⋆𝐀𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎

Lottie stands in the entryway like she’s not sure she’s allowed to move.

“Lot,” you say gently. “Come in. You’re scaring me.”

She exhales—long, shaky, and toes off her boots before finally walking into your tiny living room. She doesn’t sit. She just fidgets with the hem of her coat, eyes darting everywhere but your face.

“I owe you an apology,” she says suddenly.

You scrunch your face in confusion. “For what?”

“For earlier.” Her voice is thin, self-aware. “For the way I reacted when I saw Natalie’s name on your phone.” You step closer. “Lottie—”

“No.” She shakes her head, forcing herself to meet your eyes. “You should be allowed to have friends. You should be allowed to talk to anyone you want. I don’t get to control that. I don’t want to control that.” She swallows hard. “I know I came off… intense. Too intense.”

Your chest aches. “You were jealous. It happens.”

“It’s not just jealousy.” Her voice cracks on the edges. “That’s what I’m trying to explain.”

You wait. Patient. Soft. Lottie rubs her palms over her face, then lets them drop, looking exhausted and vulnerable in a way she never lets anyone see.

“I’m scared,” she admits quietly.

That does something to you. Something deep.

She takes a shaky breath, then goes on “You and I… this wasn’t supposed to happen. I didn’t plan it, I didn’t expect it—and now that it’s happening, it feels like—” her voice wavers, “—like I’m finally getting something I didn’t think I was allowed to have.”

Your pulse thuds.

“And Natalie…” Lottie’s throat works around the name. “She’s your past. She knows you. She had you. She… mattered to you in ways I’m still learning. And that scares me.” She looks down at her hands. “You’re someone I don’t want to lose. And the thought of being second in your heart—”

Her voice breaks and she looks away. “—it terrifies me.”

Silence. Heavy, aching, full of the truth she’s finally let herself say. She squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have acted like that. I just… I care about you. So much. More than I know what to do with.”Her breathing wavers.

“But if you want space, or if you need—whatever you need—I’ll back off. Just tell me.” She stands there trembling slightly, waiting for whatever comes next.

You don’t even realize you’ve moved until your hands are already on her, one sliding to her waist, the other cupping her jaw with aching gentleness, guiding her face up to yours.

Her breath stutters, the way it always does when she’s caught off guard by softness.

“Oh, honey…” you whisper, the words melting out of you.

Lottie’s eyes flutter shut like she’s bracing for heartbreak. You tip her chin so she has to look at you. “Come here,” you murmur, stepping close enough that your foreheads touch, your thumbs brushing her cheekbones.

“Look at me.” She does. Barely. But enough. “I want you,” you say quietly, each word deliberate. “I want you, Lottie. Not out of convenience. Not because you’re here. Not because of anything Natalie does or doesn’t do.”

Lottie’s lips part, her breath shaky.

“Natalie…” you continue softly, “was important to me. But in the way a chapter of my life was important. Something that shaped who I am.” You shake your head gently. “She’s an event. Something that happened.” Your thumb traces the corner of Lottie’s mouth.

“But you?” Your voice lowers. Warmer. Steadier. “You’re not an event. You’re not a moment. You’re not something to get past or look back on.”

You lean in closer, heart pressed against her chest, your words right against her lips. “What I have with you is a whole book. One I want to keep writing. Keep reading. Keep holding.” Your fingers slide into her hair, grounding her. “I feel so strongly for you, Lot. So deeply. And it’s for you. Only you.”

Her breath shudders, half-relief, half-disbelief, and her hands come up to your wrists, holding onto you like she needs the contact to stay standing. “You mean that?” she whispers, fragile.

You nod, brushing your nose against hers. “I mean every word.”

Lottie’s eyes go glassy, hopeful, overwhelmed, undone in the softest way, and she exhales like she’s finally letting go of something that’s been clenching inside her for years. Lottie doesn’t hesitate this time, she folds straight into you, collapsing into the hug like she’s been waiting her whole life for someone to hold her this way. Her arms loop around your waist, then cinch tighter, tighter still, like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she loosens even a little.

You hold her just as fiercely, pressing your cheek to the crown of her head. You sway with her, slowly, instinctively, your fingers tracing circles on her back while she melts against you, all trembling breath and soft, shaky exhales. “I’ve got you,” you whisper into her hair.

And she believes it. You feel the exact moment her weight gives, the moment her muscles unspool and she lets herself rest entirely in your arms. She nuzzles into your neck, lips grazing your skin in a barely-there brush that feels like gratitude and surrender.

You tighten your arms around her. She melts even further. After a long, quiet moment, Lottie still clinging to you like you’re the only safe place she knows, you press a gentle kiss to her temple.

“Hey…” you murmur against her skin, a smile curling into the softness of the moment, “how about we stay in tonight?”

She pulls back just enough to blink up at you, cheeks flushed, lashes still damp. “Stay in?” she echoes, voice small and hopeful.

You nod, brushing your thumb across her cheek. “Yeah. Just us. No calls. No work. No stress. We could… I don’t know—make popcorn? Steal all the blankets? Pick the cheesiest movie we can find?” A tiny, shy smile spreads over her lips. “A movie night?”

“Mm-hm.” You tap her nose playfully. “A very domestic, very cuddly, very no-pressure movie night.” Lottie beams, an unguarded, full-bodied kind of happiness that hits you in the chest. “I would love that,” she whispers. Your heart flips. “Yeah?” She nods quickly, leaning in to kiss your jaw, soft and grateful. “Just you and me all night? That sounds perfect.”

You take her hand and lead her deeper into the apartment, flicking on the warm living room lights. “Perfect,” you echo, tugging her close again. “And I’m not letting you out of my arms once the movie starts.”

Lottie smiles like she’s already home. You end up ordering takeout because neither of you has the emotional strength to cook after a day like this. Lottie scrolls for two seconds before mumbling, “I want noodles,” and you nod instantly because honestly? Same.

While you wait for the delivery, you make popcorn, poorly, because you forget about it while Lottie hugs you from behind, chin on your shoulder, mumbling things like you smell nice and I like when you wear this sweater. Half the kernels burn, but she just snatches a handful, eats around the scorched bits, and says it's “artisan.”

You both settle on the couch with blankets piled high, takeout containers stacked around you, and the movie humming in the background, not that either of you is actually watching. Lottie keeps sneaking glances at you, those soft, full-of-you glances, like she can’t quite believe she gets to sit this close.

At some point, her arm drapes across your middle. Then her fingers begin tracing idle circles through your shirt. Harmless. Sweet. Familiar. Until she leans in…just slightly, and presses a kiss to the side of your neck. It’s gentle. Barely there.

But your breath catches anyway. Lottie feels it. You know she does, because she kisses you again. Slower this time. More pressure. Lips lingering. You turn your head a fraction, and Lottie’s lips brush your jaw.

Then stay there. Warm. Soft. Wanting. She whispers, “You smell so good,” against your skin, and the way her mouth moves when she says it sends heat licking down your spine. You’re not sure who moves first, maybe you do, maybe she does, but suddenly her hand is cupping your cheek and she’s kissing you.

Not soft.

Not tentative.

Hungry.

Her lips part against yours like she’s been holding back for hours, maybe days, maybe longer. The kiss is deep and warm and absolutely devastating, stealing your breath and giving it back sweeter.

You grab at her sweater, pulling her closer, and she climbs halfway into your lap without even realizing she’s doing it, one knee sinking into the couch cushion beside your hip. She kisses you like she can’t get close enough, like there’s something desperate she needs to say and this—this is the only language she knows how to speak it in.

Your fingers slip into her hair and she lets out a soft, helpless sound against your mouth, something between a sigh and a whimper, and it goes straight through you. The movie keeps playing in the background. Neither of you notices.

Or cares.

Lottie kisses you again, deeper, her forehead pressed to yours as she pants softly against your lips. Her voice is breathless when she finally manages to whisper, “I love being here with you.” Then she kisses you again, slow this time, reverent, like the passion didn’t fade, just sharpened into something even more intimate. And the couch becomes its own little universe.

“YOU WANT TO MARRY HER???” Laura Lee’s scream actually rattles the damn lamp. Lottie groans and immediately buries her flaming face in her hands. “Oh my god, Laura, please don’t say it like that.”

“No. No, I will say it like that.” Laura Lee is practically bouncing in place, pointing at Lottie like she just discovered a rare animal in the wild. “Because YOU—Charlotte ‘Marriage-Is-a-Social-Construct’ Matthews—wants to MARRY someone?!”

Lottie flops back on the couch like she’s been shot. “I know,” she whimpers. “I know. I’m freaking out. I’ve never wanted marriage. Ever.”

“Exactly!!” Laura Lee dramatically drops onto the armchair like she’s fainting. “You don’t even like labels unless they’re Michelin stars.”

Lottie sputters. “That’s not—okay, maybe! But this is—this is different.” Laura leans in, eyes wide. “Lottie. Sweetie. Did you…actually buy a ring?” Lottie lifts her hands off her face just enough to reveal mortified eyes. Laura gasps. “YOU DID.”

“I—” Lottie squeaks, then gives up and nods helplessly. “Yes. I did.”

“WHEN?”

“Last night.”

“LAST NIGHT?!”

“I SAID I KNOW!” Lottie yells into a pillow, kicking her feet like she’s having a tantrum. “It just—she fell asleep in my arms and she looked so—so soft and peaceful and perfect and I just—something happened to me, Laura. My brain short-circuited. I had HEART FEELINGS.”

Laura is screaming again. “Oh my GOD this is HUGE. LOTTIE YOU’RE IN LOVE. LIKE ACTUAL, PHYSICALLY UNDENIABLE LOVE. This is—this is HISTORIC.”

Lottie groans louder, dragging the pillow over her face like she wants to suffocate herself. “I know I’m in love! That’s the problem! I’m acting like a crazy person.”

“You bought a ring within a month,” Laura says reverently. “That’s not crazy. That’s…rom-com insane.” Then she grins. “I’m kind of obsessed with it.”

Lottie lets out the saddest whine known to mankind. “And she’s going to California soon,” Lottie mumbles, muffled under the pillow. “For her friends’ engagement. And I keep thinking—what if—what if I asked? Or—not asked-but I don’t know! Said SOMETHING. Something real. Something big.”

Laura freezes. Her face slowly morphs into OH GOD. “Lottie.”

Lottie peeks out, eyes huge, panicked. “Be honest with me,” she whispers. “Is it too soon? It’s too soon, right? Oh god I’m a psychopath.”

Laura puts both hands on her shoulders and shakes her gently. “Okay. One: yes, it’s too soon. Two: yes, you are a psychopath. Three: you’re in love and it’s adorable.”

Lottie groans again and slumps forward, forehead against Laura’s knees. “What am I gonna do?”

“Not propose!” Laura squeals immediately. “Not until at least—like—six months. Minimum.”

“But I WANT TO,” Lottie whines, sounding genuinely betrayed by her own heart. “She makes me feel like—like I want forever. I’ve never wanted forever.”

Laura pats her head. “I know, babe. I know. But maybe wait until you’ve had more than two sleepovers before you propose, okay?”

Lottie just whimpers again because honestly? She’s not even sure she can wait that long. Laura hasn’t even recovered from the ring confession when Lottie suddenly sits up straighter, eyes wide, hands flailing with manic energy. “Okay but—just listen,” Lottie blurts out. “I have thought this through.”

Laura freezes. “Oh no.”

“No—seriously. Hear me out. There’s a spot in California—like five minutes from where she’s staying—this cliffside overlook with ocean views? I saw it in a brochure once. And she told me the stars out there are insane. Like, actually beautiful.” Lottie’s hands are moving now, wildly, like she’s pitching a business plan to investors. “So I could have my assistant rent it out for a night.”

Laura’s eyes grow so wide they practically squeak. “Lottie…”

“And then," Lottie continues, steamrolling, "I could book an Airbnb nearby. Something cozy, something with a fireplace. She invited me to come, so it wouldn't be weird. And I could have my team fly her family out—Van, Tai, Travis, literally everyone she loves—for a party after. Not a reception, not a wedding—just a…celebration.”

Laura’s jaw drops so far she might need a chiropractor. “LOTTIE. CHARLOTTE MATTHEWS. WHAT THE HELL.”

But Lottie is nodding earnestly, like this is the most reasonable idea she’s ever had. “And I could rent like—like a string quartet? Or a guitarist? She likes that indie acoustic vibe—”

“STOP.” Laura grabs both sides of Lottie’s face. “STOP THIS RIGHT NOW.”

Lottie blinks at her, confused. “What?”

“You—you—YOU HAVE A FULL PROPOSAL EVENT PLANNED,” Laura sputters, waving her arms like she’s trying to dispel smoke. “A VENUE? A GUEST LIST? LIVE MUSIC?? LOTTIE YOU’RE MAKING SPREADSHEETS IN YOUR HEAD.”

Lottie bites her lip. Shrugs. Looks at her hands like they betrayed her. “I know,” she whispers.

“‘I know,’ she says,” Laura mocks, pacing now. “Oh my god. Oh my GOD. You are DEEP in it. You’re like—submerged. You’ve drowned. You’ve hit rock bottom. This is love-love. Like clinically concerning love.”

Lottie’s voice cracks a little. “I just…want it to be perfect. She deserves perfect.”

Laura stops dead. Softens. But only slightly. “Okay, that was cute—but still insane.” She sits next to Lottie again, gripping her shoulders. “You cannot—cannot—propose after a few weeks.”

Lottie nods… then hesitates. “But what if—”

“NO.”

Lottie pouts like a chastised golden retriever. Laura groans. “Jesus Christ, you’re hopeless.”

Lottie mumbles into her hands, “I love her.” Laura pats her head again like she’s soothing a startled deer. “I know you do, baby. We all know you do. The entire state of New York knows. But let’s—just maybe—wait until month three before booking a cliffside engagement party, okay?”

Lottie sighs dramatically. “Fine.”

Laura eyes her suspiciously. “You promise?”

“…Define promise.”

“LOTTIE!!!”

Laura exhales so hard it sounds like she’s deflating. She sits back down beside Lottie and squeezes her knee. “Okay. Okay. How about this,” she says, like she’s speaking to a skittish woodland creature who just tried to sprint into traffic. “Wait until after the California trip. If all goes well—then you can start planning. Soft planning,” she adds sharply, pointing a warning finger. “Not booking-venues planning. Just thinking. Quietly. In your head.”

Lottie chews her lip, thinking it over like it’s a complex corporate acquisition. “After California,” she repeats softly.

“Yes,” Laura nods. “AFTER. And besides, you haven’t even met her family yet. That’s huge. You need to see how that goes.”

Lottie’s shoulders slump a little. “…It’s true,” she murmurs. “I can wait until then.”

Laura beams like she’s won a minor war. “Good. See? Totally reasonable—” But Lottie suddenly frowns. Hard. Her whole face scrunches as something very alarming occurs to her.

“Wait.” Lottie pauses for a beat. “Oh no.”

Laura tenses. “What?”

Lottie drags her hands down her face. “I don’t want her to meet my dad.”

Laura’s whole soul leaves her body. “Oh. Oh. Right.” She winces. “Yeah…that is…that’s a different beast. That’s like introducing someone to a rattlesnake wearing a suit.”

Lottie groans into her palms. “He’s going to scare her away. He scares everyone away.”

“True,” Laura agrees immediately. “But also—she’s tough. She survived culinary school. She survived YOU.”

Lottie glares half-heartedly. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m trying!” Laura stresses. “But…look. Meeting someone’s dad is a big deal. But meeting your dad is…” She shrugs. “A form of psychological hazing.”

Lottie looks truly stricken. “I just—I don’t want him anywhere near her. I want her to like my family. But he’s—he’s him.”

Laura softens again. “Then we’ll plan around it. We’ll think of something. Maybe you introduce her to your Aunt first.”

Lottie nods, calmer now. “…Yeah. Aunt first. Definitely.”

“And hey,” Laura adds with a smirk, nudging her, “if she survives all that and still loves you? THEN you can start planning the cliffside indie-music ring extravaganza.”

Lottie lets out a tiny, hopeful smile. “Okay,” she whispers. “California first. Aunt second. Proposal… later.” Laura pats her knee. “Good. God. Thank you.”

But Lottie’s eyes are distant now, soft, lovesick, already picturing it. “She’s going to look so pretty under those stars,” she murmurs, lost in the fantasy again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” Lottie said.

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

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

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

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

You crouched, scooping her up and pressing a kiss into her hair. “Hey, bug. You ready for our week?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

courtney eaton ⟶ 𝓬harlotte ‘𝓵ottie’ 𝓶atthews

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

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

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

sophie nélisse ⟶ 𝓼hauna 𝓼hipman

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

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

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

ella purnell ⟶ 𝓳aqueline ‘𝓳ackie’ 𝓽aylor

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

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

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

sophie thatcher ⟶ 𝓷atalie 𝓼catorccio

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

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

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

jasmin savoy brown ⟶ 𝓽aissa 𝓽urner

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

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

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

liv hewson ⟶ 𝓿anessa ‘𝓿an’ 𝓹almer

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

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

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

kevin alves ⟶ 𝓽ravis 𝓶artinez

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

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

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

samantha hanratty ⟶ 𝓶isty 𝓺uigley

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

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

alexa barajas ⟶ 𝓶ari 𝓲barra

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

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

jane widdop ⟶ 𝓵aura 𝓵ee 𝓹atterson

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

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

jenna burgess ⟶ 𝓶elissa 𝓱ollis

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

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

nia sondaya ⟶ 𝓪kilah 𝓫anks

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

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

prologue. when sunday comes around.

i. black friday.

ii. mauvaise journée.

iii. family portrait.

iv. dream a little dream of me.

v. two houses.

MORE COMING SOON…

The next morning, you arrive at Jackie's sidewalk five whole minutes late. You don't do it on purpose, you just lose track of time. She's standing outside, impatient, her long hair perfectly straight, her makeup flawless. She's holding a giant silver thermos and her cell phone the way all pretty girls do: flat in the palm of her hand, as if she's about to whisper gossip into the speaker at any moment. 

You expect a sarcastic comment about your tardiness, but Jackie remains silent as she opens the door. She puts the bags in the back seat and the thermos in your cup holder without asking permission. It feels invasive, especially in this confined, intimate space. A space you normally only share with those closest to you: my sisters, Lottie, or, more recently, Allie. 

You back into the garage and turn up the music to mask the awkward silence. Your nerves are on edge, waiting for her to say something. You notice when she clears her throat. The woody, sharp scent of her perfume makes you sniffle. 

When you turn onto the main road, you decide to break the silence. 

“Sorry I'm late.” You lean back in your seat, pretending to be at ease. “I hope it wasn't too much trouble.” 

She runs her hand through her hair. “It wasn't,” she says categorically. “I usually leave at 7:30. I said 7:25 because I knew you'd be late.” 

For a second, all you can do is stare at her. 

“Wait, what?” 

“Last year, you never arrived at History class before the second bell rang.” She looks at you. “No offense, just an observation.” 

Your blood boils. It's true that you were always late for our Advanced United States History class, but only because Allie's locker was next to the classroom and you hung out with her there until the last possible second. It's a reminder you didn't need so soon. 

“So what?” you snap. “Are you in charge of keeping track of when other people arrive?” 

Jackie laughs, relaxed. 

“It's so easy to annoy you.” 

You can imagine the impression you must have made on her by running into class every day. Did she see you with Allie last year? Did she see the cracks in that relationship before you did? Is that why she thought you were a sucker? A feeling of shame fills your chest. 

“I'm better at getting to European History class on time,” you say sharply. “But I guess you wouldn't know that, since you didn't get a spot in that class.” 

It's a very snobbish thing to say, but you want to annoy her and you don't have many cards up your sleeve. It seems to work, because she puts her phone aside and glares at you. 

“I got a spot in the class. I just didn't want to take it.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Oh, come on. European history? A class where you literally study how white men brought misery with the Crusades, colonization, and smallpox? And yet we don't have the budget to offer African history or Asian history. Fine. If that's the pinnacle of academic studies our school has to offer, I'll pass. Say what you will about Miss Bowles' regular Modern History class, but at least she tries to deconstruct this European hegemony thing, and that's a much better use of my time."

You can't think of anything to say in response, and not just because you're still trying to understand what hegemony means. Jackie takes a satisfied sip from the bottle and shakes her head. 

“But please, keep telling me how much smarter you are than me. It's not like I haven't heard it before. People love to assume they're better than you when you're ‘just a cheerleader,’ as if I'm not painfully aware of the complicated identity that comes with the sport I play.” 

“I never said I was smarter than you,” you reply, tense. 

She gives a dry laugh. 

“Okay. You implied it. But you were the one who was dumb enough to get carried away by Allie Goalie.” 

Your heart skips a beat. 

“What did you say?” 

She raises her eyebrows.

“Wasn't I clear enough?” 

You pull the car over to the side of the road. The vehicle behind you honks and passes you. Jackie looks at you as if you've gone crazy. 

“Let's get a few things straight.” You're so angry that your voice trembles. "One: in case you haven't noticed, giving you a ride to school is the last thing I want to do, so lower your shitty tone when you talk to me. Two: I may not have ratted you out yesterday, but I haven't forgotten your shitty prank with the siren, and I haven't forgiven you for it. Don't give me another reason to hate you. And three: never speak ill of Allie to me. Ever."

Jackie is breathing fast, her face contorted with rage. The scar on her eyebrow is visible. You would like to thank the person who put that scar there. 

“Understood,” she finally says, her chest swelling. “But if you're entitled to some rules, so am I. It's just one: never make any assumptions about me again.”

“Fine,” you grunt.

You return to the street and turn up the volume. You don't say another word for the rest of the ride.

When you pull into your usual spot in the veterans' parking lot, you notice with relief that Lottie's car is already there. You can't wait to get out and find her.

You're rushing to get out when something hits you: Jackie Taylor is about to get out of your car… in the middle of the veterans' parking lot… where you're surrounded by colleagues who know that the two of you go together about as well as a princess and a gremlin. People are definitely going to gossip.

Jackie gets out of the car first, slamming the door. You take a deep breath and open yours.

The moment you stand up, you can feel all eyes turning to you.

The stares come from everyone in the parking lot — from the band people and the potheads to the hipster Christians. Jackie's group of friends stare at you with their perfect haircuts and confident smiles, most of them laughing. They walk over to you while you grab your backpack and gym bag from the back seat.

“Yay, carpool day!” says Taissa, clapping her hands.

She is impossibly cheerful. Her DNA must be made of cupcakes.

“Whose fault was it?” Mari Ibarra approaches you. “Was it you, Taylor?”

Mari is hard to hate directly because he never says anything truly offensive, but he also never says anything nice. Right now, he has his phone in his hand, clearly photographing your car, laughing as if it's the funniest thing he's ever seen. You don't think you've spoken to her on another occasion.

“Funny you should be interested in that, Mari,” Jackie says calmly, “since you ran over the Brinkleys' mailbox last month.”

That shuts her up. The group bursts out laughing and Taissa pulls Jackie over to her side. You walk past them to the school entrance, feeling their eyes on your back. No one says anything directly to you.

“How's the car?” Lottie asks the moment you meet at your lockers. You didn't send any messages about it, but she must have heard because everyone was talking about it. She seems sympathetic, which means she's gotten over you playing badly last night. You grimace and accept the coffee she offers you, while she grabs the bag with a sliced apple you prepared for her this morning. You've been exchanging breakfasts like this since the first day of school.

“The rear end is all fucked up. But that's nothing compared to my ego.” You take a sip of coffee and cheer up. “Wow, second day in a row you've gotten the perfect balance of milk and coffee.”

“I told you I would,” says Lottie, smugly. Then her expression darkens. “I heard rumors about the other driver. I hope you wrecked her car.”

The good thing about Lottie is that she would never say something annoying like, “Why didn't you tell me?” You two aren't like that. After Allie dumped you, you couldn't even talk to your friends about it. It was Tori who sent Lottie a message, and within an hour, Lottie showed up at your house with a huge tub of chocolate ice cream. She let you sob for half an hour, and then she and her sisters organized a movie marathon starting with All About John, She's the Man, and a bunch of other classics.

Lottie has been your best friend since fifth grade. That same year, Lottie ran for class president with a political campaign in favor of the rights of people at the end of the alphabet. Everyone whose last name started with M or later voted for her, and when she won, you enjoyed a whole month of being first in roll call before the teachers got tired of it.

“Well, I did that. And now I have to give her a ride until her car is fixed," you say, stealing one of the apple slices. 

Lottie stares at you, horrified. 

“What?” 

“My mom arranged it when she found out we lived close by. She felt bad that Jackie was going to be without a car.” 

“That seems like a strange and cruel punishment.” 

"Cruel, strange, and completely in keeping with the year I'm having." Lottie ignores that last comment. You feel a pang of shame, knowing you sound pathetic. 

“We really need to talk to our moms about this meddling thing,” Lottie says. “Today, mine opened the bathroom door while I was showering because she had another idea for me to use in my college application essay. And you know what it was? How I'm a great big sister to Teddy. As if admissions counselors care about that.” 

Lottie and her seven-year-old brother, Dylan, were adopted. Lottie's mother is black, and her father is white. Her parents met at a ballroom dancing club in college. Seriously. Sometimes they spontaneously dance the tango when you're at her house. 

“Why is your mom so worried about this essay?” you ask, happy for the change of subject. 

“She's not.” Lottie busies herself with biting her thumbnail. “I'm worried, so she keeps an eye on me. Everything I've read says you should avoid talking about your life's mission and personal heroes because it's just cliché. It's better to share an anecdote that shows your personality. But like... what am I going to say?"

You close your closets and lean against them, thinking. It's a good way to escape your new reality. 

“You're one of the smartest people in our year,” you say to her. “You already know so much about the admissions process that you could probably run the entire guidance department if you wanted to. Just like you're in charge of our basketball team.” You freeze, realizing your response. “Wait a minute! You can tell the story of how you've been our coach!” 

No one asked Lottie to be the captain of our team. It's just that Coach Fernandez isn't a real coach — she's the computer science teacher who runs the robotics club. After your old coach retired last year, the school didn't bother to find anyone else to coach the girls' basketball team, so Fernandez agreed to be the Official Responsible Adult; otherwise, you would have lost the season. She shows up once or twice a week for practice, but other than that, she lets Lottie take care of everything. 

“It would be a great story,” you continue, excitedly. “You can be our fearless leader!” 

Lottie shudders as if a mosquito has landed on her. 

“No. That's bragging too much.” 

“Dude, the point of these college essays is to brag. Isn't that why you do all these things?” 

“I do these things because I'm an eternal perfectionist.” 

Lottie gives you a familiar look: the one she uses to deflect attention from herself. It makes you want to hug her and shake her at the same time, because she's as wonderful as she is determined to underestimate herself. It's as if she hides under a lampshade so no one can see how bright she shines. Even when she orchestrated a coup in fifth grade to reverse the alphabet — so that those of us who were always at the bottom of the list could be at the top — she switched places with you so you wouldn't have to be first. 

You try to think of another angle to explore in your essay when you are interrupted by two of your friends, Van Palmer and Natalie Scatorccio. They are best friends the way Lottie and you are best friends; They have lockers next to each other too.

“Look who's the center of attention,” Van says, putting an arm around your shoulder. 

You shiver, all thoughts of Lottie's problems forgotten. 

“Did you guys hear about it too?” 

“Some guys in the band were talking about it,” Natalie says. “They didn't know your real name, but we figured it was you because they described you as ‘the gay Gina Weasley.’” 

“Lovely,” you say with a scowl. “It's good to know I have such a powerful reputation.” 

“Better than the tow truck girl,” Van replies, and you punch him in the shoulder. You've been friends with them since freshman year. Van plays the role of your mascot, the Yellow Bee, which means he spends a lot of time jumping around and attacking people with his antennas. Natalie is a little shorter than Van, with a thin face and acne scars on her pale skin. Her thing is music. She's been in the school band for four years, and she's been trying to get auditions to get into a music conservatory in college. 

“What's new, Lottie?” Natalie asks. “I heard you played well last night.” 

Lottie shrugs and tries to strike a casual pose, but ends up tripping over her own locker. She's been acting weird around Natalie lately. Weird like hiding-secret-feelings weird. 

“Yeah, I played well.” She wrinkles her nose. “Better than you at mini golf, that's for sure.” 

Natalie puts one hand to her chest. 

“Wow. Low blow.” 

At that moment, Jackie and her entourage appear in the hallway. It's one of those subtle things where everyone around us continues to go about their business, but you know that everyone is paying attention to the popular crowd entering the room.

“There goes your friend,” Natalie says with a sigh. “She's getting ready for the back-to-school dance this weekend. Just another day in the life of a princess.” 

“And now she has y/n to drive the pumpkin carriage,” Van says, her eyes sparkling. 

Jackie doesn't look at you when she walks by, but you can feel other people staring at you, waiting for you to interact. You close your locker and try to pay attention to your friends' conversation, but it's as if an invisible string connects you to Jackie, and you're going to spend the whole day connected to her no matter what you do. 

Predictably, your day is filled with interruptions from gossips who want to know everything about the accident. You're amazed at how many people suddenly know your name — not just the other seniors, but the freshmen too. Some seem sincere when they ask if you're okay, but most bring it up because they want to talk about Jackie. 

“Are you guys, like, dating now?” asks one girl, her eyes wide. 

“Was she mad at you for wrecking her car?” whispers another. 

“Is it like giving a Kardashian a ride?” asks a cheeky freshman. 

“No,” you answer again and again. “I really don't care.” 

In fact, you don't see Jackie until the end of the day, when you have your last class together: Perspectives for the Future. It's a joke of a class, with a teacher who is a dead weight. Mrs. Scuttlebaum is a grumpy, sour old woman who wears the same tulip-print sweater over whatever she's wearing. Her smoker's emphysema makes listening to her lectures even worse.

When Lottie and you walk into the room, a bunch of girls, led by Mari, start laughing. 

“Hey, Taylor, your Uber's here!” 

“Can you take me to the party this weekend, y/n?” 

“Five stars, y/n, five stars!” 

You can feel your face burning, but you roll your eyes with a courage you don't feel. Jackie, however, crosses her legs and says: 

“I'd only give three stars.” 

The room howls with laughter. Jackie meets your gaze and smiles crookedly, almost as if she's sharing the joke with you. 

There is a moment of silence, and then you reply: 

“I wouldn't give any.” 

The room explodes in laughter again. Jackie tilts her head. She doesn't look angry, but you can't quite read her expression. You ignore her and take your notebook out of your backpack, until Scuttlebaum hisses and tells everyone to shut up. 

The most surprising thing happens at the end of the day, when you're on your way to basketball practice. Lottie and you are walking down the hallway when your phone plays a sound that makes you freeze. 

That ringtone belongs to only one person. 

At first, you can't figure out how you feel. I mean, you're shocked that Allie is texting you, especially after your conversation last night. But you also feel strangely validated. This is proof that she still cares about what you do. That she's thinking about you as much as you're thinking about her. 

“Don't answer it,” Lottie warns, but you ignore her. 

 And there it is, when you open the app, Mari's story is the first one that appears. It's a photo of you and Jackie getting out of the car. She looks carefree, and you look grumpy. The caption reads: Back to school queen in her new carriage!! Gina Weasley Gay is on fire! 

Great. You're so happy that everyone in your universe, including your ex-girlfriend, is seeing this... 

“Y/N,” Lottie warns in a tone that says don't answer. 

“I'll just say the bare minimum so she'll stop pestering me.” 

You don't want to tell her about the accident, even though she'll probably find out anyway. 

“That damn sociopath,” Lottie says, staring at her phone. “She's so manipulative. Just ignore her. You don't owe her an explanation.” 

You can tell Lottie is starting to get annoyed, so you put your phone in your pocket and keep walking. But when you get to the locker room, you take advantage of the chaos to grab it again. 

 You think that's the end of it, but then Allie sends one last message: 

And that's when you realize: Allie is jealous of your supposed friendship with Jackie. She felt threatened by the possibility that you might change — scared that you might be catapulted to popularity even faster than she was. The idea dazzles you. 

When you step onto the court, you're bouncing with excitement. You play as well as you used to — maybe even better. Your energy is contagious, and suddenly the whole team is giving it their all. 

You don't think you can get any better, but in the last ten minutes of practice, you do. The side doors open, and for the first time in your basketball career, you have a cheering section. Literally. Jackie brought her team to watch the game. 

You know she's not doing you any favors. She's only here because her practice is over and she wants to rush you. Still, it feels great to be validated with an audience, and your teammates feel the same way. 

“Are they really here for us?” Laura Lee asks. 

Melissa Hat, whom you've nicknamed Mel, shakes her head. 

“No, man. They're here because of her.” She turns to you, dazzled. “That car accident was the best thing you ever did.” 

The whole team looks at you, their mouths smiling with joy. And you feel like you're flying close to the sun. 

“Let's do the hot dog play,” Lottie says, smiling crookedly. She passes you the ball, and you hesitate, realizing the gift she's giving you.

 “Really?” 

“Make it fly, dude.” 

You make the play with palpable rhythm. You run across the court, and when Mel passes you the ball, you shoot it through the hoop with a perfect jump. 

The girls in the stands erupt. Taissa lets out a real scream. Lottie looks at you as if you've just found money on the ground. 

“Give Jackie a ride for as long as you can,” she whispers, a twinkle in her eye. 

And for the first time, you don't think that's a bad idea.

🏷️ @moesthoughts, @antlertruths, @driftstar

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.

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.