugh and sneak her extra candy when you weren’t looking. When Lottie’s miscarriage shook everyone and your marriage later fell apart, Natalie was the one who stayed—steady in a way she hadn’t been for herself in years. She wasn’t perfect, but she was present, and for her, that meant everything.

jasmin savoy brown ⟶ 𝓽aissa 𝓽urner

↳ Taissa Turner had always been the one with a plan, and she followed it with precision. After graduating from Howard University, she went on to Columbia Law School, determined to carve out a name for herself in the corporate legal world. Politics lingered in the back of her mind—her long-term goal was to someday run for senator—but she knew she needed a solid career foundation first. Her focus was split between climbing the ranks at her firm and keeping her relationship with Van steady, something she valued as much as her professional ambitions.

The living situation in the Brooklyn brownstone wasn’t part of the original plan, but life had a way of rearranging expectations. Moving in with Shauna, Jackie, and later Van turned out to be both chaotic and grounding. Shauna’s resilient demeanor often clashed with Taissa’s structured nature, and Jackie, as always, played the role of mediator when things got tense. Still, their bond was stronger than it had been in high school, strengthened by shared space, late-night conversations, and a mutual understanding that came with adulthood.

For Taissa, the brownstone became more than just a place to crash between long workdays—it was a reminder of the friendships that had outlasted the messiness of growing up. Even with the occasional argument or slammed door, there was a strange comfort in knowing these people had seen every version of her and still chose to stick around.

liv hewson ⟶ 𝓿anessa ‘𝓿an’ 𝓹almer

↳ Van Palmer had always been practical, even when chasing dreams. She took up a business major in college, juggling coursework with multiple part-time jobs so she could save every extra dollar toward something she’d wanted since she was a teenager—a place of her own in the city. During that time, she reconnected with Melissa, an old friend whose work ethic and love for the same kind of niche, nostalgic media matched her own. What started as casual catch-ups between classes eventually turned into late-night planning sessions for a joint venture.

The original idea was a video store, a nod to the kind of place they both had grown up in before streaming took over. But Van wanted more than just nostalgia—she wanted the store to feel like a community space. After some discussion, she pitched combining it with a bookstore, somewhere people could browse movies and novels side by side. Melissa was all in, and together they found a small but cozy space in New York City that became exactly what they’d envisioned.

Running the shop was work, but it was the kind of work Van didn’t mind losing sleep over. Between managing inventory, curating selections, and trading recommendations with customers, she felt like she’d built something worth the years of saving and long shifts. The store wasn’t just a business—it was a piece of her, something steady in a city where things rarely stayed the same.

kevin alves ⟶ 𝓽ravis 𝓶artinez

↳ Travis Martinez had his rough years, slipping into alcoholism not long after high school, but he managed to keep himself just steady enough to finish his four years in college. It wasn’t easy—he worked whatever jobs he could find to cover rent and bills, always one slip away from going under. Through it all, he stayed in touch with you and Natalie, the three of you still tied together by years of shared history. When you heard he was looking for something more stable, you stepped in, pulling some strings to get him carpentry work. Travis had always been good with his hands, and once he got started, his reputation for being reliable spread quickly.

Helping him was never one-sided—Travis made a point of putting in the same effort for Natalie. When she was struggling with her addictions, he joined you in covering the costs for her stints in rehab, determined to keep her from going down the same road he had. The two of them lived together in a decent-sized loft in the city, a place that felt more like a checkpoint than a final destination.

Their relationship had its own history—they’d been on and off for years, circling the same feelings until they finally decided friendship was the better fit. It stuck. Now, the loft wasn’t just a place to live, but a reminder of the way they’d both learned to pull each other back from the edge when it mattered most.

samantha hanratty ⟶ 𝓶isty 𝓺uigley

↳ Misty Quigley had faded from most of the group’s lives after high school, her name more often coming up in old stories than in actual conversation. That changed unexpectedly when you and Lottie crossed paths with her during a frantic trip to the hospital—Lottie was in labor with Esmarie, and Misty, then working as an EMT, happened to be part of the responding team. The coincidence repeated itself years later when Lottie suffered her miscarriage; by then, Misty had transitioned into nursing and was working at the very hospital where Lottie received treatment.

From that point on, Misty became a familiar, if eccentric, presence during hospital visits—especially for Esmarie’s hearing check-ups, where she seemed to take on the unofficial title of “nurse-on-duty.” While you were never particularly close to her, Lottie trusted her around Esmarie without hesitation. Misty’s competitive streak was still intact, but her attentiveness in those moments proved she could channel it into something useful.

alexa barajas ⟶ 𝓶ari 𝓲barra

↳ After high school, Mari Ibarra drifted from the rest of the group, carving out her own path and losing touch without much effort. Years later, fate stepped in when Jackie spotted her at the boutique she managed in the city. The timing worked out—Mari needed steady income while studying for her real estate license, and Jackie needed someone she could trust to handle clothing buying for the shop. The arrangement was practical at first, but working side by side day after day pulled them back into an easy rhythm they hadn’t shared in years.

Mari had built a comfortable life in Queens, sharing an apartment with Melissa and Akilah. Between her job at the boutique and the real estate coursework, she kept busy—but the growing closeness between her and Jackie didn’t go unnoticed. Shauna, who had her own complicated history with Jackie, started showing signs of jealousy, though she tried to mask it. Mari wasn’t sure what to make of it, but she wasn’t about to pull back just because the dynamic got messy.

jane widdop ⟶ 𝓵aura 𝓵ee 𝓹atterson

↳ Laura Lee Patterson built her life around helping others, working as a youth community program director for both after-school and church programs. Her steady, patient presence made her a natural fit when Lottie needed someone to watch Esmarie—especially on days when work and life became too much to juggle. The two had stayed in touch through college, exchanging letters and calls that kept their bond intact.

When Lottie went through her miscarriage, it was Laura Lee who quietly stepped in, offering her a safe space to talk and grieve without judgment. She didn’t try to fix the pain, just listened, and in that, Lottie found a measure of peace she hadn’t been able to reach anywhere else.

jenna burgess ⟶ 𝓶elissa 𝓱ollis

↳ Melissa Hollis kept a quieter presence than most of the others, content to slip in and out of their orbit as needed. She shared a comfortable apartment in Queens with Akilah and Mari, keeping the rent manageable while still having her own space. Most of her time was spent running The Reel & Quill, the video-and-book store she co-owned with Van—an idea they’d pieced together in college and managed to keep thriving in the city’s ever-changing retail scene.

Though she wasn’t deeply entangled in the group’s ongoing dramas, Melissa had her share of small connections—like the casual, now-and-then hook-up she’d had with Shauna. It wasn’t anything with strings, just a mutual distraction when they felt like crossing that line. Otherwise, she preferred to stay in the background, filling in the gaps and keeping her own life simple.

nia sondaya ⟶ 𝓪kilah 𝓫anks

↳ Akilah Banks had drifted from most of the old team after high school, settling into a steady life as a public elementary school teacher. She and Lottie crossed paths more than once at school board conferences, eventually making a habit of catching up over coffee afterward. They’d never been especially close back then, but adulthood had a way of shifting dynamics, and Akilah’s calm, steady presence made the conversations easy.

Esmarie quickly grew fond of her too, especially once playdates became a regular thing with Akilah’s nieces and nephews, who went to the same daycare. It wasn’t a deep, daily friendship, but it was the kind that settled naturally into their lives—comfortable, uncomplicated, and mutually appreciated.

prologue. when sunday comes around.

i. black friday.

ii. mauvaise journée.

iii. family portrait.

iv. dream a little dream of me.

v. two houses.

MORE COMING SOON…