#yellowjacketspost

The cabin had been gone for weeks now—reduced to blackened timber, its charred bones buried beneath the weight of snowmelt and silence. The sky stretched wide and colorless above what remained of them, and though the worst of winter had passed, spring came in with a kind of stubborn quiet—muddy paths, leafless trees, soft wind that stirred through the newly built huts.

It was strange how quickly the others had adapted. Or maybe they hadn’t. Maybe they were just pretending, same as always. You didn’t talk much about the fire, or about Ben—how he walked into the woods one day and never came back. Most of the girls figured he’d died, or turned into something else, or maybe nothing at all. You never really shared your thoughts on it. People stopped asking.

But you helped build the huts. All of them, one by one. With the axe you’d sharpened by hand, your shoulders straining under the sun, arms slick with sweat and sawdust. You didn’t mind the work—it gave your hands something to do, gave your mind something to fixate on besides hunger and blood and the unbearable quiet.

Now that the cold had ebbed into something gentler, you stopped wearing the layers you’d needed to survive the frost. Your thick coat, gone. Your flannel, tied at the waist. You spent most days in a cut-off tank, skin finally allowed to breathe again, hair tied back out of your face. It wasn’t a performance. You weren’t trying to be seen. But you were.

Especially by them.

The JV girls had a way of lingering lately. Always in pairs, or pretending to be busy near wherever you happened to be. Robin once claimed she lost something near the wood pile you were chopping at. Britt asked for help carrying water when she was more than capable of lifting it herself. Mari—the boldest—hovered near while you sharpened your knife, complimenting your posture like it was something people complimented.

You didn’t think much of it. Never did. You weren’t blind, but you weren’t wired to assume people were interested either. You’d always been a little slow on that front. You figured they were just being kind. Bored, maybe. People got weird when survival became routine.

But Lottie noticed. Of course she did.

She noticed how Gen’s eyes trailed too long over your back when you bent to adjust a trap line. How Mari’s voice softened when she said your name. How the air shifted—just barely—whenever one of them found an excuse to laugh at something you said. She watched it happen over and over. And each time, it hit her somewhere deep. Not with anger, not with pettiness—but with this sharp, sour twist of possessiveness she wasn’t proud of.

You were hers. Or—no. Not hers. Not in the way things used to mean ownership. But yours was the name she said when she couldn’t sleep. Yours was the face she saw in dreams—once, so vividly, she’d woken in a cold sweat, hands trembling, lips parted like she’d spoken it out loud.

She took it as a sign.

You hadn’t believed in signs. Not the way she did. Not since the plane went down.

But she told you about the dream anyway. How you stood in the clearing. How you smiled at her and didn’t speak, but she heard you all the same. How the wind pushed your hair back from your face and the trees bowed like they knew you. Like they were waiting.

She told you it wanted her to be near you. That you were the answer it gave.

You didn’t mock her for it. You never would. But you didn’t believe in it either. You didn’t believe there was something lurking in the woods, pulling strings. You believed in coincidence. In suffering. In choice. And maybe, maybe—something larger, something divine—but not something cruel. Not something hungry.

You weren’t like Laura Lee. You didn’t pray aloud. You didn’t say grace. But in the quiet moments—when your fingers dug into the earth, when the sky turned blood-orange at dusk—you whispered your thanks to whatever was listening. Not one god. Maybe not even gods. But something. Something high. Something more.

You never said it out loud. No one really asked. And even if they had, it’s not like they cared.

But Lottie cared. She noticed the way you looked up when it rained, like the drops meant something. The way you touched the trees like you were listening to them. The way your voice changed when you said her name.

She noticed, too, how you never looked at anyone else the way you looked at her.

Still, it didn’t stop the heat from curling in her chest when she caught Mari trying to sit closer to you at the fire one night. Or when Gen offered to wash your shirt in the creek. Or when Britt asked to braid your hair “just to keep it off your neck.”

The knife in your hand moved in practiced, careful strokes—slow and deliberate, like you had nowhere else to be. You sat cross-legged at the entrance of the hut you and Lottie had built together, the worn piece of wood braced against your thigh as you shaved off its rough edges. You weren’t carving anything special—just something to do with your hands while the rest of camp quieted.

The fire had burned low outside. The woods buzzed with frogsong and distant creaks from the shifting trees. The night was warmer than most. Still cool enough to keep a long breath visible, but soft in a way you didn’t take for granted anymore.

Inside, Lottie had already settled onto the bedroll, half-curled against the wall, wrapped in the thinner hide you always gave up for her comfort.

You weren’t tired yet. You rarely ever were. The sun might set, but your mind didn’t. This—shaving bark, shaping edges, smoothing grooves with your thumb—this helped. It let you relax without needing to explain yourself.

She’d been quiet for a while, only the soft shuffle of her movements echoing in the small hut. Then, after a pause that hummed longer than most silences:

“Hey,” she said, soft. “Come here.”

You looked up from the wood in your hands, surprised at the quiet edge in her voice. Not strained. Not sad. Just… reaching.

You dusted your fingers off on your pants and turned toward her, but didn’t move just yet. “I’m almost done,” you said, gently.

Lottie pushed herself up so she was sitting upright, blanket slipping down her shoulders. Her hair was half-braided, loose at the ends. Her eyes shimmered in the dark.

“It can wait,” she said. “Just… come here.”

Something in the way she said it made you put the knife down. You stood slowly and crossed the few feet between you, kneeling beside her. She reached for your hand without asking, fingers brushing over your knuckles, your palm. You let her guide you to sit beside her, legs stretched out, backs brushing the woven wall.

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked down at your joined hands. She turned your wrist over, traced the faint burn scar there from last winter—when you’d grabbed the wrong end of a heated pot to stop it from tipping. You hadn’t even flinched.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t have to.

Lottie exhaled slowly, then looked at you—not searching for something, not seeking comfort—but like she had something she needed to say.

“You know,” she started, voice low, “before I ever said anything to you… before you even knew what I really believed… I had a dream.”

You didn’t move. Just kept listening.

“It was after the first time I heard the forest go quiet. After Jackie.” She paused. “I hadn’t been sleeping well. But that night, it was different. I woke up in the middle of it, and I could feel something. Like the whole air changed. I don’t know how else to explain it, but it felt like the trees were listening.”

You nodded slightly, not interrupting.

“And in the dream,” she said, more slowly now, “you were there. Standing just at the edge of the clearing. I couldn’t see your face exactly, not at first. Just your shape. Your posture. You looked like you belonged there. Like the woods had grown around you instead of the other way around.”

Your breath caught faintly in your throat. Not fear. Not confusion. Just… something old stirring.

“I walked toward you,” she continued, “and you didn’t speak. But I heard you anyway. You said my name like you’d been saying it your whole life.”

She turned to look at you again, like she wanted to be sure you were still with her. You were. Entirely.

“And when I woke up,” she said, “I knew it was a sign.” Her voice softened. “Back then, it was still so clear. What the wilderness wanted. What it wanted.”

You shifted, your hand still tangled in hers. “You think… it wanted us together?”

Lottie nodded. “It wasn’t just some feeling. It was sure. Like you’d always been meant to be mine. Like the bond between us was something it recognized. Something it approved of.”

You didn’t believe in it the way she did. You never had. But you believed her. Believed in the way she looked at you like you were sacred.

“I was already in love with you,” she said, voice hushed now. “Long before the dream. Probably before the crash, if I’m honest with myself.”

You felt your chest pull tight, the way it always did when she said things like that.

“So when I had that dream,” she continued, “it didn’t feel like something new. It felt like permission.” She leaned her head slightly against your shoulder. “Like it was telling me to act on what was already mine.”

You swallowed, slowly.

“Not because I needed some blessing,” she whispered. “But because I needed to believe that even here… something understood what this was.”

You let the silence stretch between you, both of you wrapped in it like a second kind of warmth. Outside, the wind moved through the trees, and somewhere in the distance a branch cracked, a soft rustle in the underbrush.

“I don’t know if I believe in signs,” you said finally. “But I believe in you.”

Lottie let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, and you tilted your head just enough for your temple to rest against hers.

The wooden carving lay forgotten by the door. You’d pick it back up in the morning. For now, you stayed like that—shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, breathing in sync with something ancient and quiet, and, for the moment, entirely yours.

The silence between you was the kind that pressed in—not heavy, not uncomfortable, but close. The kind of quiet you only got with someone who already knew the rhythm of your breath, the shape of your thoughts before they formed.

You could still feel Lottie’s voice against your chest, the echo of her confession humming beneath your skin. About the dream. About the sign. About how she’d already been in love with you long before the wilderness gave her something to name it with.

You weren’t sure what to say. Not because you didn’t feel the same—you did, you always had—but because everything with her had always felt a little sacred. Like even your silence had to mean something.

But Lottie shifted. Her fingers untangled from yours. She reached for your hand again—not to hold it, not this time. She brought it to her lips instead.

You blinked, but didn’t pull away.

Her mouth pressed to your knuckles, gentle at first. A warm graze, a slow kiss to the scar just under your thumb. Then the next, and the next. A trail of them, like she was memorizing the shape of you. Her lips soft but certain, traveling over the ridge of your hand, the inside of your wrist. You watched her, heart drumming low and steady in your ears.

When she looked up at you, her mouth still barely grazing your skin, her eyes were molten.

“They act like they know you,” she murmured. Her voice was quiet. Raw. “Like you’re up for grabs. Like you owe them something.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

“But you don’t,” she continued, kissing the inside of your forearm. “You never did.”

You swallowed, the warmth creeping slowly from your stomach outward.

“I don’t doubt you,” she added. “I don’t think you’d fall for them.”

Her lips met your shoulder, just where your collarbone began, and lingered.

“I know where you stand with me.”

And still—there was that fire behind her words. Not fear. Not desperation. But something closer to claiming. Like she wanted to etch herself into the parts of you no one else ever saw.

Her hands came to your thighs as she moved to straddle your lap—slowly, unhurried. Like it had always meant to be this way. Her knees braced on either side of you, the hide blanket pooling around her hips. Her fingers slid along your shoulders, over the ridges of your muscle, settling behind your neck.

Your breath stuttered.

Lottie leaned in again—no longer featherlight—her lips brushing over the side of your throat, then lower, down the sloped curve of your collarbone.

She kissed you there. And again. A third time, firmer than the last.

Then she bit.

Not hard. Not painful. But enough for your jaw to tense, your hands to catch at her hips instinctively. Enough to feel it.

She sucked gently, then pulled back, her lips leaving a mark that burned into your skin with a quiet, smoldering pride.

Your eyes opened slowly, your pulse picking up.

Another kiss, this time to your other shoulder. Another lovebite. And then another. Her mouth moved over your chest like she was writing scripture into your skin with her teeth. Each mark deliberate. Each one placed where only she could put them.

Her hands never stopped moving. They cupped your jaw, slid into your hair, cradled your face like you were breakable. She pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.

“Mine,” she whispered, a possessive murmur wrapped in something too tender to be cruel. “You hear me?”

You couldn’t speak. Not yet.

Her thumbs pressed gently beneath your jaw as she tilted your face up to meet her eyes. Her hair had come loose from its braid, tumbling forward, soft curls brushing your cheeks and casting shadows across her cheekbones.

With the firelight flickering behind her, Lottie didn’t look of this world. She looked like something born of the wilderness itself—ethereal, wild, chosen.

You couldn’t look away.

She studied your face, lips parted like she was searching for something unspoken—confirmation, surrender, devotion, maybe all of it at once.

And when you didn’t move, when your hands trembled slightly at her hips like you couldn’t decide whether to hold her still or pull her closer—she decided for you.

Lottie leaned in, pressing her lips just beneath your ear this time, letting her breath drag slow across your skin as she whispered, “Say it.”

Your fingers slid under the edge of her shirt, finally daring to trace the curve of her spine. Her skin was warm beneath your calloused palms—too soft, too real, too hers. You weren’t sure how long you’d been touching her like this in your daydreams. But it didn’t compare to this.

You could barely breathe as your voice came low, rough. “I’m yours.”

Lottie’s breath caught.

You felt her smile against your neck.

Then she kissed you again, deeper now. Not frantic—never frantic—but intentional. Like she had all the time in the world to undo you.

The morning air was thick with dew and quiet. A soft, blue-gray hush had settled over the camp, still caught in that half-light between dawn and sunup. Most of the others were still asleep. The fire at the center of camp had burned low during the night, leaving only a few orange embers, and the forest beyond it stirred gently—branches creaking, birds starting to call.

You’d woken up warm.

Lottie was still curled in the furs behind you, her bare shoulder peeking out beneath the hide blanket, tangled curls falling into her face. She looked impossibly peaceful, her breath soft against the side of your neck. And for a moment, you just stayed there, feeling her chest rise and fall in time with your own.

The night before came rushing back like heat under your skin.

The kisses.

The way she had whispered into your throat.

The feeling of her hands dragging down your back, her body moving with yours like it had always known how.

But the morning was here now, and there were things to do. You weren’t exactly trying to sneak away, but you were careful as you slipped out from under her arm and pulled on your pants, your boots, the soft, worn tank you’d kept folded near the foot of the bedroll.

You didn’t catch the bruising. Not yet. You didn’t look in the small shard of mirror kept propped near the wall. You didn’t need to.

But the world didn’t stop for that kind of intimacy, not out here. The camp would be waking soon. Work needed doing.

The air outside the hut was still cool, dew clinging to the tips of the grass. The fire pit at the center of camp had burned low, but there were embers still glowing, a dull red pulse beneath blackened ash. Smoke rose in thin ribbons.

You started in on your usual—gathering wood, checking the traps off the north path, returning to camp with your arms full just as the rest of them began to stir. Shauna was already up, crouched by her shelter, steady hands dragging her knife along a whetstone. She didn’t look up as you passed, but you felt the flick of her gaze all the same. Measured. Neutral.

Gen was already near the fire, arms crossed, pacing in small, impatient circles.

“Where the hell is he,” she muttered to herself, scowling as she looked into the trees for Travis.

You nodded at her in passing, dropped the firewood in the pit’s ring, crouched down to begin rebuilding it.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth piece that you caught her staring.

Not in the casual, distracted way people looked at each other out here, but staring. Focused. Mouth tight. Cheeks slowly turning red.

“What?” you asked.

She blinked, hesitated. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “Just—you, uh—burn your shoulders or something?”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

She nodded toward your arm. You turned your head—just slightly—and that’s when you saw it. The edge of the bruise just beneath your collarbone. You reached up, fingers grazing the other side of your neck. Another one. And there, near your shoulder—definitely another.

You hadn’t noticed them earlier, too used to the roughness of the woods to think about what lasted.

But Lottie had noticed. She’d meant for you to see them. For the others to. She’d left them where she knew they’d show. Where they couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.

You straightened up slowly, adjusting your shirt, not to hide them but just to acknowledge it, to feel the sting beneath your fingers. Your skin was warm. Your chest, warmer.

You winced. “…Didn’t notice.”

Gen snorted, awkward and flushed. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Then came Van.

She emerged from the edge of the trees with a smirk that was already too sharp, too knowing. Her shirt clung to her from the morning run, her sleeves rolled, her whole demeanor brimming with the kind of mischief you’d come to recognize as trouble.

She slowed as she reached you, took one long look at the marks trailing your throat and collar. She didn’t even try to hide her grin.

“Well damn,” she grinned, clapping you on the shoulder hard enough to make you wince. “Looks like the priestess got hungry last night.”

“Van—” you warned.

“She leave a whole damn map of her affection on you,” she teased, circling you once like she was inspecting your shirt for evidence. “What’d you do to deserve that kind of service, huh?”

“Van,” Taissa called flatly from a few feet behind her, already rolling her eyes.

But Van didn’t stop. She dropped her voice and leaned close to your ear, theatrical. “Wasn’t just the marks we heard, either. I mean—those sounds?” She let out a dramatic moan, sharp and loud—“Oh, Lottie,” she mimicked, too convincingly—“right there, please—”

You covered your face with one hand, heat rising in your cheeks fast.

“Van, shut up,” Taissa hissed, grabbing her by the wrist.

“Lottie, Lottie, bless me with your—”

“Van!” Taissa yanked her back with a grunt, dragging her down the path by the elbow.

“I’m just saying,” Van called over her shoulder. “If the woods weren’t already haunted, you two gave the trees something to talk about.”

You looked back toward Gen—only to find that she was gone. The girl had fled mid-tease, cheeks fully flushed, muttering something under her breath as she all but ran after Travis.

You stood still for a moment, letting the camp settle again. The low crackle of the fire. The wind moving through the trees. The hum of birdsong just beyond the perimeter.

You sighed, planting your hands on your knees, exhaling slow.

Flushed, maybe. A little embarrassed. But beneath that, under the teasing and the heat in your ears—there was something quieter. Something steadier. You felt marked not just by touch, but by choice.

You glanced once toward the path leading back to your hut.

She was probably waking by now.

Travis Martinez had never been the easiest person to read. Even before the crash—before the smoke and metal and screaming, before the trees devoured the rest of their world—he was closed off in a way that didn’t always feel intentional. He wasn’t mean, not exactly. He just didn’t know how to be with people.

You weren’t sure when you started noticing him like that.

Maybe it was during practice, when you’d sneak glances across the field and catch him staring off into the distance, headphones clamped around his ears like armor. Maybe it was in the hallway, the way he always walked slightly behind Javi but never too far, like he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to be seen or disappear altogether. Maybe it was in the way he showed up to team events and parties but always lingered along the walls, half-present, like he was doing someone a favor by existing there.

You didn’t know why he talked to you more than anyone else.

It was never much—just fragments. A dry comment. A shared silence on the bus. Once, at a hotel after an away game, you sat beside him on a stairwell when neither of you could sleep, and he handed you one of his earbuds without saying a word. The song was some mellow, wordless synth loop—sad but soft. He didn’t look at you the whole time, but he didn’t move away either. That was the closest thing to intimacy he ever offered.

You held onto it. Maybe too tightly.

There was something about the way he moved through the world, like he didn’t expect it to be gentle with him. And still, he was trying. There was something so lonely and tender about that.

He never had to say anything. You just knew.

When the plane crashed, everything about Travis collapsed inward.

You saw it happen in real time.

The sound of his father’s body snapping from the trees haunts you—not as a memory, but as a feeling, one you saw reflected in the still, awful way Travis froze when he realized what had happened. The grief didn’t come loud or screaming. It came quietly. Paralyzing. You watched it climb inside him and make a home.

After that, he stopped meeting your eyes. Stopped lingering near you. Stopped doing anything that might be mistaken for feeling something.

The others wrote him off quickly. Called him cold, a dick, a downer. But you—you knew what was underneath all that. The hurt in him. The sharp kind of pain that swallows boys whole when no one ever taught them what to do with it.

Still, it didn’t make it easier.

He wouldn’t talk to you. Wouldn’t sit near you at the fire. Wouldn’t even pass the knife your way during skinning days. He talked to Natalie—her and no one else. And as much as that burned something small and ugly inside you, you couldn’t even be mad about it.

Because she didn’t ask him to be anything he couldn’t.

The forest didn’t ask much of him—just quiet, and discipline, and the occasional bloodletting.

Travis preferred it that way.

The further they got from camp, the more the noise in his head seemed to thin out, replaced by the damp rhythm of breath and frost and the low crunch of boots through leaf rot. He liked that Natalie didn’t talk much when they hunted. She understood how to move through silence without filling it. She didn’t force small talk or ask him what he was thinking.

She already knew most of it anyway.

He stayed a few paces behind her, one hand on the strap of his pack, the other swinging low at his side, fingers numb. The cold had a way of making you forget the edges of your own body. Most days, he didn’t mind. It was easier than remembering how he used to feel warm around you—how that warmth had slowly curled up inside him, cautious but real, and hadn’t left since.

Back before the crash, it had been a slow thing. The kind of quiet affection he didn’t have words for, so he didn’t try. But he felt it. In the way he found excuses to linger around you at practice. In the way he caught your voice in a crowded hallway and tuned out everyone else. In the way he almost said something once—just once—when you touched his arm and smiled like you trusted him more than he’d earned.

But the crash took that version of him and set it on fire.

Now, he didn’t talk to you. Barely looked at you. Not because he didn’t want to. Because wanting to felt dangerous. Like opening something that couldn’t be closed.

Natalie stopped ahead of him near a stripped birch tree. She crouched, fiddling with a snare they’d set the day before. It was empty. No surprise there. She reset it anyway, patient and practiced.

They hadn’t caught anything yet. Not that it mattered. The routine was the only thing keeping either of them sane.

Natalie didn’t look back when she spoke.

“You know you’re not subtle, right?”

Travis looked up, brow creasing.

“About her,” she added, glancing sidelong over her shoulder. “You think you’ve been hiding it, but you’re about as low-key as a red flare in a blackout.”

Travis didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t surprised she brought it up—he’d told her weeks ago, maybe on their third or fourth hunt together. Not in a dramatic, confessional way, just in passing, like it had slipped out between breaths. Like it hurt too much to hold in. She hadn’t said much then, just nodded and moved on.

He appreciated that. Natalie had a way of not pressing unless it mattered.

“I already told you,” he muttered, eyes back on the trail. “That doesn’t mean I know what to do about it.”

“You could start by not being a dick to her,” she said mildly.

“I’m not—” He cut himself off. Sighed. “I’m not trying to be.”

“You’re not trying to be anything,” she said, turning to face him fully now. “That’s kind of the issue.”

Travis looked past her, toward the edge of the tree line. He hated these moments. Not because he didn’t trust her—he did, more than almost anyone out here—but because talking about you made something vulnerable scrape against his ribs. And he didn’t know how to handle that. He never had.

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” he muttered.

“Being an asshole?”

He shot her a look.

Natalie held his gaze, unflinching. “You’re not one, not really. But you play the part so well it doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t mean to act like that toward her,” he said, quieter now. “Most days I don’t even know I’m doing it. Then she looks at me, and I… I just freeze up.”

“It’s not like I mean to ignore her,” he muttered. “I just… I don’t know. It’s easier this way.”

“Easier for you,” Natalie said, slinging her pack higher. “Not her.”

Natalie let the silence sit for a beat. Long enough for the wind to rustle low through the trees and for a crow to call somewhere in the distance.

Natalie started walking again. He followed.

“I’m not gonna lecture you,” she said eventually. “But don’t pull her close in your head just to push her away out here. That’s not fair. And you know it.”

Travis swallowed hard. The wind shifted between the trees. He didn’t say anything. He just kept walking, eyes fixed ahead, hoping the next trap would be full, or at least distract him from the weight in his chest.

But the worst part was—he knew she was right. He always knew.

Eventually, he muttered, “Why do you even care?”

Natalie glanced sideways at him, brow raised. “About what?”

“This,” he said, a little sharper than he meant to. “Me. Her. I didn’t think you paid much attention to that kind of shit.”

“I don’t,” she replied easily. “Not usually.”

They stopped near the ridge, close to another snare. Natalie crouched down again, brushing snow-dusted pine needles from the ground as she spoke.

“I mean, it’s not like she and I talk all the time or whatever. We barely interact unless it’s doing firewood or prepping game or someone needs help with water runs. But…” She paused, checking the trap. It was empty again. “She’s always been kind to me. Quiet, but kind. Never treated me like I was on the outside of things, even when some of the others did.”

Travis didn’t say anything.

“I’ve always counted her as a friend, even if it’s not loud or obvious,” she added. “She doesn’t deserve to be left wondering what she did wrong.”

He shifted uncomfortably, knuckles tightening around the edge of his coat sleeve.

“I never meant to make her feel like that.”

“Well, that’s the part that matters, isn’t it?” Natalie stood again, brushing her hands clean on her thighs. “You didn’t mean to, but you did. And she’s walking around thinking she pissed you off, or like she’s not worth your time. And you won’t even look at her most days.”

“I can’t,” Travis snapped, before he could stop himself. Then quieter, like the words cost him something, “I can’t—not without feeling like I’m gonna say something I can’t take back.”

Natalie gave him a long, steady look.

“Then maybe you should say something she can hold on to.”

That silenced him. He dropped his gaze to the dirt, biting down the thousand things he couldn’t name.

You weren’t like the others. You never made him feel stupid when he didn’t know what to say. You were gentle with your space, patient with your silences. You never asked for anything loud or dramatic—just effort. Just honesty. Just for him to not disappear.

And he had anyway.

Natalie didn’t push after that. She just turned and kept walking, rifle slung low at her side, her footfalls light and sure over the leaves.

But the words stayed with him. Echoed back with every breath he took through the cold.

She doesn’t deserve to be left wondering what she did wrong.

The sun had barely climbed its way into the afternoon sky by the time they made it back to camp. Pale light filtered through the thinning treetops, casting long shadows against the brittle dirt. The chill hadn’t broken, but the snow hadn’t started yet either—just cold in that dull, early-winter way that got under your clothes and stayed there, pressed into your skin like a bruise.

Travis spotted you first.

You and Javi were returning from the lake, each of you carrying a plastic bucket filled with fresh water. One in each hand. Javi’s sleeves were pushed up, the edges damp from where he’d spilled water on the walk back, and you were laughing at something he said—real, easy laughter that rang out across the clearing.

You looked warm. Not from the cold, but from something inside.

Travis didn’t realize he’d stopped walking until Natalie bumped his arm lightly and kept going.

He watched as you adjusted your grip on the bucket and nudged Javi’s shoulder with your elbow. Javi grinned back, wide and boyish, like the world hadn’t fallen apart around him. He said something else, and you rolled your eyes in that way you did when you were amused but pretending not to be.

There was something so natural about you two. Like this was just another ordinary task. Like you weren’t both dragging gallons of frigid lake water through a forest that had swallowed your old life whole.

Javi had been different since the crash—quieter sometimes, but more open in other ways. He spent time with Shauna when he needed to feel looked after, with you when he needed to feel heard, and sometimes with Travis, though those moments were rare and brittle, full of weight neither of them could shake.

Travis didn’t blame him. Not really. He just didn’t know how to reach back.

But you—you never made it seem like an effort. You didn’t try to “fix” Javi, or overstep, or hover. You were just there, consistent, kind, and maybe that was what he envied the most: how easily Javi let you in when Travis couldn’t figure out how.

He dropped his eyes as you got closer, like he was afraid you’d catch him watching.

“Back already?” Natalie called out, lifting her chin slightly.

“Water’s getting colder,” you said, your voice lighter than you felt. “Figured we’d get it done before the sun starts to dip.”

“Didn’t fall in this time,” Javi added proudly, holding up his bucket like a trophy.

You gave him a teasing look. “Barely.”

The four of you met at the edge of the clearing. You set your bucket down first with a soft grunt, shaking out your fingers from the cold. Javi did the same, then immediately reached for the hem of his sweater to wipe the sweat off his brow, totally oblivious to the way Travis had gone still just a few feet away.

You didn’t look at Travis right away. You weren’t avoiding him—you never really did—but the distance between you had grown sharp over the last few weeks, and you learned to protect your gaze the way he protected his silence. There was no use in seeking softness from someone who didn’t know how to give it anymore.

Still, the air shifted the moment you were near him.

You glanced at him once—brief, searching—and offered the same polite, quiet nod you’d given him every time he passed you since the crash. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He opened his mouth, then hesitated.

Natalie shifted slightly beside him, her gaze flicking from you to him with subtle expectancy. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t move either. Waiting.

And then—almost too low to catch—Travis finally said, “Can I… talk to you for a second?”

His voice was rough around the edges, not quite steady. He rubbed the back of his neck like the words had physically cost him something.

“Just a minute,” he added, eyes down now. “If that’s okay.”

It wasn’t a demand. Not even a request, really. More like a hope—quiet, frayed at the seams, like he was afraid he’d asked too much already just by standing here.

You didn’t speak right away. Part of you wanted to say yes. Part of you was still carrying all the ways he’d looked through you these past few weeks, like you weren’t even there. But something in the way he asked—unsure, and more vulnerable than you’d seen in him in days—made you hesitate for a different reason.

You nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Natalie stepped in before you could reach for the bucket again. “I’ll take that in for you,” she offered, already moving to grab the handle.

Javi blinked, caught off guard, but didn’t argue. Natalie’s hand settled gently on his shoulder, guiding him back toward the cabin. “C’mon, muscle man. Let’s not waste all your hard work.”

He snorted at that and followed without question, tossing you a quick smile over his shoulder before disappearing through the doorway.

And just like that, it was quiet again.

You turned back to Travis slowly, the space between you thick with everything he hadn’t said for weeks. You waited, heart thudding, eyes steady—but guarded. You weren’t going to give him everything without reason anymore.

He looked at you, really looked, for what felt like the first time in forever.

And then he exhaled, like he didn’t know where to start.

The cabin door shut behind Natalie and Javi, the latch catching with a low, hollow click that seemed louder in the quiet they left behind.

The clearing was still. The wind barely moved.

You didn’t speak, not at first. Neither did Travis.

There was a patch of dry ground near a thick stump, just far enough from the trail. You walked there without a word and stopped, waiting. You didn’t sit. Neither did he. He stood a few feet from you, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, eyes flicking to the dirt between your boots. It was like standing at the edge of something, and both of you were too unsure to take the first step.

You weren’t going to push him. You’d already tried—once, twice, maybe more. And when it became clear he couldn’t meet you halfway, you stopped reaching. But now, with his shoulders drawn tight and his eyes refusing to rise, you knew if you spoke first, he’d shrink back again. So you waited. Patient. Guarded. Letting the silence settle in around you, sharp as the cold.

Travis shifted his weight. His jaw clenched, then unclenched.

“I didn’t know how to start this,” he muttered finally. “Still don’t.”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him. The quiet gave him permission to keep going.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly at the ends. “I’ve been—fuck. I’ve been stuck in my head about this for weeks. Months, really. And I know I should’ve said something sooner. Before. Back when things were… before everything fell apart.”

He looked up at you then. Not fully, but enough to meet your eyes for a second before looking away again, like it burned.

“I’ve been ignoring you,” he said plainly, shoulders rising like he needed to brace himself. “I know. I kept pulling back, shutting you out. Not because I wanted to. Not because I stopped caring. But because I do care.”

You exhaled, slow, but didn’t speak. He wasn’t finished. You could feel it.

“I didn’t think I could hold it together around you,” he continued, his voice starting to fray. “After the crash, after my dad… after everything—my head just went to shit. I couldn’t feel anything without it hurting. And you—you make me feel everything. Like too much all at once. And that scared the hell out of me.”

His fingers dug into his jacket pockets like he was holding onto something physical, grounding himself.

“I’m in love with you,” he said, and this time he looked up fully.

It was a bare thing, the way he said it. Like he’d ripped it out of his chest just to offer it to you.

“I fucking love you—been in love with you since the day you offered me a water bottle after your practices. The ones my dad used to make me wait forever at.”

He gave a small, breathless laugh, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud. “I remember thinking, ‘Who the hell is this girl, being nice to me for no reason?’ I didn’t get it. I still don’t, really.”

You could feel your heart pulsing somewhere behind your ribs, but you stayed still, letting him have the space. He needed to empty it out—needed you to hear it all.

“And I know you’ve been going through your own shit out here,” he added, quieter now. “I see it. I feel it. And it’s not fair—you’ve been carrying your weight and mine too. I just wanted to tell you that… that I love you. Not because I want something from you. Just because I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”

His voice cracked slightly then, barely noticeable unless you were really listening. But you were.

“And I’m sorry,” he said, eyes lowering again. “I’m sorry if I made you feel less than what you give—less than what you actually are. Because if I’m being honest with myself, you don’t deserve to be treated any less. And I’ve been an asshole to you about all of it.”

He swallowed hard, jaw tight again, like the words had exhausted him.

“I didn’t mean to push you away,” he said, softer now. “I just didn’t know how to be… me. And still be close to you.”

The clearing was quiet again, but the air between you had changed—heavier, fuller.

You let a breath out and looked at him. Really looked. There was no performance in him now. No posturing. Just a boy, broken in all the wrong places, holding something gentle in his hands like he was afraid he’d crush it just by touching it.

And still, he’d brought it to you anyway.

Because whatever version of love Travis Martinez understood—it looked like this. Raw. Hesitant. Apologetic. But real.

He waited, breathing shallow, like the next second might split him open.

And still, you didn’t say anything yet.

Because you knew him.

And you knew he needed to be the one to say it first.

You stood in silence, staring at him, your face unreadable beneath the stillness—until, suddenly, the first laugh burst out of you like it had been caught in your throat too long.

It started small—a sharp breath through your nose, the flicker of a grin you tried to bite back—but it cracked open quickly, falling into soft, breathless laughter that came from someplace deeper than joy. It wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t cruel. Just real—the kind of laugh that breaks when it’s got too much weight behind it. The kind that holds years and fear and relief in its chest and doesn’t know what to do with them all.

Travis froze.

Not offended—worried.

He blinked at you, jaw tightening like he wasn’t sure if he should speak or back away, if he’d made a mistake even trying. His heart beat somewhere in his throat. The wind picked up around you both, rustling dry leaves at your feet, and still he stood there, paralyzed by the sound of your unraveling.

Then the laughter faltered. It collapsed into a soft inhale. A sniffle. And then a slow, trembling sob that you tried to stifle behind the back of your hand.

That’s what undid him.

“I—shit,” Travis said, stepping forward. “I didn’t mean to—did I—?”

His voice cracked. His hands hovered for a second, unsure, then gently found your shoulders. He didn’t grip you hard, didn’t shake or pull—just steadied, his touch warm even through the chill, grounding.

But the moment his hands touched you, you leaned in fast and sudden, catching him off guard.

Your lips met his like a breathless question, not quite certain, not yet desperate—just aching. A soft, hesitant press like you were afraid he’d flinch away. Like you didn’t believe this could still be real.

And for a heartbeat, he didn’t move.

But then—then he melted.

Travis kissed you back like he hadn’t let himself imagine it until now. Not out of fear. Out of need. His hands moved from your shoulders to your face, cupping your jaw with such careful pressure you felt it in your chest. His thumbs brushed your cheeks like he didn’t know what to do with how gently he wanted to touch you.

You reached up without thinking, your fingers curling around his wrists, anchoring there as your forehead leaned into his. The sobs still trembled in your chest, broken and uneven, your breath catching between kisses like your heart hadn’t caught up yet.

“I thought you hated me,” you whispered, voice thin, cracked. “I thought you were mad I kept trying. That I made things worse. That I—I made you worse.”

Travis pulled back just barely, just enough to look at you, and your tears streaked across his fingertips when he wiped them from your cheek.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Don’t say that. You didn’t make anything worse.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, more certain. And then another, just at the edge of your mouth. And then one more near the corner of your eye, where a tear had escaped.

“I was scared,” he murmured, his voice low and frayed. “Scared of how much I felt when you looked at me. I thought if I let myself have any of that… I’d break.”

He pulled you into his chest then—no hesitation, no half-measure. His arms wrapped around you so tightly your feet almost lifted from the ground, your face buried against his shoulder as he held you like he was afraid to ever let go again. The fabric of his jacket smelled like pine and smoke and sweat, familiar in a way that hurt.

You gripped the back of it with both hands, your fingers curling into the seams, and he pressed his face into your hair, whispering again:

“You’re not a burden. Not to me. Never to me.”

And the wind kept moving through the trees, and the forest stayed quiet around you, but for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—there was no distance between you.

The party was already wheezing when you found Natalie again — leaning against the side of someone’s beat-up shed, shoulders hunched like she was trying to disappear into the siding. She had a fresh cigarette between her fingers, eyeliner smudged, mouth twisted into that familiar half-bored, half-daring tilt. You’d lost her inside for a good twenty minutes, searching through rooms stale with weed and warm beer. Every so often you’d heard her laugh from across the house, sharp and high, like a knife glancing off something softer.

She spotted you cutting through the backyard, took a long drag, and smirked. “Lose your little fan club in there?”

“They got busy pretending to care about some asshole’s acoustic guitar,” you said, stopping close enough she had to tip her head up. “Party’s dead.”

“Yeah, well. You missed Jen Evans trying to call me a slut under her breath again. Real highlight.” Her nose wrinkled. “I almost thanked her. Got me outta a conversation with her idiot cousin.”

You couldn’t help smiling. Even half-drunk, Natalie was all bite. But there was something restless under it tonight — her free hand kept fiddling with the hem of her thrift store tee, twisting the faded fabric.

“Wanna get outta here?” you asked.

Her eyes darted over your shoulder, like she was checking if anyone was listening. Then she shrugged, taking another drag. “Yeah. Not ready to call it a night.”

Your house was dark when you got there, parents gone for the weekend. Natalie’s been here plenty of times — half your friend group has crashed on your couch at some point — but she still lingered in your kitchen, popping the tab on a leftover beer, eyes roaming like she was looking for an excuse to bolt if it got too quiet.

You leaned against the counter, close enough that your shoulder brushed hers. Her skin was warm, faintly sticky with sweat from the party. She didn’t pull away.

“Still buzzed?” you asked, voice low.

She shrugged again, taking a long pull from the can. Her mouth left a faint pink print on the rim. “A little. Enough.”

“Enough for what?”

She snorted. “Enough to not overthink shit.”

You watched her throat work as she swallowed. Then your hand found her hip, testing. Her shirt had ridden up just a little, exposing the dip of her waist. She flinched, only for a heartbeat — then her eyes flicked up to yours. That look was sharper now, edged with something hungry.

“What?” she breathed.

“Nothing,” you said, leaning down to kiss her. “Just thinking how long it took you to let me do that.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I’m drunk enough to let you keep trying.”

It started in the kitchen, Natalie pushing you back into the counter, kissing you like she was trying to wipe every thought from her brain. Her hands slid under your shirt, nails raking up your spine in a way that made your breath stutter. She tasted like cheap beer and menthol, mouth hot and insistent. You groaned into it, hands sliding down to her ass, pulling her flush against you.

By the time you stumbled to your room, it was clumsy and urgent — teeth knocking, laughter spilling between kisses. Natalie’s shirt was halfway off before you even made it to the bed, your hands fumbling with the hem, her breath hitching in your mouth.

“Fuck, you’re slow,” she muttered, but it was breathless, her pupils blown wide.

“I’m trying to be careful,” you managed, pressing kisses along her jaw, down her neck.

“Don’t,” she snapped — too quick, like it surprised even her. Then softer: “Just… don’t make it weird.”

“It’s not weird,” you said. “It’s you. I’ve wanted you for—”

“Shut up,” she groaned, yanking you down by your shirt. But her mouth found yours again, her hands restless, roaming everywhere she could touch. Her palms slid over your chest, down your ribs, like she needed to memorize the shape of you.

When you pushed her gently back onto the bed, climbing over her, she went without protest. Her breathing was uneven, legs falling open to let you settle between them. You could feel how tense she was though — the set of her shoulders, the way her fingers gripped your arms like she was bracing to be dropped.

“Nat,” you murmured, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Hey—wait.”

She cracked one eye open. “What?”

“You’re sure?”

She rolled her eyes. “Jesus, yes. Just—”

But you kissed her before she could finish, slow and deep, letting it build back into something breathless. Her hips lifted into yours on instinct, drawing a ragged sound from both of you. You slid a hand under her back, pulling her closer, feeling every tremor in her stomach as she exhaled shakily.

When you finally pushed into her, she let out a strangled gasp, arms locking around your neck. You paused, breathing hard, trying not to just lose it right there.

“Don’t—” she started, voice cracking. Her forehead pressed into yours. “Don’t just stare at me like that.”

“Can’t help it,” you whispered. “You’re… fuck, Nat.”

That got a tiny laugh out of her, half a sob. Her nails dug into your shoulders. “Such a girl.”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

Then she pulled you down into another kiss, biting at your lip, desperate and messy. You rocked into her slow at first, trying to keep your pace, but the way she writhed under you — thighs tightening around your hips, heels digging into your lower back — made it impossible to stay patient for long.

It was sloppy, a little awkward, both of you trying to figure it out at the same time. But it was real. Natalie gasped your name when you shifted just right, her breath hot against your ear. Her hands were everywhere — clutching at your hair, sliding down to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer like she needed every inch of you.

When she came, it was sudden and sharp, her body tensing all at once before she let out a low, shuddery moan. Her arms locked around you, face buried in your neck, hips still rocking like she couldn’t help it. You followed right after, burying your face in her shoulder with a broken groan.

After, neither of you said anything for a long minute. Your heart was still thudding against her ribs. Her hands rested on your back, fingers twitching like she wasn’t sure if she should push you off or keep you close.

When you finally shifted to roll beside her, she let out a tiny, involuntary whimper that made your chest ache. You hooked an arm around her waist, guiding her to rest her head on your shoulder.

“Don’t get all clingy,” she mumbled, but her voice was thin, shaky.

“You’re the one who’s shaking,” you murmured, brushing her hair off her damp forehead.

“Fuck you,” she breathed, but she tucked her face in closer. Her hand curled against your chest, fisting the fabric of your shirt like she was terrified you’d vanish if she let go.

You pressed a slow kiss to her temple. “Not going anywhere.”

She didn’t say anything to that. But her hand smoothed out, palm flattening against your sternum, feeling your heartbeat slow under her touch. After a while her breathing evened out, eyelashes fluttering against your skin.

And that’s how you stayed — tangled up together in the half-dark, her leg thrown over yours, your thumb tracing lazy circles on her hip. You didn’t push her to talk about what it meant. Didn’t ruin it by calling it anything at all. You just held her until her tension finally melted away — until her breaths came slow and steady, and you could almost believe she trusted you to keep her safe, even from herself.

It was quiet for a long while after. Your bedroom felt smaller somehow, the walls still carrying the echo of her breathing from before. Natalie lay half on top of you, one leg slung across your waist, cheek pressed to your chest. Her skin was warm and a little sticky, hair damp against your collarbone. Every few seconds, her fingers twitched against your side, like she was fighting the urge to get up and bolt — or maybe just didn’t know what to do with herself now that the rush was over.

You kept your arm draped across her back, hand resting at the dip of her waist. Your thumb traced slow, idle circles on her skin, not pushing for anything, not asking questions. Just giving her time.

Eventually, Natalie let out a soft huff, shifting a little so she could look up at you. Her hair fell into her face. She didn’t bother to move it.

“You’re too fucking quiet sometimes,” she muttered, but there wasn’t any bite to it.

You lifted a shoulder. “Listening.”

“Yeah, well. Makes me feel like you’re… waiting for me to say something.”

You didn’t deny it. Your thumb kept moving, up and down the side of her ribs. Her breathing stuttered at first, then settled. She frowned at some spot on your chest, chewing at the inside of her cheek.

When she spoke again, it was so low you almost didn’t catch it. “It’s weird.”

“What is?”

“You. All this.” Her hand flapped weakly between the two of you. “I dunno… you’re the only person who doesn’t treat me like some joke. Or like…” She trailed off, swallowing. Her nose scrunched, almost annoyed at herself for continuing. “Like I’m gonna ruin their rep just by standing next to them.”

You didn’t say anything. Just kept your hand moving. Natalie’s eyes darted to your face, then back down again.

“At school it’s always the same shit,” she mumbled. “People calling me easy. Or acting like I’m some… experiment. Or a way to piss off their parents.” Her voice cracked on that last bit. She immediately scowled, pressing her face back into your shoulder like she was trying to hide the slip.

You felt her breath against your skin, hot and uneven. Her thigh tightened over your hip, grounding herself.

“I dunno,” she muttered, voice muffled. “It’s just fucked up how you’re the only person who doesn’t make me feel like that.”

You swallowed around the knot in your throat. Let your hand slide up to cradle the back of her head, your fingers threading through her hair. You pressed a kiss to the top of it, lingering there. Didn’t rush her. Didn’t tell her she was wrong, or that it didn’t matter, or any of that shit people always say to make themselves feel better. You just let her say it. Let her have the silence after.

Her shoulders slowly started to unlock under your hand. Her breath evened out, still shaky at the edges. After a bit, she shifted again, chin hooking over your chest so she could look up at you. Her eyes were red, lashes sticking together. She gave a small, wry huff.

“You’re seriously annoying, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you said, brushing a strand of hair off her face. “Been told.”

Natalie rolled her eyes. But she didn’t pull away. In fact, she inched up a little closer, tucking herself against you so your foreheads almost touched. Her fingers curled into your side, nails digging in just enough to sting — like she needed to remind herself you were real.

“I don’t… want this to be weird tomorrow,” she said finally.

“It won’t be.”

“You say that now.”

You huffed, nudged her nose with yours. “I’ve known you since you tried to climb that rickety-ass water tower in seventh grade because someone dared you. Pretty sure we’re past weird.”

Her mouth twitched. She let out a half-laugh, half-sigh, her breath warm on your lips. Then she dipped her head, pressing a quick, almost shy kiss to your mouth. When she pulled back, her eyes were softer, if still wary.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” she muttered.

“At what?”

“Making me not hate myself for five fucking minutes.”

You didn’t smile. Just tightened your arm around her, let her burrow back into your chest. You could feel her heartbeat still racing, even if her breaths were slower now. Her leg stayed tangled with yours, her hand smoothing over your ribs in lazy, tentative strokes — like she didn’t want to admit she liked the closeness.

So you didn’t call her out on it. You just lay there in the dim light, your hand drifting up and down her spine, listening to the way her breath gradually steadied. Every so often she squeezed your side, almost absently, like she was making sure you were still there. And you were. You always were.

The air in the apartment had been thick for weeks.

It wasn’t anything obvious—not yelling, not slammed doors or broken dishes. Just a kind of quiet that stuck to the walls. Conversations that ended too soon. Touches that didn’t linger. Eye contact that flinched away.

Natalie had been feeling it in her chest every night when she lay down next to him, eyes wide open, pretending to sleep. She knew Travis felt it too. The way he’d linger at work, or the way he’d choose his words too carefully, like they were standing on a frozen lake and one wrong move would send them both crashing under.

That night, it was humid again. She’d kicked off her boots by the door, dropped her bag on the floor and rolled her neck like the day had been heavier than usual. Travis was already home, sitting on the edge of the couch with a beer in his hand, staring blankly at the muted TV.

“Hey,” she said softly, peeling off her jacket.

He barely looked up. “Hey.”

She tossed her keys into the dish, rubbed her eyes. “Anything to eat?”

“There’s leftovers from that Thai place.”

She made a noise that wasn’t quite a yes or a no and wandered into the kitchen. The light flickered when she opened the fridge. Something about that—the little buzz it made—itched under her skin.

They ate in silence. Not even the TV filled it. Just the clink of silverware, the creak of old floorboards, the scrape of Travis’s thumb against the label on his beer bottle.

Halfway through the meal, he set the bottle down harder than necessary and said, voice low and a little hoarse, “Do you ever think about how many people you’ve been with?”

Natalie looked up slowly, blinking. “What?”

He didn’t meet her eyes. Just leaned back in the chair, arms crossed loosely. “Like… before me. Do you think about it?”

She swallowed. “No. Not really.”

He nodded once, like that confirmed something. “I do.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because I think about how easy it is for you to act like it doesn’t matter.”

Natalie didn’t answer at first. She carefully set her fork down and sat back, her gaze on him now, full and unblinking. “What are we doing, Travis?”

He shrugged a little too quickly. “Just talking.”

“No,” she said. “You’re not just talking. You’ve been weird for weeks. You come home late, you barely touch me, and now you’re throwing out these half-assed questions like you’re trying to start something without admitting that you are.”

He stayed quiet for a long second. Then he said, quieter, “I’ve just been thinking. A lot. And I feel like I don’t really know where I stand with you anymore.”

Natalie let out a slow breath through her nose, rubbed her palms down her thighs. “Where you stand with me? You think I don’t see how hard you’ve been pulling away?”

He shifted. “Maybe I’m pulling back because I don’t know how long you’re planning to stay.”

Her chest tightened. “You think I’m gonna leave.”

“I think,” he said carefully, “you’ve always had one foot out the door.”

There it was.

The thing he’d been dying to say.

Natalie stood up slowly, arms crossed now, her weight shifting from one foot to the other like she was bracing herself.

“Is this about that night we saw Bobby at the bar?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the table, jaw working.

She nodded. “Yeah. That’s what this is. You saw me say hi to someone I haven’t thought about in three years and suddenly I’m the girl who’s gonna bail.”

“It wasn’t just that,” he muttered.

“Then what?” she snapped. “What is it, Travis? Is it the fact that I don’t cry every time I talk about my past? That I’m not embarrassed about who I was before you?”

“It’s not about being embarrassed.”

She cut him off. “Then what is it about?”

He stood now too, tone rising. “It’s about how I feel like you treat everything before me like it didn’t leave marks. Like you’re made of stone, and I’m the only one who gives a shit about any of this.”

“Because I had to be made of stone!” Her voice cracked at the end, and her hands were shaking now. “You think I don’t feel things? You think I didn’t bury stuff just to keep my head above water? You want me to bring it all up every time we sit down to dinner?”

Travis took a step back. “I want to know if I mean more to you than they ever did.”

Natalie stared at him, chest heaving, throat tight.

“You want the truth?” she asked.

He looked at her, and something in his face looked scared now.

“I don’t remember most of them,” she said. “Not because I didn’t care. But because I had to forget. I didn’t grow up with the luxury of clean slates and safety nets. I burned through people like matches because I didn’t know what it meant to be held. And then you came along, and I tried. I really, really tried.”

Travis didn’t say anything. Just stood there, eyes glossy, lips pressed tight like he was holding something back.

Natalie’s voice dropped. “But maybe you don’t want to be loved by me. Maybe you want to be the guy who saves me from myself. And when I don’t fall apart in your arms, that makes me broken in a way you don’t know how to fix.”

He looked like he might break, right then and there.

But she was already stepping away. Already pulling on her hoodie, grabbing her keys.

“You don’t have to chase me,” she said, hand on the knob. “I’m not walking out because I don’t care. I’m walking out because I’m tired of proving that I do.”

She opened the door, and the summer night met her with warm air and silence.

Natalie was halfway through the doorway when Travis finally found his voice again—shaky, caught somewhere between a plea and a defense.

“Don’t do that. Don’t walk away like you always do.”

She froze, one foot over the threshold, her knuckles whitening around her keys.

Slowly, she turned back toward him, eyes burning. “Like I always do?”

Travis stood still across the room, arms limp at his sides now, but his eyes were sharp. “Yeah. That’s your move, right? When it gets too real, when someone actually pushes back, you throw your hands up and bolt.”

“You’re not pushing back, Travis,” she snapped. “You’re throwing my past in my face like it’s ammunition—like it disqualifies me from being loved the way you think I should be.”

“I’m trying to talk to you, Natalie. For once. I’m trying to fucking talk to you and not pretend everything’s fine while we sleep with our backs to each other every night.”

“I didn’t pretend,” she said, her voice breaking around the edges now. “I waited. I waited for you to say something. To show me that you still wanted this. But you didn’t, so don’t turn this around like I’m the one who shut down.”

Travis rubbed the back of his neck and turned away for a second, pacing toward the window. “You make it impossible to talk to you when you’re like this.”

“Like what? Pissed off that you ambushed me with some half-baked guilt trip about shit I can’t take back?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh, still facing the window. “Jesus.”

She bristled. “Don’t fucking laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” he said quietly. “I’m just—” He turned around slowly, his expression pulled tight, his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something cruel but didn’t trust himself to. “I’m just tired, Nat.”

She took a step closer, eyes wide, breath shallow. “You think I’m not? You think I haven’t been dragging this dying thing around like a leash, trying to pretend it’s still a goddamn relationship?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes darted toward her, then away again.

“Look at me,” she said.

Still, he didn’t.

“You can’t even look at me,” she whispered. “Because deep down, you know I’m right. You’re mad at me for the people I slept with, but the truth is, you never trusted me. You liked the idea of me, and then you resented me for not being some version of myself you built in your head.”

“I never asked you to be anyone else.”

“Yes, you did,” she shot back. “You just weren’t honest about it.”

He scoffed—soft, bitter—and crossed his arms, hugging them close to his chest. “No. You just don’t like when someone finally holds a mirror up to you.”

Natalie’s jaw clenched. Something in her snapped right then—not loud, not violent. Just final.

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” she said, voice shaking.

“I know enough,” he muttered.

Her heart thudded once, hard, in her chest.

And that was it.

She stepped back toward the door, grabbing the handle. “I can’t do this with you, Travis. I won’t.”

“Natalie—”

“No,” she said sharply, not turning back this time. “I’m not gonna stand here and beg you to see me for who I am. If you can’t, then that’s your problem. Not mine.”

He stayed still. Shoulders locked up, face stony, like whatever softness had existed between them was now buried under miles of disappointment.

And Natalie didn’t wait for another word.

She yanked the door open and stepped out into the warm, suffocating night, the screen slapping shut behind her.

No footsteps followed.

No apologies.

No last-minute reach for her hand.

Just the hum of the fan still going inside, and the sound of her own breath as she walked down the stairs, fists clenched, fury and heartbreak burning like fire in her chest.

It was almost two in the morning when the knock came.

Quiet, almost uncertain—three soft raps against the wood. But you felt it in your chest like a signal. Like a feeling you’d been waiting on all night without knowing why.

When you opened the door, Natalie stood there in the faint yellow glow of the hallway light, hoodie pulled up over her head and sleeves stretched long over her hands. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glassy and swollen from crying, though she was clearly trying not to show it. You didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped back, holding the door open wide.

She didn’t hesitate.

She walked in with the kind of silence that spoke louder than any words, shoulders slightly hunched like the weight of the entire night was pressing into her spine. You closed the door quietly behind her, locking it out of habit, then followed her to the kitchen.

You knew this version of her. Not the firestarter, not the loudmouth, not the untouchable girl who never needed anything from anyone. This version of Natalie—quiet, frayed at the edges, skin pulled too tight over her grief—only ever showed herself to the few people she really trusted.

And you were one of them.

Always had been. Since long before Travis came into the picture.

She didn’t even need to ask—you pulled out the stool at the kitchen counter, and she climbed up onto it like it was the only stable ground left in her life. You moved quietly, grabbing a clean glass from the cabinet, filling it from the tap. Your eyes flicked to her every few seconds, just to make sure she was still holding it together.

But the truth was, she wasn’t.

She looked like someone trying not to fall apart in a stranger’s home—even though she’d sat in that exact stool a hundred times before. She rubbed at her face like she was trying to scrub the evidence away, hands trembling slightly as she curled her fingers around the cold glass you placed in front of her.

You leaned against the counter, close but not crowding her. “How bad?”

She gave a half-shrug, eyes downcast. “Bad enough that I don’t think we’ll come back from it.”

You nodded, slowly. No judgment. No assumptions. Just listening. That’s what she needed right now.

Natalie drew in a shaky breath, exhaled slowly, her fingers pressing to her brow. “It’s been coming for a while,” she said, voice scratchy and raw. “We’ve just… been avoiding it. Pretending like things were still working even though we both knew they weren’t.”

You didn’t interrupt. Just watched her. Let her keep going.

“I loved him,” she said softly. “God, I fucking loved him. And I thought—maybe that would be enough. Maybe we could figure out the rest if we just kept trying.”

Her shoulders slumped forward. Her voice grew quieter.

“But we weren’t really trying anymore. Not really. We were just coexisting. Walking around each other like we were afraid to say the wrong thing. Holding our breath all the time.”

You swallowed hard, heart tightening at the way her voice trembled.

“Even tonight—it didn’t start as a fight. He just said something, and I wasn’t expecting it. It was like he’d been waiting for the chance to make me feel small. Like he wanted to see me flinch.”

You crossed the space between you and set a hand gently over hers. She didn’t pull away. If anything, her fingers curled toward your palm.

“I don’t think he ever forgave me for not being who he imagined I was,” she murmured. “He kept saying we were equals, that we were friends first. But the second we argued, it was like he pulled rank. Like he wanted to remind me of all the reasons he thought I was lucky to have him.”

Your jaw tightened at that—but still, you didn’t say what you wanted to. Didn’t tell her how you’d seen this coming. How you always knew Travis had a way of loving people when they were easy to hold, but not when they were messy, scared, or hurting. That could wait. That wasn’t what she needed tonight.

“I tried to be good to him,” she said. “Even when he shut down. Even when he iced me out for days. I tried to be patient. I wanted to love him the right way.”

You squeezed her hand gently. “You did.”

She blinked quickly, like she might finally cry.

“I want to cry,” she whispered. “I want to just fucking sob. But I’ve already wasted so many tears on someone who could never see past my flaws. And if I start now, I don’t think I’ll stop.”

Her voice cracked at the end of it, and your heart twisted. You reached up and pushed her hoodie back gently from her face, brushing a thumb just beneath her eye.

“You don’t have to cry,” you said. “Not if you’re not ready. But if you do… I’ll be right here.”

She looked at you, really looked at you—for the first time that night. Her bottom lip trembled, and she gave the smallest nod. Her eyes brimmed again, but she blinked them clear.

“I don’t want to be alone,” she said, so quietly it was almost a breath.

“You’re not,” you told her. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

You watched as she looked down at your joined hands, gripping just a little tighter.

And even though the tears didn’t fall—not yet—you knew she was right there on the edge.

But for now, she had you.

And that was enough.

It was late—well past three—by the time Natalie’s breathing finally steadied.

Not asleep. You could tell that much just by the way her hands kept fidgeting in her lap, the way her eyes would drift to the window, then the ceiling, then back to the same spot on the wall like she was tracking something only she could see. But calmer, at least. Less frayed.

After she’d gotten up from the counter, you’d helped her wash her face, offered her a fresh towel, one of your old T-shirts to change into. She didn’t speak much during that—just nodded, moved quietly, her movements mechanical. She kept brushing her hair back behind her ears even though it wasn’t in her face, like she needed something to do with her hands.

You stood outside the bathroom while she changed, leaning against the wall, listening to the soft rustle of fabric. When she opened the door again, she looked a little less like the wreck that had shown up at your door and a little more like the Natalie you’d always known. Still fragile, but less breakable.

“I made up the bed for you,” you told her softly, motioning toward your room. “Take it. Couch is all mine.”

She rolled her eyes faintly, just enough to hint at that old teasing spark. “Still the perfect host, huh?”

You gave a small smile, shrugging. “Can’t help it. My mom would kill me if I let a guest sleep on the couch.”

Natalie let out a breath, something like a half-laugh, and padded into your room. You followed a few minutes later after locking up, pulling the comforter off your bed to take to the couch, but she was sitting up now—legs curled under her, back resting against the headboard.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you for a long second.

Then, quiet but direct: “Can you stay?”

You turned in the doorway, hand still on the comforter. “What?”

She hesitated, looking down at her fingers. “Not like… I don’t mean it weird. I just—” Her voice faltered. “I don’t really trust where my head’s gonna go tonight. I’d just feel better if you were close. You don’t even have to—just the floor, the side of the bed, I don’t care.”

You nodded before she even finished. “Yeah. Of course.”

She relaxed slightly, shifting over to make space, and you returned the blanket to the bed, settling down on the edge nearest the floor. You didn’t climb in beside her—didn’t want to crowd her. Just sat on the edge, then slid down until you were seated on the floor, your back resting lightly against the side of the mattress.

The lamp stayed on for a while. Neither of you said anything. You could hear the faint buzz of the streetlights outside, the occasional car rolling by, the low hum of your building’s heater cycling off.

Eventually, Natalie laid back against the pillows, her arm tucked under her head. She wasn’t facing you, but her body curled subtly toward where you sat.

You thought she’d finally dozed off when you heard it—quiet, barely there, like someone breathing too carefully.

You heard the first few sniffles and didn’t hesitate.

The second her breath hitched—soft and uneven like she was trying to force it down—you moved without thinking. You rose from your spot on the floor and eased into the bed beside her, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight. She didn’t stop you. She didn’t even move. Just lay there, her back still to you, breathing quietly through the tail end of another crying spell.

You didn’t reach out. Not yet.

She was curled toward the far side of the bed, her hoodie sleeves still tugged down over her hands like armor. She stayed that way for a moment, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to want comfort, then—slowly—she turned to face you.

Even in the low amber wash of the nightstand lamp, you could see the evidence of every tear: red-rimmed eyes, a pale flush on her cheeks, tear tracks clinging to her jawline. She didn’t speak. Her eyes just met yours, and for a second it felt like the room got smaller—quieter. Like nothing else existed outside this bed.

So you were the one to speak first.

You didn’t bring up Travis. You didn’t mention what had happened hours earlier, or how broken she looked when she showed up at your door. You just let the silence pass gently before reaching into a memory you’d kept tucked away—one that still lived somewhere soft behind your ribs.

“Do you remember the state fair?” you asked quietly.

Her eyes flicked to yours, unsure. She didn’t say anything, just gave a barely-there nod.

You smiled faintly, eyes on the ceiling now, letting the memory warm your voice. “It was the end of summer. Taissa and Van were thinking of going to the state fair together and you and Travis were still together. So it was me… fifth-wheeling like a pro.”

Natalie let out the tiniest huff through her nose. Her eyes stayed on you, heavy with quiet attention.

“I remember you texting me that day,” you continued. “Asking if I wanted to come. Said the fair wasn’t worth going to unless I showed up. Thought you were joking.”

“I wasn’t,” Natalie murmured.

You looked at her—really looked at her for a moment—but didn’t let yourself linger too long on the shape of her mouth, or the way her eyes softened.

“Yeah, I figured that out by the end of the night,” you said, voice low, steady. “Travis dipped early. Got called in for a night shift or something. You were bummed, even if you didn’t say it out loud. But I promised you cotton candy, remember? Told you I’d win you the biggest stuffed animal there just to make up for it.”

Natalie’s lip twitched slightly. “You spent thirty bucks trying to knock over three milk bottles.”

“And didn’t knock down a single one,” you added, smirking.

“Still made the carny guy feel bad enough to give me the sloth anyway.”

“I was very persistent.”

She sniffed again, but this time it came with a ghost of a smile.

You let the quiet settle again, the weight between you shifting, something softer curling up in it.

“I remember how your hair looked that night,” you said, slower now. “You had the bleach fading out toward your roots. The blonde had gone kind of gold near the top, and I swear—under those dumb fair lights? You looked like you belonged to the night, as corny as that sounds.”

Natalie blinked, eyes wet again, but she didn’t look away.

“You were laughing at something Van said—something so stupid, I don’t even remember it. But you were sharing that Oreo fudge cake with me, fork in one hand, your other hand holding mine for balance while we leaned on that rickety railing near the Ferris wheel.”

Your throat tightened slightly, but you kept your voice even.

“I didn’t tell you then, but I don’t think I looked at anything else for the rest of the night. It’s one of those memories that just… stuck with me. That version of you. The joy in your face. How free you looked.” You paused, voice softer now. “It was the best part of that summer.”

Natalie’s breath hitched again. But she didn’t cry this time.

Instead, she whispered, “That was one of the best nights of my life.”

“I know,” you murmured.

She shifted closer then, barely enough to touch, her arm brushing yours beneath the blanket. Her voice was quiet, but sure.

“I only had that much fun because you were there.”

You didn’t respond right away.

Because even though you had always been her best friend—had always been the one to show up when she needed someone—there had always been something else too. Something unspoken that lived just beneath the surface, bubbling there in the warmth of memories, in the silent glances, in every almost-confession you’d swallowed back over the years. But she was with Travis then. And you weren’t the type to steal something that hadn’t been offered.

Even now, you stayed still, eyes on the ceiling, one breath at a time.

But you could feel her watching you.

You could feel the way her body tilted closer.

And even though you didn’t touch her yet, she didn’t move away.

She didn’t say anything when she shifted closer—just a soft rustle of the sheets, a subtle brush of cotton against skin. One second she was lying there beside you, still and quiet, and the next she was moving—slowly, deliberately, like she wasn’t sure what her body was doing but couldn’t stop it either.

Her cheek found the slope of your shoulder, settling into the warmth of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. A small, intimate thing. Something wordless.

You didn’t move at first. Just blinked, your heart catching in your chest, breath still. But then your hand lifted gently, finding her wrist where it laid across her body—just a light, careful touch. She folded into it like a sigh, her arms curling around your forearm, hugging it to her chest as she pressed further into you, seeking more comfort than space.

You could feel the tension then—something not quite sharp, not quite obvious. But rising.

You thought it might stop there. That maybe she’d fall asleep like that, wrapped around your arm, close but still tucked away in the safety of best-friend borders.

But it didn’t stop.

She moved again.

One leg shifted over yours. Then the other. And then—slowly, almost uncertainly—Natalie climbed into your lap.

Your breath hitched.

She sat above you now, knees pressed into the mattress on either side of your hips, hands ghosting at your shoulders. Her thighs bracketed your waist as she settled carefully into place, like testing the weight of it. The quiet gravity of it. Her hoodie hung loose off one shoulder, her eyes searching yours, wide and puffy and rimmed in pink.

You still hadn’t touched her—not beyond that one hand still curled around her wrist. Not until your palms lifted, hesitant, and found her hips. Your fingers rested there like they’d been waiting their whole life to remember that shape.

You didn’t speak. Neither did she.

Your thumb swept gently across the curve of her waist. Her breathing slowed—not calmer, but deeper, more purposeful. She was still crying, barely. Quiet streaks down her face. But her gaze never wavered from yours.

Then, softly, she spoke again—her voice no longer trembling, just low, reverent. “That night at the fair…”

You blinked slowly, your eyes never leaving hers. “Yeah?”

She nodded faintly, her hands lightly resting against your chest now. “That last ride. The Ferris wheel. You remember?”

You swallowed. “Of course.”

“I wanted to kiss you,” she whispered. “At the very top. Right when the air got quiet and it felt like we were the only two people in the whole damn world.”

Your fingers tightened slightly at her hips, but you didn’t speak.

“I wanted to feel what it was like to be loved by you. Even for a second,” she murmured. “Because you always made me feel that way. Like I was seen. Held without asking.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

She continued, voice hoarse now, worn from the night, but unshakably clear: “Travis didn’t look at me like that. Not even when things were good. But you—” she broke off for a second, then found it again. “You never needed a reason to love me.”

You shifted beneath her just enough to sit up straighter, eyes wide, heart loud in your ears.

“Natalie,” you said quietly. “You just got out of something. I didn’t bring that up tonight to… to get in your pants. That’s not—”

“I know,” she interrupted, not harshly. Just certain. “I know. That’s why I came here.”

Your lips parted slightly, words caught behind your teeth.

She leaned in then, so close you could feel the heat of her breath against your cheek. Her hands slid up to the sides of your neck, feather-light, as if afraid to hold too tight.

“I trust you,” she whispered. “I want this.”

Her forehead touched yours. You closed your eyes.

The pause stretched out like a held breath. Like the world balanced itself on this one moment, waiting.

“Yes,” you murmured finally. “If you’re sure… yes.”

And then she kissed you.

She kissed you like she’d been holding her breath for years.

Feverish—but not rushed. Slow, like she was tracing the shape of you with her mouth, learning the rhythm, memorizing every soft give, every pull, every exhale between kisses like it meant something. And it did.

Her lips moved against yours with intent, unspoken but loud in every way that mattered. There was something trembling beneath it—grief, want, relief—something sharp and sacred that burned through the quiet.

Your hands stayed steady at her hips, thumbs brushing up beneath the hem of her borrowed T-shirt as if to ground her, to remind her you were there and not going anywhere. You kissed her back with that same depth, with that same quiet ache. But when you felt the slight hitch in her breath, the subtle shudder of her chest pressed to yours—you pulled back just enough to look.

Fresh tears.

She didn’t try to hide them. They slid down her cheeks freely, mixing between the soft edges of your kiss, catching at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were squeezed shut, brows pinched together like something inside her cracked too wide to hold in.

“I’m—” she tried to breathe the word into your mouth, tried to apologize between the sob breaking up in her throat.

But you shook your head gently, cupping her jaw, and pulled her close again—closer this time, until her face was tucked into the curve of your neck.

And that was when she broke.

Not from guilt. Not from regret.

She sobbed like her body couldn’t hold the weight of it anymore—like she’d been trying to stay upright all night, and now that she was finally being held, the dam burst clean through. Her arms folded around your shoulders, locking tight, her chest heaving as she wept into your skin.

You didn’t let go. Not once.

You held her like something sacred, like she was something precious and wrecked and beautiful all at once. Your hand cradled the back of her head, your other arm wound tightly around her waist, anchoring her to you as she clung on like you were the only thing keeping her from floating away.

The scent of her—shampoo and salt, the faint warmth of your T-shirt wrapped around her frame—filled the space between you. Her skin was warm, her breathing staggered. You could feel every part of her pressed into you: the bend of her legs on either side of your hips, the trembling grip at the nape of your neck, the way her mouth brushed your collarbone with every sob.

You pressed a soft kiss just below her ear. Then another to her temple. Then to the damp skin near her cheekbone.

“Shhh,” you whispered, lips against her skin, voice steady, patient. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

She held tighter.

Another kiss. Another breath drawn deep into your chest. You could feel her pulse racing against yours, a rhythm shared, vulnerable and raw.

“It’s alright,” you murmured again. “I’m right here.”

She didn’t say anything back—not with words—but the way she melted further into you, the way her fingers fisted the back of your shirt, the way she let herself cry without apology—it all said enough.

It was everything at once. The unraveling. The reckoning. The comfort.

You didn’t move. You just held her as long as she needed—her legs still curled around your waist, her face hidden in your neck, your fingers stroking through her hair in slow, calming lines.

And though the tears didn’t stop for a while, neither did your arms around her.

She’d come to you when she had nowhere else to go.

And you would’ve waited forever.

But tonight, she didn’t need waiting.

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.