Chapter 2.

09:04, Monday, the 16th of April, 2028.

-----

Three days after Alys joined, I was in the dining room recovering from a tiring night shift. The only mercy of that kind of start time was the lack of customers; even the drunks had gone home by then. My body, though, hadn’t forgiven me. My hands still smelled faintly of oil no matter how much I scrubbed them.

I sat by the window with my receipt, eyelids heavy, watching rain crawl down the glass. Outside, the sky was a washed-out grey. It would rain later, too, according to the weather app.

A chair scraped softly across sticky tiles.

A now-familiar dragon lowered herself a pace away from me.

Alys had yet to adjust to the work. She moved with some control, but not ease. Everything was deliberate and slightly off. Still, the early rise didn’t seem to bother her. No dark bags beneath her eyes. No sagging posture.

That day, at least, she wore a different mask—black instead of the usual dark green. It sat snug across her lower jaw, looped behind her ears.

I wondered why she wore them.

To soften her face, or snout, or whatever it was called.

To avoid scaring people?

Were her teeth always visible otherwise?

I didn’t ask.

Aside from helping her at the kiosk then once, we’d exchanged little more than 'thank you' and 'excuse me'. Dragon or not, there was no reason to go further. The best way to treat someone different was to treat them the same as anyone else.

For me, that meant distance.

Which reminded me…

James Morris

> Grabbing drinks after. You need anything else for dinner?

Brie Bednarz

> Just gravy pls x.

Dinner that night would be good, I told myself, knee bouncing with excess nerves. We hadn’t had proper time together in longer than either of us liked. She had school. I had work. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was normal. Relationships weren’t supposed to feel effortless all the time. That was a lie people told themselves online and in stories.

My order number was shouted.

Two sausage and egg muffins. Three hash browns. Coke.

I ate in relative calm. At last with a moment to myself.

…

…At least until I realised Alys was staring at me.

Not glancing.

Staring. Heavy emphasis.

Her red eye and the clouded one were fixed on my mouth, sharp and slitted, far too focused. Long ears twitching. Wings slightly lifted from her sides. Tail curled upward behind her, alert.

I checked my face stealthily. No sauce. No crumbs.

“You okay?” I asked.

She flinched, scales darkening faintly along her cheeks. Caught.

“Yes,” she said quickly, sitting back. “I just noticed you were eating… eggs.” Her tail swished once before she looked down at it, and it stopped like an obedient mutt.

I blinked. Looked at my sandwich. Slightly burned but I was starving.

“Uh. Yeah…?”

She leaned forward and I felt my pulse quicken. Claws, fangs, hide I couldn’t pierce.

“Is- do you have a problem with eggs?” I asked, unsure where she was going.

“No. I love eggs.” She said, sounding almost sheepish. “But they are hard to find. Well guarded.”

I stared at the muffin again.

Well guarded?

Cheese. Ketchup. Standard issue.

“They’re pretty cheap,” I said. “And we get a discount.”

“Cheap?” Her head tilted sharply. “How?”

"...How? How what? How cheap?”

“How do I get it?”

There was a faint chirp at the end of her sentence -- bright, loud. It caught me off guard. I flicked my hand toward the kiosks. “Egg muffin.”

She got to her paws immediately.

The table wobbled. Her wings cut a small waft of air my way. Claws clicked on tile as she crossed the room in three long strides. I watched, more entertained than I should've, as she tapped at the screen with careful precision. One egg muffin added. Then two. Then three.

Then four- six. Sweet christ.

“Very good,” she murmured to herself. “Bargen wych… coin cost in… good deal.” She turned toward me.

“Yeah,” I said awkwardly. “Good deal.”

She returned – one table closer than before.

“Very good,” she repeated, almost to herself.

“…Yeah.”

I opened Notepad on my phone, just to occupy my hands. Turned off auto-correct.

Ren’Py script. A branching event that would, if all went to plan, not turn into a Yandere Dev tier mess of nested conditionals I’d regret later. I started adjusting dialogue flags.

“How long does it take them to ready the eggs?”

I didn’t look up. “Not sure. I’m usually on chicken batch or prep. I’m banned from the grill for some reason,” I said half-heartedly.

She made a small sound that might’ve been a scoff.

“I hate the grill,” she said.

That got my attention. Some emotion from her, at last.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

I shrugged. “I didn’t mind it. There’s a, uh, rhythm once you get into it. Not as easy as chicken, but it’s predictable, at least. Just busy.”

Her wings twitched. The small thumbs at the top flexed, brushing along her wing’s forearm as if steadying herself. It was off-putting, to me, just how much more her wings resembled hands than the sort a bat might have.

“I don't like rhythm that breaks the patty endlessly,” she said quietly.

Fair, I thought, though I remained silent, hoping the conversation was over.

My phone buzzed.

Brie again.

> What time you coming over?

I felt warmth creep up my neck. Shower first. Definitely shower.

James Morris.

> 6ish.

Brie Bednarz.

> ok x

I locked the screen.

Alys’ tray number was called.

She didn’t use the seat when she returned with her food. Instead, she lowered herself to the ground beside the table, tail coiling in a neat half-circle behind her. Big frame. Not especially tall, but dense. Muscle under scale. Old scars crossing newer ones.

Freaky.

I finished my Coke and stood, then waited, realisation setting in.

I’d never seen her eat. Not once had she removed the mask.

She swayed slightly, claws tapping lightly against tile as she arranged the six muffins in a small line.

Then she lifted a paw toward the mask.

Her ears swivelled.

She caught me looking.

The shift in posture was instant. Excitement drained into nerves. Wings pulled tighter. Paw paused mid-air.

“S-Sorry,” I said, an ashamed flush rising in my face. I didn’t know what I was apologising for exactly. Curiosity? Rudeness? The fact that I hadn’t looked away sooner?

I grabbed my bag and left before she could say or do anything else, heart in my ears, legs wobbly.

#

The pharmacy smelled faintly of antiseptic and flowers. I queued, rehearsing my explanation about surnames in case they challenged me again.

They didn’t. Small victories.

“Cheers,” I said, taking the small plastic bag with Sarah’s medication and slipping it into my old backpack. Outside, on my phone, I checked bus times.

Five minutes. Perfect.

I jogged, caught it just as the doors hissed shut, flashed my too-pricy pass, and collapsed into a seat near the back. The bus hummed forward.

I stared at my reflection in the window. Messy hair. Tired eyes. The faint red mark from where my cap usually pressed against my forehead.

I thought about the way Alys had frozen when I looked at her. How quickly joy had turned to anxiety. I hadn’t meant anything by it, and that was the problem. I never meant anything by most things. I told myself I treated her like anyone else.

But if Michael had stared like that, would I have thought twice?

Probably not.

The bus rattled over a pothole.

I thought about six egg muffins.

Well defended.

What did that even mean? Did eggs cost more where she’d grown up? Were they rationed? Guarded by actual… what? Security? I didn't know about the world she'd come from, even years later.

I imagined her breaking open one for the first time in years and felt something uncomfortable twist under my ribs.

And I’d stared like she was a zoo exhibit. A fascinating thing.

It was the longest bus ride I’d had in a while, and the creeping fear that Alys would tell a manager what I’d done gnawed at me. They were a protected people, a new hire, one with what amounted to a disability, given her paw.

Christ.

I couldn’t lose the job, much as I hated it. I didn't even know what I had without it.

#

Back home, I began my second job. Unpaid, naturally.

One of my sister’s socks laid abandoned in the hallway like a white flag. I picked it up. Another waited near the kitchen. A third had somehow made it beneath the coffee table. Hat trick.

Then… then an actual hat, dead and crumpled beside the radiator, one I didn’t remember buying her and couldn’t picture her wearing. I held it up for a second, turning it over as if it might explain itself to me, then tossed it onto the arm of the sofa.

She struggled with picking up after herself. That was the polite version. The truer one involved gravity, distraction, misaligned legs and a stubborn refusal to acknowledge that the floor was not a wardrobe. Whilst I sometimes got a pinch more resentful than I should have, I still helped.

That was the routine. Pick up. Straighten. Reset.

Made her food, helped into the shower, did everything mum used to do and dad should have. Ugh, ugly thoughts. They snuck in without asking.

I wiped at the underside of my nose with a thumb, chucked my coat onto the back of the sofa and kicked my trainers off against the boiler cupboard door in the flat’s narrow walkway. The door rattled in protest.

Hoovering was next; a clunky old thing I’d bought on credit and paid off barely months back. The last instalment had felt almost emotional. I dragged it from the cupboard, unwound the cord and set it streaking across the carpet. It whirred and rasped, sucking up the mac and cheese chunks Sarah had left fossilising near the armchair.

…she could’ve picked it up, I thought, exhaling slowly through my nose.

Done something.

The machine bumped against the skirting board, bitching. I manoeuvred it around the coffee table legs, beneath the radiator, into the corners where crumbs snuck off to die. When I finally clicked it off, the silence was so great I could the blood in my ears.

Hoovering done, I picked the sofa throwover up, shook it once and laid it down properly. Sat the cushions up. Aligned the coasters so they looked less like an accident.

The flat really wasn’t much. Miniscule, really. One bedroom for her, one for me, one living space that doubled as a kitchen, one that required you to turn sideways if anyone else existed.

There weren’t much furnishings, nor even much in the pantry.

But it was enough. The rent was paid and the lights worked. The boiler mostly behaved. Sarah didn’t leave her room much and I spent most of my time working, saving up for community college.

Or transport to community college.

Or whatever I made up that week to convince myself there was forward momentum.

Some future.

I put a pizza in the oven on as low a temperature as it could manage and laid clean clothes out onto the flimsy metal rack near the window. Socks paired up. Shirts shaken out. The smell of cheap detergent hung faint and fake in the air. We didn't own a dryer; we weren't millionaires.

“Sarah!” I shouted, purposefully sudden and loud.

It took a moment, and she was muffled through her door. “Yeah…?”

“Pizza in the oven. Get it out in like forty, right?”

“Okay.”

I trusted her – or maybe I didn’t care that much about a frozen pizza – to get it out before I finished in the shower.

In the small bathroom, the tiles cold underfoot, I brushed my teeth and swilled my mouth out with cool water. Stripped. Turned the shower dial to a not-quite-but-nearly boiling temperature. I’d spent the last few years getting burned by scalding oil; a little hot water was nothing. It was clean pain. Predictable.

And, when under the water.

I just… stood.

Steam collected upon the mirror. The fan whined overhead. Due to my sister's condition, we had a seat and railing bolted into the wall, cheap handles catching the light.

I liked standing, though. Felt at least a little more active. The strain in my legs always contrasted with the cascading water, something real to focus on besides the day.

Shower gel next. That cold against overheated skin. Blobs on a heavy sponge, worked into foam. Then three-in-one for my hair – the one thing I was at least a little egotistical about. I had my mum’s hair colour and I cherished that small victory, that one inherited trait that felt like a gift instead of a reminder.

After a while, I took a seat anyway, back to the tiles, knees bent. The water ran over my shoulders and down my spine.

Dinner with Brie, I thought.

I’d be cooking, she’d be on about her schoolmates, some show I half-watched but pretended to follow. I’d nod in the right places. She’d laugh at something I said and touch my arm like it was natural.

Bliss.

I shut my eyes and let the water drum against my skull.

…Sarah forgot her pizza because of course she did.

I finished in the shower quicker than I’d figured, so I took it out for her before it blackened completely, scrubbed a pizza cutter with a mostly clean tea towel and stole two slices for myself. Big brother privileges and all that jazz. Then I kicked on her door with the side of my foot.

“Retard, you let your pizza nearly burn.”

“You can't say that word! Only I can.”

I rolled my eyes, nudged the door open – she hadn’t locked it – with the toe of my socked foot and went back to the sofa, pizza and remote in hand. Normally I’d take a nap between shifts, but my mind was too active. Too busy. Plus I didn’t trust my dear sister to wake me in time.

Sarah her room eventually, long, dark hair falling over her face like a cheesy horror villain. She’d only been bothered to grab one crutch and whilst it would have been kinder to just hand her her food, I made her ‘work’ for it, shifting the plate just far enough she had to lean.

“Can you not buy crêpes or something?” she asked, plopping down and lazily lifting a slice of pepperoni pizza to her chapped lips. “Girl can only have so much morning pizza.”

I finished mine off quick, even after the heavy breakfast earlier, making sure not to mention I'd forgotten to get her anything.

“Yeah, my bad,” I said. “We’re actually out of eggs, milk and bread… and butter. I can, uh. Town trip Wednesday so I’ll grab a bunch of stuff. What do you want besides breakfast stuff?”

“No, you’ll forget if I tell you now.” She leaned over, head brushing the cushions, eyes on the television but not really watching. “How was work? Sad and depressing?” Envious, maybe a little, even with the grime.

“Pretty much.” I brushed my hair back, still faintly damp. “Oh! Wait. Shit. I’ve not mentioned Alys, have I?” Somehow, the literal mythical creature had slipped my mind.

Sarah scratched at her head, hair looking a little too greasy for my liking – mental note: shower later – and squinted at me. “A lease? What?”

“Dragon,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Works in the kitchen. Big wings.”

Her eyes widened a fraction. Not as dramatic as I’d expected. Then she cringed and laughed, loud and sudden. “Don’t say that to her. Wings are like, uhhhh.” Like the real lady she was, she poked herself in the chest with the crust of a pizza slice. “Tits.”

Grimacing, I asked, “How would you know that?”

“Internet,” she said easily. “I know a couple dragons. Wing envy.” She took another bite. “But is she doing alright? They’re not really made for kitchens.”

Fair point.

Work should have consulted her.

Or anyone, really. Why a kitchen?

“She’s alright.” A lie. “Not great at mopping.” And one truth. “...has a weird thing about eggs.”

Sarah raised a pierced brow. “Damn. James paying attention to someone other than himself.”

Oh.

Ouch.

Wow. fuck me.

She was tired and probably didn’t mean it like that. Still.

Suck it up.

“She is a literal dragon,” I said calmly, sitting back, pretending that hadn’t hurt. “Be harder not to.”

“How’d you know she likes eggs?”

“Cause she ordered six of them when I said she could get eggs cheap. Was all weird about it.” I brushed my hair again. “Said something about them being well defended. She's kinda weird, honestly.”

Sarah slid her phone out of her pyjama pockets and scrolled. “Probably a latecomer. Eggs are mad rare back home apparently, Krissy-baby mentioned something like that.”

“The hell is Krissy-baby?”

My sister chuckled, low and nasally. “Inside joke. She’s a gryphon.”

“…You actually need friends.”

“I have friends. You need friends.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“Barely.”

Barely??

You see, there were things about having siblings. Unspoken yet understood rules. 

The first of which was that you must always win arguments. Now this is fine, but it contrasts sharply with rule two, which is that there were certain things you never said. 

She’d edged it, and I nearly fired back something nasty before managing to calm myself.

“Will?” I tried, poking her in the side with my foot.

Her nose twitched and she grimaced visibly. “...Fine. You have one very annoying, loser friend.”

I grinned. “Common James win. Might go see him this week, actually.”

“Virgin.”

“Silence, tardlet. Accept the loss.”

She did, frowning all the while.

#

Five-thirty, and the sky couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. Not quite evening, not quite day. The light hung thin and shaky over the estate, weakening the brickwork into something flatter and duller.

I locked the flat behind me, tugged on the handle twice out of habit, and headed down the path toward the bus stop.

There were already people waiting.

A couple in gym gear stood shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing cheap wired earphones, laughing softly at something only they could hear. A woman in blue scrubs leaned against the glass shelter, eyes half-lidded, thumb dragging slowly over her phone screen.

Two lads in college hoodies shoved each other and barked out sharp, uncontained laughter over a video.

Everyone looked in motion. On their way to something. From something.

They existed.

The bus arrived with a metallic sigh. Doors folded open. I tapped my card, nodded at the driver, and moved down the aisle, choosing a seat near the back but not at the very rear – too high a chance of irritating kids.

As it pulled away, the glass caught my reflection.

For a split second, I looked at myself properly.

I looked… not bad.

Hair mussed up in a way that let its lightness shine, skin clear and yet my eyes looked nearly grey, expression dim and dull and tired.

I looked at myself and saw myself, at least in physical form, but not in…

I looked away, suddenly uncomfortable.

Outside, the streets slid by in slow, familiar strips. Corner shops. A takeaway with its lights already on. A group of kids kicking a football between parked cars. A dog dragging its owner down the pavement, big thing it was.

The couple in gym gear rested their foreheads together. The woman in scrubs closed her eyes, just for a second. The guys had moved on to arguing about something trivial and loud.

They all looked, maybe not happy, but… directed. Occupied. Mid-arc.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A message from Brie.

> Are you on your way?

James Morris.

> Yeah. The bus just left.

Brie Bednarz

> Good. Mum and Dad are out. Kitchen’s yours x

A small warmth bloomed low in my chest.

The bus jolted over a pothole, and for a moment the reflection caught me again in the darkened window – eyes slightly hollowed, mouth set in something that wasn’t quite neutral.

I’d made the trip hundreds of times back in school, backpacks slung over shoulders, complaining about teachers, exams, everything and nothing. The route was muscle memory. I could have timed it with my eyes closed. Sometimes we'd walked.

Past the off-licence, past the row of identical brick houses with satellite dishes like barnacles, over the small pedestrian bridge that always smelled faintly of rust and river water.

We’d met in high school. Same English class. She’d corrected my spelling once in front of everyone, and I’d hated her for a week before realising she was right. We’d started dating in sixth form, half out of boredom, half because it seemed inevitable.

Then the first year of college together. 

Same campus. Different courses. 

Her in education, me in… well. I’d never fully committed to what I was in.

I dropped out halfway through second term.

Money. Work hours. Sarah. Excuses that weren’t entirely excuses.

She’d stayed.

That was the difference.

I shifted my gaze back outside.

When my stop came, I pressed the button and stood, gripping the rail as the bus slowed. The doors opened with that same sigh. I stepped down into air that had cooled further.

Brie’s house sat three streets over from the stop that sold cheap Monster and never asked for ID. A semi-detached with a tidy hedge and a gate that always squeaked unless you lifted it first.

I lifted it.

It squeaked.

She opened the door before I could knock twice.

“You’re late,” she said automatically, though her mouth was already curving upward.

"Yeah,” I smiled for real. “By, like, three minutes.”

“Still counts.”

She stepped aside to let me in, and warmth enveloped me immediately. Not just temperature, something else. The smell of citrus surface cleaner layered over cooked onions and whatever Etsy candle she’d lit in the living room. Her house always smelled cared for.

She’d changed again since last week. Or maybe I just noticed more because I hadn't.

Her hair was cut sharp at the jaw, sleek and deliberate. She wore a fitted jumper that made her look older somehow, more settled in her skin. Glasses perched low on her small nose as she looked up at me.

“You look nice,” she said.

“So do you.”

She rolled her eyes lightly, but there was happiness there.

I handed her the small bag I’d brought. “Gravy. Check it.”

She laughed. “You actually remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.”

“And drinks?”

“In there.”

“Hero.”

She leaned up and kissed me. It started soft and familiar but lingered. Not rushed. Not distracted. I felt it sink into me, settle somewhere deeper than surface-level affection. When had we last touched?

“Kitchen?” I asked, pulling back.

"Kitchen", she confirmed, already turning.

Her parents were out. Dinner with friends, she’d said. The house felt bigger without them, the quiet fuller. I still missed them.

The kitchen lights were warm yellow, bouncing off clean counters. Ingredients were already laid out in careful order; chicken, peppers, onions, and garlic. She’d prepped.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” I said, shrugging off my jacket.

“I had lectures until four,” she replied. “Realised that if I chopped everything earlier, we wouldn’t be starving at seven.”

Lectures.

Plural.

I washed my hands at the sink, watching her reflection in the window as she perched on one of the stools. She tucked one leg beneath herself, posture easy, comfortable.

"What are we making that's your treat?” she asked.

“Chicken. Not deep-fried. Thought I’d prove I can actually cook.”

“I like your disasters.”

“Yeah, but I smell like them permanently.”

“You smell fine.”

I turned to the counter before she could see the slight heat that crept up my neck and into my cheeks. I sliced the chicken into even strips, careful and precise. Oil was heated in the pan until it shimmered.

She started talking almost immediately after we began to settle, just as the rain started, about a seminar that had spiralled into a heated debate about funding cuts in public schools, about a group project where one guy hadn’t shown up to a single planning meeting.

“You’d have hated it,” she said. “It was all policy and bureaucracy.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“It kind of was.”

I glanced at her.

She meant it.

That was the thing with Brie. She wasn’t pretending. She wasn’t forcing enthusiasm to justify the tuition. She was invested. She cared.

The rain picked up, the sky dulled and cloud over. I watched, actually surprised the app had been right.

I dropped the chicken into the pan. It hissed violently against the vegetable oil, a sharp, satisfying sound. Steam rose, carrying the smell of seasoning.

“You still thinking about going back?” she asked lightly, watching me stir.

There it was.

“Maybe,” I said, mixing with one of the silicone spatulas.

The word slid out smoothly. Well practised.

She didn’t push. She never did. That almost hurt, but she'd been trying longer than anyone.

“I’ve been looking at summer programmes," she continued, hopping down to grab plates. “There’s one in Manchester focused on special needs support in primary schools. It’s six weeks, but it’d look reeeeally good on applications.”

The rain bounced off the sidewalk.

Manchester.

“That’s good,” I said, swallowing. “You’d smash that.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

She smiled, and there was something proud but… off about it. Contained. Like she’d allowed herself a small hope but wasn’t going to broadcast it too loudly.

I added peppers and onions to the pan. The colours flared bright against the browning chicken.

“Remember Mr Hargreaves?” she asked suddenly, grin audible in her voice.

“The psych lecturer?”

“Yes. He called you Jarmus for three weeks.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Fucking Jarmus. I didn't care enough to fix it.”

“That was the problem,” she said, smiling.

The problem.

She didn’t say it harshly. It wasn’t an accusation. Just… a statement hovering in the air.

Back in first year, we’d sat in the same cafeteria, complaining about coursework and deadlines. We’d both missed morning lectures. Both stayed up too late watching trash TV in her room. Both rolled our eyes at the required reading.

A familiar, unwelcome pressure began to gather low in my chest. Not sharp. Not sudden. Just a slow compression.

She set the table while I finished cooking. Plates aligned neatly. Cutlery straightened. Glasses set at matching angles.

I judged how long the weather would last, how soaked I'd get before reaching a bus shelter.

I spooned gravy over her portion the way she liked, thick and indulgent, onion flavoured. She watched with a wide, eye crinkling smile.

“God, I’ve missed this,” she said.

“What? Me?”

“Yes, idiot.” She rolled her eyes and sat up straight. “People do like you.”

I didn't reply.

We carried the plates to the table and sat across from each other. The hum of the old fridge her dad hated filled the small gaps in conversation.

She took a bite and closed her eyes briefly. “Okay. That’s actually amazing.”

“Told you.”

“You should cook more.”

“Time,” I said.

“Make time.”

The words were gentle. Reasonable.

They landed heavy anyway.

We talked while we ate. About a girl from high school who’d gotten engaged at nineteen because her dumbass boyfriend knocked her up. About her cousin’s dinosaur phase. About a werewolf show she’d started watching that she insisted I’d like.

At one point she laughed so suddenly she snorted and clapped a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. I laughed too, wide eyed. It felt easy. It felt good.

But every time she mentioned campus, mentioned deadlines, mentioned placements or applications, the past, the future, that tightness in my chest crept tighter. A horrid, crushing feeling. Like someone had wrapped a hand around my sternum and was squeezing.

Not enough to stop my breathing, just enough to remind me it could.

I wanted her to stop.

“I always thought we’d graduate together,” she said at one point, not looking at me directly.

The words were soft. Nostalgic. Made the back of my eyes ache.

My fork paused halfway to my mouth.

“Yeah,” I said.

“It would’ve been cute.”

Cute.

Would've.

The pressure sharpened.

We’d sat on the steps outside the library once, the first week of college, planning where we’d go after. Uni in the same city. Maybe move in together second year. Get a cat.

I'd believed it then.

Back then, the future had been a wide-open hallway. Now it felt like a narrowing corridor I’d stepped out of, lights darkening.

“You could still go back,” she said, almost absentmindedly. “Not now. But next year. Or the year after.”

Maybe.

The word hovered again, unsaid this time.

Instead I said, “We’ll see.”

She nodded. Not disappointed. Not pressing.

That almost made it worse. Like acceptance.

After dinner we moved to the living room. She curled into my side without waiting, tucking her legs beneath herself. I wrapped an arm around her automatically.

The television flickered with something forgettable and girl focused. My focus wasn’t on it.

Her head rested on my chest. I could feel her breathing – steady, even. Her fingers traced slow patterns over my forearm, idle and unconscious.

“You remember sixth form formal?” she asked.

I groaned quietly. "Don't

“You were so awkward.”

“I was not.”

“You were.”

She laughed into my chest. The sound vibrated through me.

“We’ve grown up a lot,” she said after a moment.

We.

I swallowed.

She had.

I’d… maintained.

The pressure in my chest pulsed again. That horrid, hollow ache. Not jealousy. Not exactly. Something uglier. Something like watching someone you love climb steadily upward while you stay rooted in place, smiling up at them.

“I’m proud of you,” I said, and meant it.

She shifted slightly, tilting her head back to look at me. Her eyes softened. “Thanks.”

There was a flicker there. Something almost relieved.

She leaned up and kissed me.

Not quick.

Not playful.

Heavy.

Her hand slid into my hair, fingers threading through it firmly. The kiss deepened without hurry, without apology.

I responded automatically at first – familiar rhythm, familiar pressure – but something in me surged forward unexpectedly. I tightened my grip around her waist. Pulled her closer than necessary.

She made a soft sound against my mouth.

The kiss deepened further. Slower. Intentional.

It felt like proof.

Proof that we were still us.

Her fingers tightened in my hair. Mine pressed into the small of her back, brushing against the straps of her bra. The television droned forgotten.

When we finally broke apart, her forehead rested against mine. Her breath warm against my lips.

“Stay a bit longer,” she murmured.

“I will.”

We didn’t speak for a few minutes after that. Just breathed. Just existed in the shared space of the sofa, limbs tangled.

The ache in my chest hadn’t vanished.

It had simply shifted.

Muted under warmth. Under familiarity. Under the heavy certainty of her mouth on mine.

Later, when I stood at the door to leave, the porch light casting both our shadows long across the path, she leaned in again.

This time the kiss was slower still.

Deliberate.

Heavy.

Like she was sealing something. Or trying to save the moment.

I held her there a second longer than necessary before pulling back.

“Text me when you’re home,” she said softly.

“I will.”

As I walked back toward the bus stop, the night had settled properly. Streetlights glowed. Windows in other houses framed other lives—dinners, arguments, laughter.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Brie Bednarz.

> Had fun tonight x

I stared at it for a moment before replying.

> Me too.

Another buzz.

> Love you xoxo

That familiar pause.

James Morris.

> Love you too.

The bus arrived. I boarded. Took a seat by the window again.

In the darkened glass, my reflection stared back.

I looked away.