Chapter Text
Like any of the universe’s great work bestie pairings, it truly knew what it was doing when it set Dina—twenty-nine, licensed clinical children’s social worker—beside Carla, fifty-six, her clinical supervisor and a perpetual laugh riot with strong opinions and an even stronger sense of loyalty.
Dina had been at Little People, Big Feelings for two years now, post-grad and fully in it. Full caseload. Full calendar. Kids from everywhere, carrying everything. Big feelings in small bodies, stories that sat heavy in her chest long after she locked her office door at night. She loved the work—the way it demanded precision and softness at the same time. She loved the wins, the hard days, the strange honor of being trusted with so much tenderness.
She also loved lunchtime with Carla.
Carla was the kind of supervisor who caught everything and let nothing slide, who pushed Dina hard and then slid her a candy bar afterward like a peace offering. Work mom. Work bestie. The person Dina trusted to tell her when she was brilliant and when she was being a little bit of an idiot.
They were sitting together in the common room, their usual table by the windows, Dina already deep into her third fancy coffee from the practice’s aggressively impressive espresso machine. She felt lightly caffeinated to the point of optimism. Focused. Warm. Loose enough to enjoy herself.
Her lunch sat in front of her, the remains of last night’s dinner packed lovingly into a glass container. Braised short rib ragù—Ellie’s latest stroke of culinary genius. Dina had reheated it carefully, poured it over noodles with the kind of reverence usually reserved for sacred things. The smell alone had softened her shoulders. Rich. Deep. Comforting in a way that made her chest feel gently full.
Carla had been staring at it the entire time.
Not discreetly. Not even trying. Just openly tracking every movement as Dina plated it, humming thoughtfully under her breath, glasses sliding lower on her nose. Each little sound landed like commentary.
Dina let it go for a solid minute longer than necessary. She enjoyed this part—the ritual of pretending Carla had any restraint at all. Finally, she looked up, spoon hovering, mouth already tipping into a smile.
“Carla,” she said, tone patient and fond, “would you like to try some?”
She stood there over their round table, steam rising up between them, the smell spilling into the common area like an announcement.
Carla’s face rearranged itself instantly. Surprise bloomed wide and theatrical, brows lifting, lips parting as if Dina had just offered her a kidney. Without missing a beat, Carla produced a plastic fork from somewhere near her cardigan sleeve, triumphant.
“Oh,” Carla said, gracious and delighted, “I would love to try some. How did you know?”
Dina dropped back into her chair, laughter warming her throat as she watched Carla lean in and spear a forkful with reverence. There was something deeply satisfying about this—about watching someone else fall into Ellie’s food the same way she always did.
“Let’s see,” Dina said, eyes dancing as she ticked it off in her head. “The staring. The humming. The way you’ve been breathing like you’re standing over a pot of gold. You’re about as subtle as a shark circling lunch. Also, we do this every single day.”
Carla made a pleased sound as she took the bite. Dina watched closely—because of course she did. Carla’s eyes rolled back in her head, expression melting into something close to bliss even through her thick, coke-bottle lenses.
Dina felt the familiar little swell in her chest. Pride, soft and stupid and sweet. The kind that always crept in when Ellie’s name hovered anywhere nearby. Her mouth tugged upward without her permission, already drifting into that dopey, dreamy place she never quite managed to guard.
Before Carla could finally open her mouth and deliver whatever dramatic, food-critic-level verdict she was winding up for, two chairs scraped softly against the floor.
Patty and Monique joined them at the table.
Patty dropped into the chair across from Dina, tall and angular, hair pulled back in a low ponytail that never quite stayed neat by lunchtime. She always looked like she’d forgotten to eat until she was already starving. Monique took the seat beside her, compact and polished, tortoiseshell glasses perched just right, cardigan folded neatly over the back of her chair before she even sat. They were both clinical doctors—brilliant, busy, perpetually calm in a way Dina admired and vaguely distrusted.
“Dina, Carla,” Monique said, cheerful and practiced as she opened her lunch bag. “How were your weekends?”
She pulled out a sandwich that looked aggressively beige. Dina noticed it immediately—dry bread, limp lettuce, the kind of lunch that existed purely for fuel. Dina glanced down at her own plate again, the ragù still glossy and steaming, and felt a small, quiet swell of gratitude that settled low in her chest. She tamped it down quickly. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just food. Ellie always cooked like this. That was normal.
Carla answered by taking another forkful.
Just went right back in. No comment. No pause.
Dina lifted her brows at her, a silent seriously? Carla didn’t even look up.
Fine.
“It was nice,” Dina said, leaning back slightly in her chair, letting herself ease into it. “Ellie and I ordered Chinese on Friday and stayed up way too late playing with Silvia before bed.”
Her voice warmed without effort. She felt it as it happened—the way her shoulders loosened, the way the memory came back in pieces. Ellie cross-legged on the floor, wand toy flicking wildly. Silvia launching herself across the rug like a possessed marshmallow. Dina laughing until her face hurt and thinking, briefly, that she should really start going to bed earlier. She never did.
“Who’s Silvia?” Patty asked, already crunching into a Funyon, orange dust clinging to her fingers.
“Oh,” Carla cut in, helpful and unasked for, “that’s Ellie and Dina’s cat. They’ve had her since she was a kitten. Sweet thing. Completely unhinged.”
Dina turned her head slowly toward Carla. “Thank you,” she said, dry but affectionate, “for explaining my own household to the table.”
Carla hummed, pleased with herself, and went back for more short rib.
“And Saturday,” Dina continued, rolling on without missing a beat, “Ellie took me to Star City Diner for breakfast. Then we grabbed matcha lattes and wandered around HomeGoods for a few hours.”
She could see it clearly as she spoke—the sticky table at the diner, Ellie stealing Dina’s fries like she always did, the way they got sucked into HomeGoods and lost track of time completely. Ellie stopping every five feet to debate candles. Dina pretending she didn’t care while absolutely caring. It was easy. Comfortable. The kind of day that settled into her bones and stayed there.
“Nothing wild,” she added, shrugging, fingers curling loosely around her coffee cup as she smiled, remembering. “It was just… really nice.”
It really had been. Those weekends always were. The quiet ones. The ones where nothing needed to be accomplished, where she didn’t feel pulled in ten directions. Just home, food, laughter, and Ellie nearby doing Ellie things. Dina didn’t overthink it. She never did.
She realized something had shifted when the table went quiet.
Dina looked up.
Patty and Monique were both smiling at her—big, slow smiles that carried weight. Patty’s brows were lifted, mouth tilted like she’d just been handed a punchline. Monique’s expression was softer, knowing in a way that made Dina’s spine straighten instinctively.
Carla, meanwhile, looked deeply unimpressed, lips pressed thin, fork hovering midair like she was holding herself back from interrupting.
Dina cleared her throat and sat up a little straighter, spine lining itself up on instinct. Her pulse had picked up in a way that felt unnecessary and rude.
“What?” she asked, brows knitting, voice light but alert.
Monique’s face softened immediately, mouth tipping into something almost fond. “Aww, Dina, babe,” she said gently, “you’re glowing. That kind of glow people get when they talk about how much they love their partner.”
The words hit Dina square in the chest.
Even without the coffee halfway to her mouth, she would’ve choked. As it was, the cappuccino lodged itself somewhere hostile, her lungs seizing as she coughed hard enough to make her eyes water.
“Oh—” she managed, voice rough, one hand coming up instinctively as she fought for air. “No, that’s—”
Her heart was banging now, loud and fast, heat crawling up her neck. Love. Partner. The words ricocheted around her skull, absurd and dizzying, like someone had dropped them into the wrong conversation entirely.
Carla, mercifully, jumped in.
“Oh please,” she said breezily, waving her fork. “Dina and Ellie aren’t dating. They’re just friends.”
Dina latched onto that like a lifeline, nodding a beat too quickly.
Across the table, Patty and Monique exchanged a look. Long. Loaded. The kind of look people shared when they both thought the same thing and didn’t need to say it out loud.
Dina reached for her purple Meoky, fingers curling tight around it. She took a long sip of water and swallowed, then cleared her throat—once, twice, the second time a little dramatic. Her chest still felt tight. She hadn’t been expecting… any of this. Certainly not in the middle of lunch, certainly not said so casually.
“Um,” she said, steadying her voice, aiming for calm and reasonable and professional. “Yes. No. We aren’t… dating. Just friends. Best friends.”
The words felt practiced as soon as she said them, familiar in a way that should’ve been comforting. She looked between them. Carla was openly entertained now, eyes bright, mouth twitching like she’d paid admission for this. Patty looked amused. Monique looked unconvinced.
Patty and Monique shared another glance, quieter this time, before Monique smiled apologetically. “Sorry,” she said, tone easy, “our mistake.”
Dina nodded, relief washing through her in a delayed wave. She leaned back slightly, letting the conversation move on around her as the three women picked up another thread.
Her mind didn’t follow.
She stayed right there in it—the warmth in her cheeks, the faint hitch in her breathing, the way her voice had rounded itself around Ellie’s name without her meaning to. The looks Patty and Monique had given her lingered too, curious and knowing, like they’d caught sight of something Dina usually kept tucked away. The feeling settled low and fluttery, awkward in a way that made her shift in her chair as she stared down at her lunch, trying to trace exactly when this had turned into a thing people noticed.
People confusing her and Ellie for a couple came with the territory. It happened easily when two women shared an apartment, a cat, a history, and a rhythm that fit too well. Dina accepted it as background noise at this point, something that followed them around the way assumptions always did.
They had been friends since their last year of college. Roommates first, then inseparable. A shared dorm room that shrank fast under stress and late nights and the strange intimacy of becoming adults side by side. Then the pandemic, when space collapsed even further and the rest of the world fell away, leaving just the two of them figuring things out together. Best friends happened quickly after that. It felt inevitable in hindsight.
Ellie had stood beside Dina when she came out as bisexual, solid and steady in that quiet way of hers, offering support without spectacle. She had stayed close through Dina’s first attempt at dating a woman too—the kind of almost-relationship that left Dina raw and shaken when it ended, heart bruised in a way she still remembered vividly. Ellie had held space for that hurt without trying to fix it, just present, just there.
Dina had done the same when Ellie’s long-term girlfriend decided distance and isolation stretched too thin to survive. Ellie had folded inward after that, retreating into her room, days blurring together. Dina remembered the smell of cold SpaghettiOs, the untouched shower down the hall, the way Ellie’s shoulders had curled forward like she was trying to disappear. Dina had coaxed her back into the world slowly—short walks, fresh air, gentle nudges toward routine. Hair brushed. Water running. A real meal. Progress measured in small victories.
They showed up for each other. That had always been the deal.
Ellie attended Dina’s family gatherings as her plus one year after year, slipping seamlessly into the chaos. She cooked alongside Dina’s mother and aunts, trading stories and techniques, moving through crowded kitchens with confidence earned at Le Cordon Bleu and years in restaurants. Vacations followed. Movie nights bled into shared beds. Limbs tangled. Sleep found wherever it landed.
That closeness unsettled people sometimes.
One boyfriend in particular had grown confused by it, then threatened by it, then bold enough to ask if Dina had ever thought about what it would be like to have Ellie join them in bed—if she thought Ellie would ever be open to that. The question had landed wrong immediately, heavy and sour in Dina’s stomach. She had ended things cleanly after that. No debate. No reconsideration.
She never explained the details to Ellie. She had called him a creep and left it there, trusting Ellie’s intuition to fill in the gaps. Ellie never pressed. Some things stayed unspoken because naming them changed the shape of them, and Dina sensed that instinctively.
The truth hovered just beyond where Dina allowed herself to look.
Thoughts of Ellie with a man twisted something sharp and acrid in her stomach. The idea of Ellie with anyone else did it too, if she let herself linger there for even a second. Her focus went slippery around those thoughts, her chest tightening, instincts kicking in to shove them somewhere safer and quieter. She was very good at that. Had gotten good at it on purpose.
That went on the same mental shelf as everything else she never admit to Ellie.
The conversation drifted past her after that. Carla was midway through a story about her husband and the kids—something involving weekend chaos and an argument over snacks—and Dina tracked it just enough to nod and hum at the right moments. Her body stayed at the table; her mind wandered. It only snapped back when chairs scraped softly against the floor.
Patty stood first, already checking her watch. “I’ve got an intake,” she said, apologetic but brisk.
Monique gathered her things, talking through the outline for her afternoon group play therapy, efficient and calm as ever. They tossed their trash, said their goodbyes, and headed off down the hall, their voices fading with practiced ease.
The table went quiet.
Dina felt it in her chest before she looked up.
Carla was watching her.
That look—steady, assessing, almost fond in its persistence. The same one she’d been giving Dina since her first few months at the practice, when Carla had figured out exactly how Dina ticked and decided she wasn’t going to let her skate by on charm and deflection alone.
Dina already knew what was coming. She just hadn’t decided how tired she was yet.
“Seriously, Dina,” Carla said, folding her hands together on the table, “why aren’t you and Ellie just dating already?”
Ah.
Straight to it. No warm-up. No sugar.
Dina let out a breath through her nose and finally took a bite of her lunch. The short rib gave easily, rich and slow and deeply satisfying, the kind of food that grounded her whether she wanted it to or not. She chewed, eyes briefly closing, because honestly—Ellie had ruined her for mediocre meals.
“Carla,” she said, once she swallowed, voice low and patient in the way she reserved for children and supervisors she loved, “we’ve been over this. What Ellie and I have makes sense exactly as it is.”
Carla’s eyes rolled with impressive commitment. With the oversized glasses and the dramatic flair, it might’ve been charming under different circumstances. Dina felt her shoulders tense anyway.
“In what universe does it read that way?” Carla shot back. “I just watched you go all soft talking about her. Twice. In front of me and everyone else at this table.” She leaned back, letting the words settle. “And that girl feels the same way you do about her. You know she does. I know you know.”
Dina tightened her grip on her fork without realizing it, the metal cool against her fingers. Her chest did that irritating little flutter again—part annoyance, part something warmer and more dangerous. She opened her mouth to respond, already assembling something clever, something deflecting, something very Dina—
—and paused, just a fraction of a second longer than she meant to.
Because… did Ellie actually feel the same?
Sometimes it felt that way. Sometimes it felt almost obvious. Ellie was gentle with her in a way that went beyond politeness—patient, attentive. She packed Dina’s lunches without being asked, left little notes when she remembered. She cooked dinners that made Dina close her eyes on the first bite. She refilled Dina’s purple Meoky with cold spring water every morning, always before Dina noticed it was empty. Small things. Constant things.
They were sweet. Domestic. Familiar in a way that made Dina’s chest feel tight if she lingered there too long. Dangerous territory if she let her mind wander late at night, alone in bed, thoughts, and hands drifting before she pulled them back and told herself to knock it off.
But sweetness didn’t automatically mean that.
That was just… friendship. Close friendship. Best-friend friendship.
Best friends did this. Lived-in best friends.
Best friends grocery shopped together every Sunday and debated brands like it was a joint decision with lasting consequences. Best friends shared a Google calendar and added reminders for each other’s dentist appointments and oil changes because someone had to remember. Best friends knew each other’s schedules better than their own and texted check-ins that felt casual but landed steady.
Best friends fell asleep on the couch during movie nights and woke up that way, stiff and half-numb and laughing about it. Best friends cooked dinner every night and argued about nothing and everything—salt levels, which pan to use, whether takeout eaten at home still counted as eating out. Best friends watched entire seasons of shows shoulder to shoulder, legs tangled, Ellie’s thumb tracing the same absent little circle on Dina’s knee like it had always gone there.
Best friends waited up. Best friends worried. Best friends asked if you’d eaten, if you’d slept, if you were okay—softly, without spectacle, because concern didn’t need an audience.
That was all normal.
Dina had never been great at naming feelings. She excelled at organizing them instead, sliding them into tidy mental folders that kept her functioning and unembarrassed.
And this—this was just what it looked like when two people loved each other platonically.
Obviously.
“Carla,” Dina said, and there was a plea in it now she didn’t bother sanding down, “she feels friendship toward me. That’s all it is.”
She hated having to say it. Hated the way the words made her turn the whole thing over in her head every single time, examining it from angles she usually avoided. Saying it meant thinking about it, and thinking about it pressed on places she worked very hard to keep protected. It hurt in a dull, persistent way, the kind that didn’t spike and fade but stayed, steady and exhausting.
Because Dina did have feelings for Ellie. Heavy ones. The kind that settled into her chest and rearranged the furniture there without asking. Feelings that didn’t fit the shape she’d built their life around. Feelings that, once named, demanded answers and choices and consequences.
And Dina couldn’t afford consequences. Not here. Not with Ellie.
Carla sighed, long and patient, the way she did when Dina dug her heels in. She shook her head, already conceding the argument for now. “Fine,” she said. “Keep telling yourself that.” She checked the time and stood. “Just get your progress notes finished so I can sign off before the end of the day.”
Dina nodded, automatically compliant, eyes already dropping back to her plate.
She pushed the rest of her lunch around with her fork, appetite gone entirely. The smell that had been comforting minutes ago now felt wrong, too much. Her chest felt tight, like something had been cinched there without her noticing.
She needed people to stop talking about this. To stop noticing. To stop dragging it into the light where she had to look at it. People would only stop if Dina fixed the problem.
Which meant she had to get over Ellie.
And that meant getting under someone else.
The thought landed like a blow.
Her throat tightened, breath stuttering just a little before she caught it. Moving on meant imagining a version of her life where Ellie wasn’t the person she texted first, where Ellie didn’t know the shape of her days, where Ellie wasn’t folded into every small routine that made her feel steady. It meant pulling something vital out of her life and pretending the empty space didn’t echo.
Getting over Ellie meant letting go of late-night laughter in the kitchen, of shared silences that felt full instead of awkward, of the quiet certainty that someone was always there. It meant breaking something that had grown carefully, over years, into something solid and safe and deeply loved.
The idea of replacing that—with someone else, anyone else—made her skin crawl. Her stomach rolled, sharp and sour, revulsion threading through her like a warning flare. Nothing about it felt relieving or hopeful. It felt like loss. Like grief she was being asked to volunteer for.
Dina set her fork down, fingers trembling just enough for her to notice. She reached for her coffee instead, holding the mug close like it might anchor her, shoulders folding inward despite herself.
She told herself she was fine.
She told herself she always figured things out.
And she wondered, with a sudden, frightening clarity, how she was supposed to move on from something that already felt like home?
Dina’s walk home wasn’t long. Fifteen minutes, give or take, from Little People, Big Feelings to the apartment she shared with Ellie—close enough that she never bothered checking the weather beyond a glance out the window. She could do fifteen minutes in almost anything.
Today, though, the cold had teeth.
Brooklyn in February carried itself like it had something to prove. Bitter air pressed against her cheeks and crept down the back of her scarf, the kind of cold that made her jaw tighten without realizing it. Everything looked washed out—brick and stone dulled to shades of grey, the sky low and heavy, as if it might drop again at any moment. Snow still lined the sidewalks in dirty, stubborn piles from the January storm, packed down and edged with grit, too frozen to go anywhere. Each step made a faint crunch beneath her boots, sharp and steady, grounding in a way she appreciated after a long day of holding space for other people’s emotions.
She pulled her coat tighter and shoved her hands deeper into her pockets, shoulders hunching instinctively as she walked. Her head felt full. Not overwhelmed—just busy. The kind of mental hum that followed her out of work most days, bits of sessions replaying in soft fragments she’d sort through later, once she was home and safe and allowed to exhale.
She’d planned to stop by the florist on the way back.
It felt like a small kindness, the kind she liked best. Something quiet and intentional. She liked keeping the vase on the antique walnut console table full—something living and bright when the days went short and grey. The table sat just inside the apartment, right where you dropped your keys. The first thing you saw when you came home. Dina liked that Ellie always noticed it, even if she pretended she didn’t. She always paused there for half a second, eyes flicking toward whatever Dina had brought back, mouth softening before she caught herself.
The table itself had history. Their history.
They’d found it three years ago, right after Dina graduated, wedged awkwardly between two taller pieces at a thrift store with terrible lighting and an overly aggressive incense situation. It had been scratched and dull, finish uneven, drawers sticking just enough to be annoying. Ellie had crouched down immediately, hands already assessing the joints, eyes lit with that quiet focus she got when she was evaluating something she planned to rescue.
They’d hauled it home together, laughing the entire way, stopping every few blocks to switch grips and catch their breath. The refinishing day still lived warm and clear in Dina’s mind. Borrowing their neighbor Larry’s power sander. Laying tarps they’d found on a dusty bodega shelf right onto the sidewalk. Sawdust floating through the air like pollen. Ellie in old clothes, hair pulled back, smudge of something on her cheek Dina hadn’t told her about because she liked the way it looked. Passersby slowing, curious. Compliments shouted from across the street. The satisfaction of seeing the grain come back to life beneath their hands.
It had felt like claiming something. Like building.
Dina smiled faintly to herself as she walked, breath puffing white in front of her. The apartment itself made sense in the same way the table did. Brooklyn Heights felt right—close to work, close to the restaurants Ellie kept circling on job boards, far enough from Manhattan that the tourists thinned out and the neighborhood breathed a little easier. Brownstones lined the streets with quiet confidence, stoops worn smooth by decades of footsteps. Dina liked the rhythm of it. Liked knowing which windows would be lit by this time of day, which dogs barked when she passed.
She turned the corner and spotted the flower shop.
In Bloom sat a third of the way up Montague, its windows dressed carefully for Valentine’s Day. Soft pinks and reds layered with intention, colors chosen thoughtfully instead of shouted. Rainbow paper hearts tucked among eucalyptus and baby’s breath. A small, hand-lettered queer-owned sign nestled into the display, understated and proud. Warm white lights looped lazily through it all, glow spilling onto the sidewalk, more cozy than flashy.
Dina slowed, warmth tugging at her attention before she fully registered it. The glow from the window pulled her in, softening the tight edge the cold had carved into her shoulders. Her breath settled. Her chest eased. She stood there for a beat longer than necessary, eyes drifting across the display the way they always did.
The shop always looked good on a bleak day. Reliable like that.
She reached for the door and the bell chimed as it swung open, bright and familiar. The cold stayed outside where it belonged. Inside, warm, damp air wrapped around her immediately, sinking into her coat, her scarf, her hair. It smelled green and sweet all at once—fresh stems snapped clean, roses just opening, dark, wet soil clinging to roots. Underneath it all, music hummed low and steady, something soft and unobtrusive, a rhythm you felt more than heard.
The space felt intimate in a way Dina appreciated. Not crowded, just full. Buckets lined the walls and clustered along the floor, each one brimming with color and movement—tulips standing tall and cheerful, ranunculus layered and delicate, roses ranging from pale blush to deep, almost bruised reds. Water glimmered at the rims, catching the light as it sloshed gently when someone shifted a stem. The sound landed quietly in her ears, soothing, like punctuation between thoughts.
A long wooden worktable stretched down the center of the shop, its surface scarred and well-used, every mark earned. Twine lay coiled in loose loops, clippers resting open and ready, stray petals scattered like they’d fallen mid-conversation. Half-finished arrangements sat patiently along the edge, greens tucked in but waiting for blooms, a sense of progress paused rather than abandoned.
Chalkboard signs leaned against the walls, prices written in messy, confident handwriting, little hearts doodled in the corners with casual affection. Dina smiled at that, something warm flickering through her. The details mattered here. Someone cared enough to add them.
The air clung to her skin, humid in a way that made her suddenly aware of how unnecessary her winter coat felt indoors. She unzipped it halfway, shoulders loosening as heat settled in. The shop hummed quietly around her—stems being shifted, water moving, music threading through it all. Alive in a gentle, deliberate way.
It felt good to be here.
Dina drifted toward a bucket of lilies, leaning in slightly as she took them in, fingers hovering just above the petals without touching. They were full and fragrant, edges still tight, the kind that would open slowly over a few days. She liked that. Flowers with a little patience built in. Her shoulders loosened another notch as she stood there, coat still half-open, warmth clinging pleasantly to her skin. Her brain, so busy an hour ago, quieted into something more manageable. This—looking, choosing, deciding small beautiful things—was grounding in a way she trusted.
She was midway through mentally ranking lilies by vibe when the door at the back of the shop swung open.
Dina glanced up automatically.
Mara stepped out, familiar in the way people who belong somewhere tend to feel. Dina had seen them every time she’d come in here, to the point where her brain filed them under part of the shop itself. About Dina’s height. Unbuttoned overshirt, tank underneath, baggy blue jeans—practical, unfussy, clothes meant for moving around and getting messy without complaint.
Their hair caught Dina’s attention like it always did. Dyed blonde with dark roots pushing through, cropped close at the sides, longer on top—textured, messy in a deliberate way, styled like they’d run their fingers through it and stopped halfway through out of confidence rather than distraction. A queer cut. Dina prided herself on her ability to notice those things.
Mara smiled when they saw her, warm and easy, and lifted a hand to their hair, fingers combing through it in exactly the way Dina’s brain had already predicted. The familiarity of the gesture tugged a small, amused smile out of her.
“Hi, Dina, right?” Mara said, voice soft, friendly, pitched just right for a quiet shop.
Dina turned toward the counter, lips curving as she lifted a thumbs up. “You remembered this time.”
Mara’s face folded into a quick, theatrical wince. “Well,” they said, tilting their head, “you really don’t look like a Diana, so that one’s on me.”
Dina laughed, the sound light and unforced. She let her gaze wander over the counter—scattered stems, clipped leaves, tools set down where they could be reached easily. Messy, but intentional. The kind of workspace that made sense if you spent your days arranging living things.
“Did you want to buy some flowers?” Mara asked, hands flattening against the counter, posture open.
“Um,” Dina said, lingering near the worktable, weight shifting to one hip. Her hands stayed tucked into her coat pockets like they were still warming up to the idea of participation. “I was hoping to put together a bouquet.”
Mara spotted a stray stem near the edge of the counter, scooped it up, and flicked it neatly into the trash beside them before looking back up. The movement was quick, absentminded, practiced. Their attention settled on Dina again, steady and easy.
“Sure,” they said, already shifting closer to the buckets. “Any special occasion?”
Dina stalled for half a beat. Enough to feel it. Enough to know it showed.
“Just because,” she said, then tipped her head, mouth pulling into a small, crooked smile. “I mean—nothing big. I don’t want it screaming anything.”
She could hear herself and felt mildly ridiculous about it, standing in a flower shop trying to downplay flowers. Her fingers hooked deeper into her coat pockets, thumbs rubbing along the seams. She hadn’t planned a speech. She’d just planned… the flowers.
Mara nodded easily, already reaching for a bucket. “Okay.”
That made Dina breathe a little easier. She followed them with her eyes, then added, more carefully now, the way she did when she was choosing her words on purpose.
“I was thinking ranunculus,” she said. “The pink ones. And white tulips.” She paused, tracking the rows. “Garden roses. Softer colors. Freesia if you have it. And eucalyptus.”
She stopped talking and immediately wondered if she sounded like someone who had absolutely thought about this too much. The thought made her mouth twitch. Dina had always been like this—capable of making a five-minute decision into a whole internal committee meeting.
Mara’s hands slowed.
Just briefly. A glance at Dina, then back to the buckets. Brows lifting a fraction before settling again.
“You’ve got this all planned out,” they said, amused, gentle about it.
Dina laughed, quick and warm, lifting one shoulder. “I swear I’m usually less prepared about things.”
She hoped they didn’t read into it. She really did. Because if anyone here knew flower meanings, that would be… a lot. Dina liked her feelings better when they stayed implied.
Mara didn’t comment, though. They just moved through the shop, easy and unhurried, pulling stems as they went—ranunculus first, then tulips, then roses—laying them together with practiced hands. Eucalyptus came last, tucked in like it belonged there all along.
Dina watched from where she stood, hands still tucked into her coat pockets, letting herself take it in. The quiet competence of it. The way Mara’s hands moved with certainty, selecting stems without fuss, adjusting angles by instinct instead of calculation. Each choice landed cleanly, like they trusted their own eye enough not to second-guess it. The bouquet took shape gradually, deliberately, without commentary or flourish.
Dina felt herself loosen another notch.
It felt steady. Grounded. The kind of normal that soothed her nervous system without asking questions. Exactly what she’d come in here for.
Mara spoke without looking up, voice easy, conversational, like it hadn’t even crossed their mind that the question might carry weight.
“So—are these for Valentine’s Day?” Their fingers tucked greenery into place. “Flowers for your girlfriend? The one you usually come in with?”
There it was.
The familiar little drop in her stomach. The reflexive tightening between her shoulders. Another assumption, offered casually, kindly, the way people did when they thought they were naming something obvious. Dina blinked once, buying herself a beat, aware of the way her pulse ticked louder in her ears.
She kept her tone even, friendly, carefully light.
“Uh—no.” A breath. “Ellie—the woman I come in with—she’s my best friend.” She shifted her weight, felt her heel rock against the floor. “And my roommate. Best friend. Roommate.”
The words landed awkwardly, stacked too close together, like she was trying to barricade something with repetition.
Mara didn’t react outwardly. They reached for the eucalyptus, the final piece, tucking it in with a practiced hand before gathering the bouquet together. Then they moved back toward the counter, motions smooth, unhurried, like nothing important had just happened.
“Got it,” they said, glancing up briefly. “Sorry. I made an assumption. You read queer, and the two of you read… together.” A small shrug as they lined the stems carefully. “My mistake.”
Dina exhaled through her nose, lips pressing together before she could stop them.
“Half right,” she said. “I am queer.” The rest came out faster than she meant it to. “Ellie’s just—my best friend and roommate.”
Again. Third time in under a minute.
God, she hated this conversation. Hated how often she had it. Hated how saying it out loud always made it echo back at her, louder than it ever sounded in her own head.
Mara huffed a laugh, quick and pleased. “Okay, good. So my gaydar is still intact.”
Dina smiled despite herself. It tugged at her mouth before she could stop it.
“Seems like it,” she said. “You get to keep your membership card.”
Mara’s smile lingered. Just a fraction too long. Their gaze stayed on Dina’s face, warm, assessing, curious in a way that made Dina suddenly aware of her own posture—of the way she’d angled her body toward the counter without realizing it. Then Mara caught themselves, eyes dropping back to the flowers as they adjusted the wrap.
“Thank god,” they said lightly. “I’ve been budgeting for all the dues.”
Dina laughed, reflexive, because the rhythm was easy and she knew how to play this part.
“Oh wow,” she said. “This is awkward. You pay dues?” She winced dramatically.
Mara looked up again, mock-offended, bouquet halfway wrapped. “That’s wholly unfair. I bet none of the pretty girls get charged.”
The words hit a beat later than expected.
Dina felt it then—the shift. The warmth that wasn’t just banter. The subtle lean-in, the way Mara’s tone softened around the edges of the joke. Her chest did a small, surprised stutter.
Oh.
Mara was flirting.
The realization slid into place slowly, bringing with it a rush of self-conscious heat. Dina’s first instinct was disbelief—she’d genuinely thought this was just friendly queer back-and-forth, the kind she slipped into easily. She was famously bad at recognizing when attention turned flirty. Her brain liked order. Categories. This had felt safely filed under casual.
Ellie’s face surfaced immediately, uninvited. Ellie in their kitchen that morning, hair still damp, leaning against the counter with sleep-soft eyes. Ellie’s hands on Dina’s waist when she passed behind her, absent and familiar. The way Ellie said her name like it belonged there.
Dina went quiet.
Not frozen. Just stalled in that half-second way where her brain needed a minute to catch up with what her ears had heard. Her fingers curled deeper into her coat pockets, thumbs rubbing along the seams, grounding herself in the familiar wear of fabric. She’d done that forever—kept her hands busy when her thoughts started tripping over each other.
She hadn’t done anything wrong. That registered immediately, like her brain checking a box. She hadn’t flirted. She hadn’t leaned in or softened her voice or done that thing where she smiled a beat too long. She’d come in here to buy flowers. That was it. And Ellie wasn’t hers anyway, which her chest reminded her of right on schedule, tight and annoying.
Still, the warmth sat there. Mara’s attention, open and obvious now that she knew what she was looking at. It made her aware of herself in a way she hadn’t been a minute ago—of how she was standing, how close she was to the counter, the fact that her heart had picked up speed like it thought something important was happening.
So she waited.
She watched Mara finish the bouquet, the tape pulling snug with a quiet rip, fingers smoothing the paper carefully, like they cared how it felt in the hand. Dina noticed dumb things—how practiced it all was, how Mara didn’t rush the last step even though they clearly could’ve. When the bouquet was handed over, Dina took it with both hands without thinking.
It had weight to it. Solid. Real.
She actually stopped and looked. Pinks and whites layered together just right, nothing fighting for attention. The eucalyptus edged it all with that blue-green pop she loved, sharp enough to keep it from feeling precious. Balanced. Intentional. The kind of thing Ellie would notice immediately and pretend she hadn’t.
“Oh wow,” Dina said, surprised into honesty. “That actually turned out really pretty.”
She looked up, smile easy, unguarded. “Thank you.”
Mara smiled back, the kind of smile that had probably worked more often than it hadn’t. A dimple cutting in like it knew exactly when to show up.
“You’ve got a good eye.”
Dina laughed, short and real, breath puffing out of her nose.
“Is that what they call anxiety in the flower world?” she said, already reaching into her purse. Her wallet came out on autopilot. “Okay—how much do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house,” Mara said.
Dina’s brows lifted, reflexive protest already lining up, when Mara kept going, voice still light, still warm, still very sure of itself.
“Or—call it a trade. Flowers for a beautiful woman, for dinner? A date.”
Date.
The word landed heavy and strange, like it had been sitting nearby all afternoon waiting for the right moment. Dina felt her chest tighten, heat creeping up her neck, a flicker of something like guilt even though she hadn’t earned it. Carla’s voice flashed through her head, irritatingly clear. The thought she’d shoved down earlier—just move on—standing in front of her now with a charming smile and good timing.
She hadn’t gone looking for this. She also hadn’t stepped away yet.
Ellie showed up immediately in her mind, because Ellie always did. Ellie leaning against the counter in the mornings. Ellie texting her stupid observations during the day. Ellie already woven into her life so completely Dina rarely thought to question it.
Did she want this?
Did she really want to move on from Ellie?
“Um,” Dina said, the word buying her time while her brain tried to line itself up. She shifted the bouquet slightly in her hands, paper rustling. “I—um.”
Mara shook their head right away, easy and kind about it, like they’d seen this moment before and knew how to make it softer.
“Hey, it’s okay if you say no,” they said, a smile tugging at their mouth. “I’ll simply lick my wounds dramatically for the rest of the month.”
Dina huffed a laugh despite herself. God, they were sweet. Disarming. Warm in a way that didn’t feel pushy or weird. Just… open. She felt that familiar tug of guilt again, even though she hadn’t led anyone anywhere. She was just standing here holding flowers. That was allowed.
“Um—no, that’s not—” she started, then stopped, regrouped. Her shoulders lifted and fell as she exhaled. “I’m just really busy. Like, a lot. Long hours. Weekends disappear into clinical notes.” She tipped her head, a little self-conscious, fingers tightening on the stems. “I just don’t know if it’s fair to… date right now.”
Mara nodded, immediately, sincerely. Too easily, almost, which somehow made Dina feel worse and better at the same time.
“I get it,” they said.
They reached behind the counter and pulled a business card from a neat stack, sliding it across toward Dina.
“Bouquet’s still free,” Mara added, tapping the card with one finger. “And text me. That’s the shop number—also my cell.” Another small smile. “In case you change your mind.”
Dina took the card. The paper was thick, nice. She glanced down at it, noticing the details the way she always did—Mara O’Neil printed in looping cursive, the ink clean and deliberate, the number centered beneath it. Thoughtful. Of course it was thoughtful.
She looked back up.
“Okay,” she said, gentle and honest. “I’ll think about it.”
Because she would. That part felt true.
Mara’s smile widened, open and genuine. Cute. Sweet. Flirty, without crossing a line. Respectful in a way that lingered. Dina could see it, feel it—how this could be an easy place to step back into dating after three years away. How it wouldn’t be the worst choice. Maybe even a good one.
As she thanked Mara again, buttoned her coat, and settled the bouquet carefully between her gloved hands, Dina stepped back out into the cold. The bell chimed behind her, the warmth of the shop slipping away as the door closed.
Walking down the street, breath puffing white in the air, she wondered—quietly, carefully—if maybe she could actually do it.
Maybe she could try to move on from Ellie.
The second Dina stepped up onto the stoop, she smelled it.
It hit her before she even reached for her keys. Butter, garlic, something slow and rich and definitely simmering for more than twenty minutes. It slid straight into her nose and down into her chest and her body reacted before she had time to think about it.
Her shoulders dropped. Her jaw unclenched. Her stomach tightened in a warm, expectant way.
Ellie’s home.
Ellie’s cooking.
God.
She hadn’t realized how wound up she still was from earlier until that smell softened something in her. The florist. The card. Carla’s voice. Monique’s smile. All of it dulled a notch under that scent.
The vestibule door opened and she stepped inside, stomping a little snow off her boots. Larry and Gloria were on the stairs, bundled and mid-descent.
Gloria’s eyes lit up immediately. “Oh! Dina. That smells divine. Is that Ellie?”
Dina felt her mouth curve without meaning to. She slid her key into the mailbox and turned it, keeping her eyes down so she could hide how automatic that smile was.
“You know it is,” she said, shaking her head lightly. “She’s probably making something obscene. Butter-forward. Cream-based. Just in time for me to pretend I’m going back to the gym before bathing suit season.”
She pulled the mail out and flipped through it absently. Credit card offer. Political flyer. Something for a neighbor. Her brain was in their apartment already. Ellie at the stove. Sleeves pushed up. Hair falling into her face. That focused look she got when she was tasting something and deciding what it needed.
Gloria gave a soft laugh. “Oh, please. What’s a few extra pounds when you’re that happy and in love?”
The words landed and Dina felt it immediately.
A small, sharp squeeze under her ribs.
Her fingers tightened around the mail. Just a fraction. She kept her face easy. Polite. Fond.
They had assumed it from day one. Two women, one apartment, one cat, laughter through the walls. Gloria and Larry had built a whole narrative and Dina hadn’t had the energy to dismantle it.
She’d tried once.
Ellie had laughed later and said, “They’re obsessed with us. It’s cute.”
Cute.
Dina swallowed.
“Oh yeah,” she said lightly, tilting her head. “We’re thriving. Just blissed out. Disgustingly content.”
She layered it with humor so it wouldn’t feel like a lie.
Because she was happy.
That part wasn’t fake.
Her life worked. Her apartment felt good. Ellie cooking like that felt… steady. Safe. Like something she could rely on without asking for it.
In love.
Also true. Just not the way Gloria meant.
Her pulse ticked faster and she hated that her body betrayed her every time someone said it out loud.
The smell got stronger the closer she stepped to the door. Wine, maybe. Something braised. Ellie only did braises when she was in a good mood. Or when she wanted to take care of someone.
Dina’s chest pulled tight in a different way now.
The business card in her pants pocket pressed faintly against her thigh.
Dinner. A date.
Her heart thudded once, hard enough that she felt it in her throat.
She fit her key into the front door and glanced back at Larry and Gloria. They were smiling at her like they’d solved something.
“Watch your step out there,” she said, softer now. “It’s slick.”
Gloria waved her off. Larry nodded.
Dina opened the door and stepped inside.
The warmth wrapped around her immediately. The smell deepened, fuller and richer now that she was actually in it.
Home.
Her stomach flipped again, and this time it had nothing to do with food.
She stepped fully inside and the smell deepened immediately—richer in here, fuller, wrapping around her like it lived in the walls. Ellie had committed to whatever she was making. This wasn’t a throw-it-together Monday. This was a you had a long day meal.
And then there was the console table.
The antique walnut one. Their table. Sitting there in the entryway like it always did, steady and warm under the hallway light. The vase sat in the center, empty and expectant. Waiting.
Dina’s eyes landed on it and held.
She thought once more of the business card in her pocket, heavy, like it weighed five pounds.
She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it for half a second. The quiet hum of the apartment wrapped around her—the faint clatter from the kitchen, water running, the low sizzle of something hitting heat.
She dropped her purse on the little bench by the wall and shrugged out of her coat, hanging it up carefully because she always did. The warmth sank into her shoulders now, into her fingers. She flexed them once.
She stepped in front of the mirror above the console table.
Automatic. She didn’t even think about it.
Her hair was still long, still dark, still doing what it wanted to do—curls loosened a little from the day, a few pieces frizzing at the temples. Her eyeliner had smudged faintly at the corners. Concealer worn thin. She straightened her cardigan over her chinos, tugged the hem down, smoothed it over her hips.
She looked… fine.
Tired around the eyes. A little flushed from the cold. Still herself.
Whatever. Ellie had seen her in literal hot rollers, in a swamp-green clay mask that made her look like a bog creature, in that humiliating faded Jonas Brothers World Tour T-shirt she refused to throw away on principle. Ellie had seen her cry over work. Seen her sick. Seen her half-asleep and drooling on the couch.
Ellie had never cared.
That thought warmed her and twisted something at the same time.
She pressed her lips together and blew out a breath through her nose.
She was being ridiculous. Checking herself in the mirror like this mattered.
The vase waited.
Dina reached for it, fingers curling around the cool glass.
She carried it down the hallway, past her bedroom on the left, Ellie’s on the right. Their doors open, as usual. Sheets rumpled in familiar patterns. The soft glow from the living room spilling out into the hall. The apartment felt lived in. Shared. Every inch of it touched by both of them.
She moved toward the kitchen at the end of the hall.
The sink was running. All the lights were on. Cabinets stood open like Ellie had moved through them fast and with purpose. A pan hissed on the stove, something sautéing hard and confident. A pot of stock sat on the back burner, steam curling up from it in steady waves.
Dina slowed as she reached the doorway.
She paused there, vase in her hands, heart beating a little too fast for someone who had just walked ten feet.
This was her favorite view.
It always had been, even before she’d admitted that to herself in the quiet way she admitted things she wasn’t ready to deal with. Ellie in the kitchen, apartment alive around her, the space warm and humming and purposeful. Home, in a way Dina didn’t think too hard about.
And there was Ellie—hair scraped up into a messy knot that had clearly been an early-day attempt and a late-day surrender, loose pieces brushing the back of her neck, one stubborn curl slipping free near her ear. She was bent at the waist, halfway swallowed by the refrigerator, one hand braced on the door while the other dug through the cheese drawer with serious intent.
Totally oblivious to Dina standing in the doorway.
Dina stopped herself from smiling too hard.
The vase pressed cool against her hip. The bouquet shifted softly in her grip, paper whispering when she adjusted her fingers. The kitchen lights were bright. The sink ran steady. Something on the stove worked quietly, low heat, the sound familiar enough that Dina could almost name the step Ellie was on without seeing it. The air held that thick, comforting smell that meant onions had been cooking patiently, butter fully committed.
Ellie shifted her weight, still bent over.
And—yeah. Dina looked.
She let her eyes drop because she always did, because it happened before she could filter it, because pretending otherwise would be a lie she didn’t even bother telling herself anymore. Ellie’s ass in those soft joggers she wore only at home, fabric worn thin in the way that came from comfort and repetition. Familiar. Distractingly familiar. Dina’s mouth pressed together as her breath hitched just slightly.
She had eyes. She was human. This wasn’t a crime.
God.
She’d seen this exact moment a thousand times—Ellie absorbed in the fridge, absolute tunnel vision, like nothing else existed beyond dairy options and internal decision-making. Dina could map it without looking: the exposed back of Ellie’s neck, the small freckle just below her hairline, the way her shirt rode up a fraction when she reached too far and forgot about the rest of the world.
Dina’s stomach tightened, quick and sharp. The feeling landed low, familiar enough to be dangerous if she let it stay too long. Her pulse picked up again, rude and insistent, and she shifted her weight slightly like that might help.
She exhaled through her nose and smirked to herself, because that was easier. Humor was her pressure valve. If she joked internally, she didn’t have to follow the thought all the way to the place where it got complicated.
Appreciating her best friend’s ass. Totally normal. Fine. Chill. Dina was excellent at chill.
Her fingers curled a little tighter around the vase, grounding herself in the solid weight of it, the quiet proof that she was here for a reason that had nothing to do with the way Ellie made her body react without trying.
She took one more second. Just one. Let herself look. Let herself breathe.
Then she stepped forward, the floorboard giving a soft creak under her feet.
Ellie shot upright like she’d been zapped, turning too fast, refrigerator door still hanging open behind her. A thin slice of cheese dangled from the corner of her mouth. The rest of the package stayed clutched in her hand like she hadn’t processed what part of this needed priority.
Her eyes went wide when she saw Dina.
“Jesus—”
The cheese lost its structural integrity mid-syllable.
It slid, slow and inevitable, peeling off her lip and dropping flat against her chest with a soft, tragic smack.
They both watched it land.
“Aww, shit—” Ellie grabbed for it and missed, fingers grazing the edge before it stuck there stubbornly, oil already soaking into the cotton of her favorite faded t-shirt. “No. No, no, no. Fuck.”
She stared down at herself like she’d been personally betrayed. Offended. Deeply wounded.
Dina didn’t even try to hold it in.
The laugh ripped out of her, sharp and bright, bouncing off the cabinets. It startled her how fast it came—how quickly the tightness from earlier cracked open. The cold from outside. The florist. The card in her pocket. All of it melted under the sight of Ellie frozen in the kitchen with cheese plastered to her chest like a dairy-based badge of shame.
Dina’s smile went softer around the edges. She felt it happen—how quickly humor turned into something warmer. The way her chest filled up in that dangerous, too-full way she kept ignoring.
God, she loved this idiot.
Loved her in the most inconvenient, bone-deep way. In the way that made her body relax the second she stepped inside. In the way that made the world feel aligned when Ellie was just… here. In joggers. With cheese on her tits. Swearing at dairy like it had malicious intent.
Her heart thudded again, heavier this time.
Dina stepped closer now, laughter tapering into a grin she couldn’t suppress. The warmth in the kitchen wrapped around her fully. Butter and garlic and wine and Ellie.
“You absolutely deserve that,” she said, voice teasing, eyes still bright. “Who eats cheese straight from the fridge like a raccoon?”
Ellie looked up at her, offended, a little defensive, a little amused despite herself.
“It’s called tasting while I cook,” she shot back. “Professional behavior.”
Dina shook her head, breath still uneven from laughing. She could feel how light she’d gone, how easy it felt to stand here trading nonsense. Her shoulders had dropped without her noticing. The tight coil from Carla’s voice and Mara’s smile had loosened into something manageable.
This. This right here.
How was she supposed to give this up?
The thought slipped in before she could stop it.
How was she supposed to trade this in for something new? Someone else?
The business card in her pocket felt even heavier now. Pressing against her thigh. A quiet reminder that the world expected forward motion.
Her eyes drifted over Ellie again—hair half falling out of its knot, t-shirt ruined, cheese still stick to her shirt.
Her chest squeezed.
Moving on meant stepping away from this. From kitchen disasters. From being the person who got to witness it. From being the one who saw Ellie like this—unguarded, ridiculous, fully herself.
Her laugh had faded, but the warmth hadn’t. It spread slow and steady, settling somewhere deep and stubborn.
She adjusted the bouquet in her hand, suddenly aware of it again. A bright, deliberate thing she’d brought home for Ellie without even thinking twice about it.
Her pulse ticked harder.
God.
What was she doing?
The question sat heavy and loud in her chest.
Ellie peeled the cheese off her shirt with exaggerated care, holding it up between two fingers like it was forensic evidence in a trial. She looked at Dina with that dumb, hopeful grin she always got when she knew she’d screwed up but fully intended to charm her way out of it.
“Well. Wow. Hello to you too,” she said, recovering instantly. “You’re late.”
Dina felt her mouth curve before she could stop it. Ellie’s tone was light, curious under it. Not accusing. Just noticing. Dina knew the difference.
Then Ellie held the slice out toward her. “Gruyère?” she offered, like it was a peace treaty.
Dina’s eyes went wide, horror blooming fast and theatrical. “Hard no,” she said. “I am not eating boob cheese.”
Ellie gasped softly, scandal threading through her voice like Dina had insulted her entire lineage. “Your loss.”
And then she took a bite.
Of course she did.
Dina shook her head, still grinning, warmth spreading slow through her ribs. The way Ellie moved through life with zero shame about things like this made Dina’s brain short-circuit in the best way. There was something wildly attractive about someone who would absolutely eat cheese off their own shirt without blinking.
God, that was a weird thing to think was attractive.
She set the vase down on the counter and unwrapped the bouquet carefully, fingers working the paper loose. The stems were cool and damp against her palm. She crossed to the knife block, pulled out the shears, and began snipping the ends at an angle, one by one. The clean, decisive sound grounded her. Focused her hands when her thoughts felt crowded.
“I’m late,” she started, “because I stopped at In Bloom on the way home,” she said, aiming for casual, keeping her back mostly to Ellie so she didn’t have to manage her face too hard. “For flowers.”
She heard Ellie shift closer before she felt her there. The warmth of her body at her side. The faint smell of onions and butter clinging to her shirt. Dina kept her breathing steady.
Ellie leaned in, looking down at the bouquet. “Oh,” she said, softer this time. “Those are really pretty.”
Her voice had that careful tone to it, like she was cataloging the details.
A louder hiss came from the pan on the stove and Ellie’s head snapped up. “Ah—shit. You distracted me.”
She rushed back to the stove, grabbing the pan handle and moving whatever was cooking with quick, practiced motions. Dina watched her shoulders move, the way she adjusted heat without even glancing at the dial. Ellie reached for a pot and ladled a scoop of dark, glossy stock into the pan.
It hit with a loud sizzle.
Steam rose fast, rich and meaty and deep. It filled the kitchen in seconds, curling into Dina’s nose and down into her lungs. Her mouth watered instantly.
“El,” she said, already halfway ruined by the smell, “what is that? It smells insane.”
Ellie looked over her shoulder at her.
And smiled.
It was open. Proud in a quiet way. The kind of smile she got when something she’d worked on was coming together exactly how she wanted. It hit Dina low in the stomach and flipped everything over.
“French onion soup,” Ellie said, stirring slowly now, folding the stock into the caramelized onions. “You love it.”
On the counter sat a loaf of bread, flaky and golden, waiting. And, obviously, the cheese.
Her favorite soup.
Dina inhaled again, slower this time, letting it sink in. French onion meant Ellie had planned. Had stood here and let onions break down properly. Had thought about layering flavor.
Ellie scratched at the back of her head with the hand holding the spatula, a little sheepish now that she’d announced it. “It’s been brutal out there,” she said. “You’re always cold when you come home.”
Dina felt that land.
Not in a loud way. In a quiet, devastating way.
Ellie noticed that. Ellie noticed her cold hands and the way she burrowed into blankets and the way her nose went pink in February. Ellie paid attention. Dina’s throat tightened slightly before she swallowed it down.
There was no world where she moved on from this.
Her heart didn’t operate like that. It didn’t reset. It didn’t trade steady warmth for hypothetical newness.
It stayed.
And right now it was standing in a kitchen that smelled like onions and stock and love, watching a woman who ate cheese off her shirt and made her favorite soup because she knew she’d be chilled.
Her pulse beat heavy and certain.
Her heart could never.
“Oh,” Dina said.
Her hands stalled mid-stem, fingers still curled around a pink ranunculus she’d been about to shift an inch to the left. She swallowed. Her throat felt too tight for something that was supposed to be simple.
“Thank you.”
It came out softer than she meant it to. Thinner. She cleared her throat immediately after, like she could smooth it out in post.
Eye contact lingered a beat too long. Ellie’s gaze stayed steady, open, uncomplicated. Dina felt heat creep up her neck in response, her pulse tapping harder in her ears. She turned back to the vase before the silence between them grew teeth. It already felt charged enough.
She placed the last of the flowers carefully, adjusting the eucalyptus so it framed the roses instead of swallowing them. Something to do with her hands. Something controlled.
A moment later the bouquet got nudged gently aside.
“Can you watch the onions?” Ellie asked, already moving. “I need to deal with the bread before I forget.”
Dina stepped into position automatically, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the caramelized onions slowly so they didn’t catch. They were deep and glossy, nearly jam. The smell made her stomach tighten again in that warm, anticipatory way.
Ellie slid the cutting board onto the counter and reached for the loaf. She pressed her palm lightly against the crust, testing it. Satisfied. The knife came down clean and confident, slices even without measuring. The oven clicked on behind her, heat building, that low mechanical hum settling into the background of the kitchen like it belonged there.
“So,” Ellie said easily, eyes still on the bread as she worked. “How was your day?”
Dina shifted the vase a few inches farther from the stove, protective instinct automatic, then rinsed her hands under warm water. The heat soaked into her fingers. She watched the suds swirl down the drain for a second longer than necessary.
“Long,” she said. She dried her hands slowly, buying time. “Carla cornered me at lunch. Patty and Monique jumped in.”
She leaned her hip against the counter across from Ellie, arms folding loosely, casual posture she did not feel.
“A lot of feelings,” she added. “Mostly other people’s.”
Ellie hummed, low and knowing. “Sounds like a normal Monday for you.”
Dina’s mouth twitched.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just the usual existential interrogation over leftovers.”
Ellie’s knife kept moving. Bread fell into neat rows. She brushed olive oil across the surface with quick strokes, sprinkled salt without looking like she needed to measure it. Then the tray slid into the oven with a practiced shove.
Ellie washed her hands, water running hot, towel already slung over one shoulder. She leaned her hip against the counter, facing Dina fully now.
Dina felt that shift in attention immediately.
Her pulse kicked once, harder.
“La Fontana was steady,” Ellie said. “Andre had me on onions all afternoon.” A small smile tugged at her mouth, the kind that showed up when she was half amused, half proud. “Diced and diced and diced. By the end, all I could think about was soup. French onion. For you.”
The words landed and stayed. Dina felt them settle low, warm and quick, spreading before she could brace for it. Her chest tightened anyway.
“Of course,” she said, because anything else would have cracked her open.
Ellie reached for the brandy and set it beside the pan, close enough that Dina felt the shift in air. “You can deglaze,” she said. “Slow pour. Keep the heat where it is.”
Dina took the bottle, fingers firming around the neck. She tipped it just enough, careful, measured. This was normal. This was what their evenings looked like when Ellie wasn’t stuck at the restaurant late—Dina home, sleeves pushed up, Ellie beside her, teaching without making a thing of it. Fancy things made simple. Simple things made intentional.
The pan answered with a sharp sizzle, steam blooming up fast, sweet and deep. Dina stirred, wooden spoon scraping the bottom, pulling all that dark, sticky goodness back into the onions. The smell hit her again and her stomach tightened, appreciative and a little wrecked.
“Easy,” Ellie said, closer now. “Circle the edges first. Then the center.”
Dina’s brain snagged on it. Just for a second. Either that was wildly suggestive or she was losing her grip. Probably the second one. She adjusted without thinking, wrist loosening, following the instruction like muscle memory had already filed it away.
Her heart kicked harder anyway.
Ellie stepped in behind her, close enough that Dina felt the heat of her through the cardigan—light, familiar, grounding and destabilizing all at once. Ellie’s eyes tracked the pan over Dina’s shoulder. Her voice dropped, soft with focus.
“There,” she said. “Let it drink it in.”
Dina swallowed.
Her hand kept moving because it had to. The spoon traced steady circles through the onions, scraping the bottom of the pan the way Ellie had drilled into her, lifting those dark, sticky bits back into the sauce. The brandy burned off in a warm rush, sweet and deep, steam curling up around her face and dampening her lashes. Her body hummed anyway—low and constant, a tight current running just under her skin that refused to settle.
“Okay,” Ellie murmured, still close. Close enough that Dina could feel the subtle shift in her breathing when the pan calmed. “Give it a minute. Let it cook down. Then add a ladle of stock—slow. You want it to thicken, not drown.”
Dina nodded even though Ellie couldn’t see her, chin dipping once. “Mm,” she managed, the sound coming out tighter than she meant. She reached for the ladle, grip sure through muscle memory and repetition, poured carefully, watching the liquid slide in and fold itself into the onions. She did it right. She always did. Ellie had taught her well, and Dina absorbed instructions like this instinctively, especially when Ellie was the one giving them.
Then Dina’s heart thudded, heavy enough that she felt it in her throat.
Ellie moved closer still. The space between them disappeared entirely. Her chin settled at Dina’s shoulder from behind, easy and familiar, the weight just enough to register. One hand came up to Dina’s elbow, fingers warm, guiding her arm with a light, precise touch. Dina’s pulse jumped hard at that—sharp and immediate—her chest tightening, breath going shallow without her meaning it to.
She fixed her focus on the pan. On the sound of the spoon. On the smell. On anything that wasn’t the fact that Ellie was right there, watching her, trusting her, touching her like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“Perfect,” Ellie said softly.
The word carried pride. Quiet and sincere.
Dina’s stomach flipped. She kept stirring. Counted the circles. Told herself—firmly, urgently—to keep it together.
Ellie shifted.
The space compressed. Heat gathered. Her presence slid closer without warning, subtle and unmistakable. Ellie’s nose brushed near Dina’s neck, just below her ear, breath warm enough to register. Dina’s eyes slid shut on instinct, lashes resting against her cheeks as her grip tightened on the spoon.
“Hm,” Ellie murmured, thoughtful. “You smell nice.”
The words landed slow and dangerous. A pause followed, then another inhale—deliberate this time, deeper, like Ellie was confirming something for herself.
Dina’s heart slammed hard enough to make her dizzy. She felt it everywhere: in her throat, loud and insistent; in her ears, rushing; down her spine, a sharp line of awareness that made her toes curl in her socks. A wild thought flashed through her—whether Ellie could feel it, whether the pulse in her neck gave her away.
This crossed a line. Didn’t it?
The thought hit fast and sharp, cutting through the haze in her head. Ellie hadn’t needed to lean in like that. Hadn’t needed to breathe her in. Dina’s pulse told on itself immediately, pounding hard and frantic, and for one terrifying second she wondered if Ellie felt it too—if she’d noticed the way Dina had gone still, the way her breath had stuttered. If that pause had been on purpose. If Ellie knew exactly what she was doing.
The idea made Dina’s chest go tight.
Because maybe—maybe Ellie felt something too. Maybe that warmth wasn’t one-sided. Maybe the closeness had weight for her as well, not just convenience or habit. Maybe Ellie leaned in because she wanted to. Because she liked the way Dina smelled. Because she liked being that close.
Except—
Ellie had always been like this. Close. Easy with space. Comfortable in ways that ignored edges Dina had learned to respect. It hadn’t happened all at once. It had crept in, slow and subtle, after the move to Brooklyn, after Dina’s breakup, after their lives folded tighter together and there was less room to breathe without brushing up against each other. Touches that lasted a second longer than necessary. Proximity that never quite corrected itself.
Ellie had always touched people. Shoulders. Arms. Backs. She was warm like that. Unbothered by it.
Dina had never had friends who did things like this.
Until Ellie.
So this had to be that. Ellie being Ellie. Comfort mistaken for meaning. Familiarity taken for granted because it had always been there. Dina’s brain clung to the explanation hard, desperately, because anything else made her chest feel too small to breathe in.
She was looking for something that wasn’t there. That was it. Carla had gotten into her head. The lunch table interrogation. The way Monique had smiled. The way Mara had said date like it was simple. Of course she was hypersensitive now. Of course she was reading heat into breath and intent into proximity. She’d been thinking about Ellie all day in a way that made everything feel heightened. Charged. She was primed to find meaning.
That didn’t mean there was any.
She opened her eyes and swallowed, throat working around the pressure there. “It’s—um,” she said, voice thin and unsteady despite her best efforts. “My new perfume. Vanilla Skin.”
Ellie hummed, pleased, the sound low and approving. Then she straightened, stepping back toward the counter like nothing monumental had just occurred.
The loss of her warmth hit immediately.
Dina stood there, spoon still in her hand, onions simmering patiently, the kitchen suddenly too quiet. Her body buzzed—aching, keyed up, restless in a way that had nothing to do with food. Want pooled low and sharp, unwelcome and undeniable, aimed squarely at the woman who had just inhaled her like it meant something.
She stared down into the pan, breath uneven, pulse refusing to calm.
And for the thousandth time that day, the thought rose up, heavy and relentless:
How the hell was she supposed to get over Ellie?
They were stretched out on opposite ends of the couch, Pluribus murmuring along in the background like it existed purely to keep them company. Dina barely registered the plot anymore. The sound lived somewhere behind her ears, a soft rhythm she’d absorbed over weeks of watching this show beside Ellie, half paying attention, half watching Ellie’s reactions instead.
Sylvia had claimed the top of the couch like it was a throne, her pristine white body draped elegantly along the back cushion. Her tail hung down in a lazy curve, flicking every so often with mild judgment. Her pale eyes tracked the television for a few seconds, then drifted off to some unseen dimension where cats apparently handled important business. Dina felt fond just looking at her. Their weird little family, arranged exactly how it always ended up.
Dina’s legs were thrown across Ellie’s lap.
She hadn’t announced it. There had been no moment of decision. Her ankle had drifted closer first, bones brushing Ellie’s thigh. Ellie’s hand had followed like it belonged there, settling warm and familiar. A squeeze, gentle and affirming, like punctuation.
And then time passed. A few minutes. Maybe more.
Now Ellie was rubbing her foot.
Slow. Automatic. The kind of touch Ellie did when she was thinking about something else entirely. Her thumb pressed into the arch with steady confidence, fingers braced around Dina’s heel, adjusting easily when Dina’s toes shifted. The motion carried the certainty of repetition. Ellie knew this body. She knew how it held stress, where it collected, how it softened when handled right.
Her thumb found the place beneath the ball of Dina’s foot. The place Dina carried long days and tight shoulders and quiet endurance. The place that made her breath catch when it was pressed just right.
Ellie always found it.
The pressure stayed even. Warm. Intentional in a way that felt almost unfair. Dina felt herself give in piece by piece, her calf loosening first, tension unspooling in a way she hadn’t realized she’d been holding onto all evening. Her knee sank heavier into Ellie’s thigh, weight settling there like it trusted the landing. Her spine eased deeper into the couch cushions, shoulders melting back as if gravity had decided to be kinder.
Her body responded fast. Too fast. Faster than her thoughts could line themselves up into anything useful.
Ellie’s thumb shifted into slow circles, then dragged down the center of Dina’s foot, deliberate and easy all at once. Dina felt the sensation echo upward, heat blooming low in her stomach, breath catching sharp before she smoothed it out again. Her toes curled, reflexive. Her pulse picked up, loud in her ears.
This was normal. This was what their nights looked like. Couch. Show. Cat. Ellie’s hands doing things like this because that was how Ellie moved through the world—physical, attentive, tuned in. Dina told herself that as her thoughts scattered anyway, slipping sideways despite her best efforts.
Her awareness sharpened around the contact. Around the way Ellie’s fingers shifted to follow her foot when it moved, like Ellie’s attention stayed anchored there even while her eyes stayed on the screen. Around the way Dina’s skin felt suddenly more awake everywhere else too. Her ankle. Her calf. The back of her knee where it pressed into Ellie’s leg.
Her chest felt full. Tight. Alive.
Dina swallowed.
Her skin felt hypersensitive. Every nerve in her body rerouted toward Ellie’s hand like it had been called to attention. She could feel the texture of her fingers with humiliating clarity—the slight roughness from years of knife work, the subtle drag of calluses along the softer skin of her arch. The warmth in her palm. The steady strength in her grip. It felt specific. Personal. Detailed in a way that made her chest tighten.
From across the room, it would read simple. Casual. Two women on a couch. A foot rub during a show.
Inside Dina’s body, it felt seismic.
Her pulse started that uneven sprint again—too fast, too loud, climbing up her throat and settling there like it wanted to be heard. She shifted a fraction, instinctively, trying to cool it down, trying to redistribute the heat gathering low in her stomach.
Ellie adjusted without even looking.
Her fingers tightened around Dina’s heel. Her thumb pressed deeper into the exact place that made Dina’s breath leave her in a soft, unplanned exhale. The sound slipped out before she could swallow it back. Her toes curled reflexively, calf tightening, then releasing under Ellie’s steady pressure.
God.
It was so easy for her.
That part lodged somewhere sharp. Ellie wasn’t performing. There was no side glance, no teasing lift of her mouth, no sense that she understood what she was doing. Her eyes stayed on the television. Her posture stayed loose. She just kept rubbing Dina’s foot like it belonged there in her hands.
Like Dina belonged there.
Dina’s chest felt too small for her lungs.
She tried to redirect herself to the show. Two characters on the screen were pacing around each other with painful restraint, every conversation thick with things they weren’t saying. Dina watched for about three seconds before her attention drifted right back to Ellie.
The slope of her jaw in profile. The faint crease between her brows when she concentrated. The way her lips pressed together slightly when she was invested in a scene. A loose strand of hair had fallen near her temple, catching the light from the television. Dina’s eyes tracked it. Wanted to reach out and tuck it back.
Her stomach dipped hard.
“God,” Dina muttered, voice coming out thinner than she meant it to, because Ellie’s thumb had found that tender spot again and pressed in with slow, knowing pressure. “It’s so obvious they’re going to end up together.”
Her calf tightened under Ellie’s hand. She hoped it passed as a reaction to the show.
Ellie hummed, low and distracted. “Yeah.”
Dina turned her head more fully this time, watching Ellie instead of the screen. She studied the line of her mouth. The way her throat moved when she swallowed. The casual confidence in her body, sprawled and comfortable and unaware of the storm happening inches away.
“Like,” Dina added, aiming for breezy, but hearing the edge in it anyway, “just kiss already. It’s embarrassing.”
Ellie’s mouth tipped faintly at one corner. A small, private smirk. Her eyes stayed on the television.
“Some people need time,” she said.
Dina’s stomach dropped clean through her body.
The words sat there. Simple. Neutral. Heavy.
Her brain started running in loops immediately. Time for what. Time to figure it out. Time to risk it. Time to admit it. Her heart thudded harder against her ribs, each beat knocking into the next without rhythm.
Ellie’s hand never stopped moving.
Slow circles. A drag down the center. Her thumb pressed in again, steady and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world.
The rhythm didn’t change. It held. Press. Ease. Circle. Drag. Her fingers anchored around Dina’s heel, firm and warm, the contact so secure it made something in Dina’s chest ache. Her foot relaxed against her will, muscles giving in one by one. The weight of her leg sank deeper into Ellie’s lap. Her toes curled, flexed, then went still—as if her body had quietly signed a contract her brain hadn’t reviewed.
Heat pooled low in her stomach.
That was the problem.
Her thoughts lost their shape. The show flattened into background noise, dialogue dissolving into a hum she couldn’t follow. She felt everything else instead. The precise pressure of Ellie’s palm. The faint texture of her skin. The give of the couch under her spine. The steady, trusting weight of Sylvia above them, tail flicking lazily against the back cushion.
Her pulse hammered, uneven and persistent. Each beat felt like it landed in her throat. She swallowed again, wondering if Ellie could feel it through her ankle—if there was some subtle tremor giving her away. Her breath skimmed the top of her lungs, shallow, like she was conserving it.
Ellie leaned forward slightly, adjusting her posture.
Dina felt it everywhere.
The shift brought her closer. The side of Ellie’s thigh pressed more firmly against the back of Dina’s knee. The warmth of her body seeped through the thin fabric of her joggers and into Dina’s skin. Dina’s gaze drifted up without asking for approval. The curve of Ellie’s shoulder. The line of her collarbone beneath her t-shirt. The slow rise and fall of her chest.
Her mouth went dry.
This wasn’t new. They did this all the time. Ellie had always been like this—handsy in the most casual way, generous with touch, grounded in proximity. Dina had learned to live inside that without interrogating it.
Tonight, it felt amplified.
Her nerves buzzed under her skin. Her body responded to every micro-movement Ellie made, like she was tuned specifically to her frequency. When Ellie’s thumb pressed deeper again, Dina’s hips shifted a fraction on the couch before she could stop it. The motion was subtle. She hoped it passed as comfort.
Ellie’s other hand lifted absentmindedly to scratch at her own jaw, then dropped back down to Dina’s foot without breaking rhythm.
Dina watched her do it.
Watched the tendons move beneath her skin. Watched the small crease form at the corner of her mouth as she focused on the show. Watched the way her fingers flexed before settling back into place.
Her brain kept circling the same thought: she doesn’t even know.
That was the part unraveling her. Ellie wasn’t leaning into this. She wasn’t pushing. She wasn’t teasing. She was just here. Close. Warm. Steady. Like she trusted this space completely.
Dina’s heart pounded harder.
The air between them felt charged in a way she couldn’t name out loud. It vibrated just beneath the surface of everything normal and domestic. Couch. Cat. TV. Foot rub. The familiar ingredients of their evenings, arranged in the same order they always were.
Only Dina felt like she was sitting on the edge of something.
Her eyes slid down again, helpless. The way Ellie’s thumb dragged slowly along the center of her foot made her stomach tighten in a sharp, almost embarrassing way. Her body reacted first. Always first. Her thigh tensed. Her breath caught. A flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks.
She shifted, trying to regulate, and Ellie adjusted again—pressing in a little firmer, holding her heel a little steadier.
Dina’s mind went hazy.
It felt intimate in a way she couldn’t explain without sounding unhinged. It was just a foot rub. People did this. Friends did this. Best friends did this.
Her pulse kicked again, wild and insistent.
Tonight it felt different. Sharper. Louder inside her.
Her foot shifted again, a small, involuntary roll of her ankle like her body was searching for more contact without consulting her brain first. Ellie adjusted instantly. Her grip changed. The pressure slid higher, thumb dragging up past the arch, fingers traveling with it.
Then Ellie moved her hand to Dina’s calf.
Slowly. Absentmindedly. Like it made complete sense.
Her palm wrapped around the muscle just below Dina’s knee and squeezed, testing the tension there. Her thumb pressed into the side of it, working upward in a slow line.
Dina’s entire body went hot.
Her breath caught, sharp and quiet, and she felt it ripple through her ribs. Ellie’s thigh was right there beneath her leg. The warmth of her body. The solid, steady presence of her. Dina’s brain flashed a reckless image before she could stop it—shifting forward, swinging her other leg over, climbing into Ellie’s lap fully instead of draping herself halfway across it like this. Settling there. Hands braced on Ellie’s shoulders. Feeling the shape of her beneath her palms. Ellie’s hands moving from calf to thigh.
The image hit fast and vivid.
Her stomach flipped hard.
She swallowed it down, heart slamming so loudly she felt dizzy for half a second. She stared at the television like it could rescue her. Focus. Be normal. This had always been normal. She needed it to stay that way.
Except she was reading into it.
She always did.
Every brush of fingers. Every lean-in. Every lingering look. She cataloged them like evidence. Then she told herself she was dramatic.
Her pulse pounded anyway.
Ellie’s thumb pressed into her calf again, kneading slow and deliberate, and Dina’s knee bent slightly in response. Her leg felt heavy in Ellie’s lap. Claimed in a way that made her chest feel tight.
She couldn’t keep sitting here, pretending this was neutral while her body reacted like this meant something monumental.
Dina cleared her throat, eyes fixed stubbornly on the screen. “Why are you doing that?”
Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
Ellie blinked and finally looked down at their tangle of limbs, like the question hadn’t occurred to her until that second. “Doing what?”
“Massaging my feet,” Dina said. She aimed for teasing. Light. It landed softer than she intended, something warm threaded through it she couldn’t quite strip out.
Ellie’s mouth curved faintly. She shrugged one shoulder, easy and unconcerned. “You were complaining about them this morning.”
“I complain about everything,” Dina said quickly. Her calf tightened under Ellie’s hand and she hated that she couldn’t control that.
“Yeah,” Ellie replied, mild and certain. “Because you work ten-hour days listening to people unload their lives on you. You’re allowed.”
Her thumb pressed in again. Slower. Deeper.
Dina’s breath thinned.
Ellie squeezed her gently, grounding, anchoring her leg in place. Her hand stayed there, warm and steady.
“I just like when you relax,” she said. “That’s all.”
That’s all?
The words settled into Dina’s chest and expanded there, heavy and impossible to ignore.
Her heart thudded once, hard enough to make her toes curl again.
That’s all.
Like this was simple. Like this wasn’t dismantling her from the inside out.
The feeling hit her all at once, hard and bright.
Dina’s heart kicked so sharply it stole the top layer of her breath. She pulled air in through her nose, slow and controlled, like she was talking herself down from something she didn’t want anyone else to see. Her calf flexed in Ellie’s hands without asking permission from her brain, muscle jumping at the contact. Heat climbed her neck, settled under her jaw, flared behind her ears.
Her body had opinions.
Her eyes dropped immediately, drawn straight to Ellie’s hands where they wrapped around her calf. One hand steady at the back of her leg, the other moving with that quiet confidence Ellie had about touch—thumb pressing, circling, adjusting like she knew exactly what lived there. The pressure wasn’t gentle. It was attentive. Like Ellie had filed this away years ago and was pulling it out now without thinking.
Dina swallowed.
“Okay,” she said, because her mouth needed something to do and that word asked nothing of her. No explanations. No follow-up questions. Just a sound to prove she was still functioning.
Ellie’s thumb kept moving. Slow circles. Consistent pressure. She glanced up and smiled at Dina, soft and easy, like this was comfortable territory. Like nothing in the universe felt off-balance to her right now.
Dina’s stomach dipped.
Her brain whispered, barely above the noise of her pulse—does she feel this too?
Her body was already yelling. Leaning into Ellie’s grip. Letting her calf loosen a fraction at a time. Letting her knee settle heavier into Ellie’s thigh like it belonged there. Her shoulders sank deeper into the couch cushions, spine easing like it had been waiting for this exact moment to give up the fight.
Then—because her timing was impeccable in the worst way—her mind dragged up Mara’s business card.
Thick cardstock. Clean edges. Their name printed neat and intentional. A personal number underneath it, bold enough to mean something. The ask to text. The offer of a date that sounded… nice. Easy. A human with interest and initiative and a complete lack of emotional landmines.
The card felt like it was actively burning through her pants right now.
She’d hesitated all night with it sitting there, fingers brushing it like it might explode if she acknowledged it too directly. Because acknowledging it meant admitting she was stuck. Because moving forward meant deciding whether she was brave enough to stop orbiting Ellie and actually find out where she stood.
Except—
What if she didn’t have to be brave in a noble way?
What if she could be a little messy? A little strategic. What if she could casually mention the card and see what happened? See if Ellie reacted. See if her mouth tightened. See if anything cracked.
An objection. A reaction. A sudden, perfectly timed confession of undying love that Dina could absolutely pretend she hadn’t been wishing for her entire adult life.
God, she was an idiot.
The card might as well have been radioactive in her pocket.
Ellie’s thumb dragged slowly up her calf again, pressure firm and steady, like she was smoothing out tension she’d memorized years ago. Dina’s leg responded immediately, muscle softening, knee sinking heavier into Ellie’s lap. Of course it did. Her body had never been subtle where Ellie was concerned.
Could she use it?
The card. The offer. The fact that someone else had looked at her and said, yeah, I want that.
Could she really be okay dangling the possibility of a nice date with a genuinely nice person just to see if Ellie would finally react like this mattered to her too?
Her pulse jumped at the thought.
Ellie’s hand stayed warm and sure on her calf, thumb kneading slow, unhurried, like there wasn’t a single question mark in her head. Like this space was solid ground.
Dina’s mouth twitched despite herself.
God, she was an awful person.
Also—she was absolutely going to do that.
If Ellie wanted her, she’d say something. She had to. Dina couldn’t keep living in this suspended state where every night felt loaded and every touch rewired her nervous system. She needed something to shift. One way or the other.
Her throat tightened.
She cleared it, small and controlled, even though her nerves immediately took that as a starting gun. Butterflies shot straight up from her stomach into her chest, flapping wildly, crowding her throat. She could feel her heartbeat in places it didn’t usually show up.
She turned her head toward Ellie before she could talk herself out of it.
“Mara asked me out,” she said.
It came out as a blurt. No easing in. No clever framing. Just straight out of her mouth like she’d tripped over it.
Ellie’s hand stopped.
Just—stopped. Fingers still wrapped around Dina’s leg, thumb resting against the muscle, grip warm and solid but suddenly motionless. The lack of movement landed loud in Dina’s body. Her calf tensed instinctively, like it was waiting for the rest of the sentence.
Ellie turned her head, brows pulling together. “Wait—what?”
Her face was open. Genuinely confused. A little startled. Which, fine. Dina had absolutely dropped that in the middle of a completely normal couch situation.
Dina held her gaze, even though her pulse was doing something frantic and unhelpful. “When I went to buy the flowers,” she said, slower now, voice softer, like volume control might keep this from detonating, “Mara—the shop owner—asked me out. On a date.”
The word sat there between them, heavy and exposed.
Ellie didn’t start rubbing her leg again.
She lifted her eyebrows slightly, head tilting as she processed it. “Oh. Mara. Yeah.” A nod, thoughtful. “They’re nice.”
Dina’s stomach dipped.
A beat stretched.
“So… when are you going out with them?”
Ellie’s expression stayed carefully curious—eyebrows raised, mouth faintly parted, eyes searching Dina’s face for more information. The look made sense. Curious was reasonable. Curious was what you were when your best friend told you something unexpected.
Dina’s heart thudded anyway, hard enough she felt it behind her eyes.
God, come on, Ellie. Give me something. A flinch. A tightening. A single territorial twitch.
She kept her gaze steady even though every instinct told her to look anywhere else. Her calf was still cradled in Ellie’s hand, fingers curved around her foot like it belonged there. The massage hadn’t resumed. The stillness felt deliberate now. Charged.
Dina drew in a breath, shallow and careful. “No—well. I didn’t say yes or no.” She tried for casual and landed somewhere tight. “I told them I’d think about it.”
Ellie’s thumb remained resting against the arch of Dina’s foot. Warm. Present. Unmoving.
“And?” Ellie asked.
Her voice came out even. Curious. Almost gentle.
She held eye contact.
Dina felt it physically, that eye contact. It pressed into her chest. Ellie’s gaze was steady in a way that looked relaxed if you didn’t know her. Dina knew her. Knew the way Ellie’s jaw went just a fraction tighter when she was bracing. Knew the faint pause before she blinked.
Ellie blinked now.
“And did you think about it?” she prompted.
Dina’s stomach flipped.
She wanted to look away. She wanted to laugh it off. She wanted to say something flippant and deflect. Instead she stayed exactly where she was, eyes locked on Ellie’s, because this mattered.
“I guess,” she said slowly, feeling each word on the way out, “that’s what I’m doing now.”
Her pulse climbed into her throat.
Then, because she was either brave or self-destructive, she added, softer but sharper at the same time, “What do you think? Should I?”
There it was.
She could have said do you want me to?
She could have said would that bother you?
She could have said tell me not to.
This was as close as she could get without ripping her chest open on the coffee table.
Ellie’s face shifted.
It happened quick. Dina watched it like she was studying a weather pattern. The curiosity lingered for half a second too long. Then a slight crease formed between Ellie’s brows. Her jaw flexed. Subtle. Controlled. Her grip on Dina’s foot tightened a fraction, enough that Dina felt the pressure change.
Ellie’s throat moved when she swallowed.
Then the corner of her mouth tilted upward. Not a smile. Something steadier. Something chosen.
“I think,” Ellie said carefully, voice measured in a way that made Dina’s chest ache, “you’ve been single for a while.”
Her thumb pressed once, firm against Dina’s arch, like punctuation.
“And if you think Mara could make you happy…” She held Dina’s gaze. Held it. “Then you deserve to be happy.”
The words landed soft.
They hit like a brick.
Dina felt something inside her drop straight through her stomach and settle heavy at the bottom. Her hopes didn’t shatter dramatically. They just folded in on themselves, neat and quiet, like someone turning off a light in a room she’d been standing in too long.
She kept her face steady.
Dina nodded once.
It felt rehearsed. A clean, efficient motion. The kind of response that suggested maturity and emotional literacy and the ability to exit a conversation without bleeding all over the furniture. Her neck moved before her chest could catch up. Her chin dipped, settled, held.
There it was. The answer she’d technically asked for.
Ellie hadn’t told her to go. Ellie hadn’t urged her forward with bright enthusiasm or a pep talk about new beginnings. Ellie also hadn’t cracked, hadn’t reached for her, hadn’t said anything reckless or raw or true enough to stop Dina’s heart outright. What Ellie had given her lived in that careful middle space she occupied so well. Thoughtful. Kind. Unselfish.
Dina understood it instantly.
You deserve happiness. If someone else can give you that, take it.
It was generous. It was decent. It was the sort of thing that made people fall in love with Ellie without even realizing it had happened.
It landed in Dina’s chest and stayed there, heavy and quiet.
Her mouth pulled into a shape that could pass for agreement if nobody looked too closely. Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug that felt borrowed from someone else’s body. “I don’t know,” she said, aiming for casual and hitting thin. “Maybe I’ll give them a chance.”
The words tasted strange. Like she’d picked them up off the floor and decided to use them anyway.
Ellie nodded.
“Cool,” she said, easy and light, like Dina had just told her she was thinking about trying oat milk.
She turned her head back toward the television. Her attention followed, smooth and complete. For a beat, her hand stayed where it was—still wrapped around Dina’s calf, warmth lingering, fingers curved in the shape they’d memorized over the last half hour. Dina felt every second of that pause stretch inside her ribs.
Then Ellie shifted.
“Sorry,” she said, distracted, already leaning forward. “I can’t reach my water.”
The request broke the spell cleanly.
Dina moved on instinct, legs swinging off Ellie’s lap as she straightened on the couch. The space where her body had been cooled almost immediately. Ellie reached for the glass on the coffee table, fingers closing around it. Dina kept her eyes trained on the screen, then failed at that and watched anyway—Ellie’s throat working as she drank, the tilt of her head, the familiar rhythm of it.
They sat apart now.
Ellie set the glass down and settled back into her spot, posture upright, shoulders squared to the television. Dina adjusted the hem of her shirt, crossed one ankle over the other, folded herself into a shape that fit the new distance.
Pluribus played on. The episode carried itself to the end without needing them.
They watched the rest of it like that.
Separate.
The couch felt wider. The air felt thinner. Dina sat with her hands folded loosely in her lap like she was waiting for a meeting to end. The show kept moving—voices rising, dramatic music swelling, the two idiots on screen still orbiting each other with all the urgency of people who would absolutely make out in the next episode. Dina barely tracked it. Her body was busy adjusting to the absence of Ellie’s hands.
Her calf still tingled where Ellie had been holding it. Her skin remembered the pressure. It buzzed faintly, like a phantom limb. She shifted once, subtle, testing the space between them. It held. Cool. Untouched.
Sylvia’s tail flicked lazily above them, a soft thump against the back of the couch. Dina stared at the screen and tried to swallow the feeling that something had quietly tilted out of alignment.
Nothing more was said.
When the end credits rolled, Ellie reached for the remote. The screen froze on the final frame before fading to black.
Ellie stood.
The stretch was familiar—arms lifting overhead, back arching slightly, shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin at her waist. Dina’s eyes betrayed her immediately. She watched the stretch. Watched the way Ellie’s ribs expanded with a long breath. Watched her shoulders roll back.
Sylvia chirped softly as Ellie reached up to pat her head. “Night, queen Syl,” Ellie murmured, fingers brushing between her ears.
Then, casually—too casually—Ellie spoke.
“Are you good if I clean the kitchen tomorrow morning?”
Her tone carried a gentle edge of fatigue. She didn’t face Dina fully. Her body angled toward the hallway. Her eyes skimmed over, sideways, a glance that felt careful.
“I’m really tired,” she added, voice softer now. “I want to get some rest. Long day tomorrow.”
Dina looked at her.
Really looked.
Her chest tightened with the effort of it. She tried to catch Ellie’s eyes and hold them there, willed her silently to turn fully, to face her head-on, to offer some flicker of something unscripted.
Jealousy. Hesitation. A crack.
Ellie’s gaze met hers briefly. Green and steady. A little heavy-lidded with exhaustion. No sharpness. No storm behind it. Her mouth rested in a neutral line that softened at the corners.
She looked… fine.
Tired, yes. A faint shadow under her eyes. A slight slump in her posture that said long day. Her jaw relaxed. Her breathing even. Nothing about her face suggested she had just encouraged the person she loved—or probably didn’t love, Dina corrected herself automatically—to go explore someone else.
Dina’s heart thudded once, hollow and low.
“Yeah,” she said. Her voice cooperated. “That’s fine. No worries.”
Her hands tightened briefly in her lap before she forced them loose. She made herself nod, small and agreeable. Easy roommate energy. Chill best friend energy. Girl who is absolutely not spiraling energy.
Ellie held her gaze a fraction longer this time. Dina searched her face for a tremor. A tightening. A micro-shift in her mouth.
There was none.
“Well,” Ellie said quietly. “Night.”
The smile she gave her was small. Tired. Soft at the edges.
Dina’s lungs squeezed.
“Night,” she replied.
The word came out even. Controlled. It did not match the sensation unfolding in her chest.
Ellie turned toward the hallway.
Dina stayed seated.
She felt it then—clean and unmistakable. The way hope could collapse without noise. No dramatic crash. No visible break. Just a quiet folding inward. A settling.
No protest. No interruption. No tell me not to.
Her throat burned suddenly and she swallowed it down hard. Her ribs felt too tight around her lungs. She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and breathed through her nose, steady and measured, because she refused to let this turn into something messy on a random Monday night.
Sylvia hopped down from the back of the couch and padded across the cushion, tail brushing Dina’s shoulder as she passed. Dina reached out automatically, fingers stroking soft white fur, grounding herself in something warm and uncomplicated.
The apartment felt different.
Same furniture. Same low hum of the fridge. Same faint scent of the vanilla skin perfume she’d put on earlier, still clinging to her collarbone.
Different.
Ellie disappeared into the hallway.
Dina sat there a second longer, staring at the black television screen.
Her reflection stared back alone.
The couch behind her stretched out in the dark glass—one long shape, empty on the other end. The cushion where Ellie had been still dipped slightly, a faint impression in the fabric that would disappear by morning. For a split second Dina’s brain tried to supply the missing outline. Ellie’s shoulder. The slope of her head. The familiar curve of her spine angled toward her.
The space stayed blank.
Her reflection looked steady.
She didn’t feel steady.
From down the hallway, Ellie’s door shut. A soft click. Ordinary. Final.
It moved through Dina’s chest slow and heavy.
She stayed seated for one breath. Two. Her hands rested on her thighs, fingers splayed like she’d just been told to hold still. The apartment felt different in that quiet way you only notice when something shifts emotionally. Same couch. Same cat hair on the armrest. Same faint hum of the fridge. Something underneath it had changed temperature.
If Ellie had wanted her, she would’ve said something.
The thought wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t come with fireworks. It just settled. Calm. Brutal. True.
Dina stood before she could sink any deeper into it.
The kitchen light snapped on and made everything sharp. Plates in the sink. The pan Ellie had used still sitting on the stove. The wooden spoon resting beside it. Ellie had cooked. Of course she had. She always did. She’d moved around this kitchen earlier with that quiet focus, tasting the sauce, nudging Dina’s hip out of the way with her own, asking about her day like she cared about every detail.
Dina swallowed.
Ellie had said she’d clean in the morning.
Dina rolled up her sleeves anyway.
It wasn’t martyrdom. It wasn’t some silent message. It was simple math. Ellie cooked. Dina cleaned. That was how they worked.
Her hands slid into warm dishwater. The heat stung slightly at first. She welcomed it. The sponge scraped across ceramic. A steady rhythm. Something to do besides stand there replaying the conversation.
You deserve to be happy.
The words came back to her in Ellie’s voice. Measured. Thoughtful. Generous.
Generous hurt.
If someone else can make you happy…
Dina’s jaw tightened.
She dried a plate harder than necessary and forced herself to ease up before she cracked it. She wasn’t angry at Ellie. That was the worst part. Ellie hadn’t been cruel. She hadn’t been careless. She’d been kind. She’d given Dina exactly what a good friend would give.
Dina didn’t want good friend.
She wanted selfish. Messy. More.
Her chest ached at that admission. It sat low and solid, pressing outward against her ribs.
She wiped down the counters slowly. Every pass of the cloth deliberate. The stove. The knobs. The faint splatter near the backsplash. She cleaned like she was smoothing something inside herself at the same time.
Just because Ellie hadn’t stopped her didn’t mean Dina stopped caring.
That part wasn’t optional. It was woven in too deep. Into the way she knew how Ellie liked her tea. Into the way she listened for her keys in the door. Into the way her body had melted under her hands without a second thought.
She rinsed the last glass and set it carefully into the dishwasher. The click of the rack sliding home sounded louder than usual. She pressed start. The low hum filled the kitchen, steady and indifferent.
She leaned back against the counter.
Her pocket felt heavy.
The card had been there all evening. Burning quietly. She reached in and pulled it out, smoothing it flat between her fingers. Mara’s handwriting curled confidently across the surface. Clean lines. Direct number.
Someone had looked at her and wanted her.
That mattered.
It should matter.
Her thumb traced the edge of the card. She tried to picture Mara’s face. The easy smile. The way they’d leaned across the counter just slightly closer than necessary. Interest clear. Uncomplicated.
Uncomplicated sounded… peaceful.
Dina pulled her phone from her back pocket.
Her hand hesitated over the screen. She could still feel the ghost of Ellie’s thumb pressing into her arch. Her calf had twitched under her touch. Her body had known exactly what it wanted.
Ellie had chosen distance.
That was the fact.
Dina inhaled slowly, deep enough it pulled tight against her chest. She unlocked her phone and added the contact. Each letter deliberate. M-A-R-A.
Her heartbeat picked up, not with excitement. With grief.
She typed.
Dina: Hey Mara, it’s Dina. So, where is this date going to be?
She stared at the message. It looked casual. Brave in a normal way. Like something a person who wasn’t in love with her best friend would send without overthinking it.
Her thumb hovered.
If she waited longer, she’d talk herself out of it. She’d invent reasons. She’d decide tomorrow was better. She’d keep orbiting the same question for another month. Another year.
She pressed send.
The message disappeared up the screen.
Her stomach dropped gently, like missing a step in the dark. Not catastrophic. Just disorienting.
It felt like something inside her had shifted its weight permanently. The part of her that kept hoping Ellie would turn around and say wait loosened its grip. Not gone. Just… quieter.
Dina locked her phone and set it face down on the counter.
The kitchen light buzzed softly overhead. The dishwasher hummed. Down the hall, silence.
She stood there a moment longer, breathing evenly, letting the ache settle where it wanted to settle.
Moving on didn’t mean she stopped loving her.
It meant she stopped waiting for her.
In hindsight, it wasn’t weird to be on a date this close to Valentine’s Day. Mara had asked her out on Monday. Dina had said she’d think about it. Friday arrived whether she felt emotionally prepared for it or not.
Friday the thirteenth.
She’d actually snorted at that on the subway, because of course. Why not layer a little horror-movie energy on top of an already fragile situation.
Restaurants were always slammed in the city. You could pick a random Tuesday in March and still have to elbow your way into somewhere decent. So Valentine’s weekend? Forget it.
When Mara had texted that they’d gotten a reservation at Vespero—a friend works there—Dina had paused mid-step on the sidewalk.
Vespero.
Lower Manhattan. Glossy. The kind of place people took photos of their cocktails at.
She’d felt that small, socially appropriate flare of impressed. The kind you’re supposed to feel when someone pulls a connection for you. Someone made an effort. Someone wanted to make this feel like an occasion.
She’d typed back something warm and normal and date-appropriate.
Then her brain had immediately supplied: Ellie is going to hate this.
Vespero was La Fontana’s more famous rival. The Manhattan Italian spot. Flashy. Hip. Full of people who said things like “notes of citrus” about wine they didn’t actually understand.
Ellie hated Vespero. Hated the chefs. Hated the way people acted like it was superior because it had a Tribeca zip code. She’d gone on a whole rant once while chopping parsley, hands flying, knife flashing.
“They’re on the island,” Ellie had said, disgust threading through her voice. “La Fontana isn’t.”
Dina had leaned on the counter, smirking. “Brooklyn is literally on—”
“Don’t,” Ellie had cut in, pointing the knife at her. “You know what I mean.”
She had known.
Dina could hear the exact cadence of it now, sitting at a candlelit table at Vespero, watching the waitstaff move like they were in a commercial.
And there she was. In the restaurant Ellie hated. On a date.
With someone who was very objectively adorable.
Mara looked good. Navy button-down, sleeves pushed up, a watch that caught the light when they reached for their glass. Hair styled with that deliberate casualness Dina always appreciated. They leaned forward when she spoke. They listened. Actually listened. Their smile showed up easy and stayed a second longer than politeness required.
Charming. Kind. Funny. Engaging.
And not Ellie.
Dina hated that her brain kept supplying that final note.
She shifted in her chair, smoothing her napkin across her lap. The table was small. Intimate. Candle flickering between them. A low, curated hum filled the room—glasses clinking, a burst of laughter from the bar, the faint sizzle from the open kitchen.
The open kitchen.
Of course Vespero had an open kitchen.
Dina’s eyes flicked that way once, involuntary. Flames licking up under a sauté pan. A chef plating something with tweezer precision. She could practically feel Ellie’s disdain radiating from across the river.
Stop, she told herself. Focus.
Mara was mid-story about Valentine’s rush at the shop, hands moving animatedly.
“I had a guy today,” they said, shaking their head, “who walked in at five on the dot and said he needed something grand. I asked him what that meant and he said ‘just… grand.’”
Dina laughed, warm and real. “That is not a helpful adjective.”
“Exactly,” Mara said, leaning in. “So I told him if he wanted grand, he needed to show up before I’d sold out of half the grand.”
Dina’s smile lingered. She liked that. She liked the edge in Mara’s humor. She liked the competence. The way they spoke about their work with pride.
She’d worn something nice. That had taken more mental energy than she wanted to admit.
Not sexy. She wasn’t trying to reinvent herself. She’d chosen an outfit that felt like her on a good day—structured trousers, fitted top, blazer that made her shoulders look strong. Gold hoops. Hair down. Makeup done with care but not drama.
She’d stood in front of her mirror earlier and tilted her head, evaluating. Her heart had been doing that restless thing it did when she was about to make a decision she couldn’t undo.
Ellie had walked past the bedroom doorway then. “You look nice,” she’d said, casual. Neutral. No lingering.
Dina had felt that land somewhere low and sore.
This whole week had been like that. Ellie wasn’t avoiding her. Ellie wasn’t snapping. Ellie was… restrained. Measured. Polite in places she used to be loose.
Fewer touches in the kitchen. No chin on her shoulder. No absentminded hand at her waist when passing behind her. No late-night hovering in the doorway.
Dina told herself it was normal. She had told Ellie she was going on a date. Of course things shifted.
It still irritated her.
Across the table, Mara was watching her with soft curiosity.
“You okay?” they asked gently. “You went quiet.”
Dina realized her fingers were gripping her wine glass too tight. She loosened them deliberately.
“I’m good,” she said, and made it sound real. “Just thinking about your peony boundaries.”
Mara laughed. The sound eased something in Dina’s chest.
She leaned forward, elbows brushing the edge of the table. Stay here. Be here.
“So,” she said, tilting her head, “is this week your Super Bowl? Or is Valentine’s just… contained chaos?”
“Contained chaos,” Mara said. “I like structure. Panic is more manageable when it’s scheduled.”
Dina’s mouth curved. She tracked the micro-shifts in Mara’s face—the way their brows lifted before a joke, the tiny crease at the corner of their eyes when they smiled for real.
She asked follow-up questions. She listened. She let Mara talk about Queens, about helping their mom in a bodega, about watching people when they were in a hurry and learning what that revealed.
Dina liked that. Observational. Grounded.
She nodded slowly. “You’re basically running informal psychological studies at the register.”
Mara grinned. “Occupational hazard.”
Dina felt herself warming. Not fireworks. Not the dizzy, low-in-the-stomach pull she associated with Ellie. Something steadier. Pleasant.
Her phone buzzed in her purse.
Her heart launched into her throat.
She didn’t move.
Mara kept talking, unaware. Dina forced her breathing to stay even. It could be anyone. Carla. A spam email. A black hole somewhere in the universe.
Ellie?
The thought came sharp and unwelcome.
Ellie hadn’t texted her all week unless it was logistical. Groceries. Trash night. Soup’s on.
Dina hated that she wanted a crack in that composure.
She hated that she’d half-expected Ellie to react bigger to the idea of this date. To say something reckless. To say don’t.
Instead she’d gotten: You deserve to be happy.
Generous. Thoughtful. Mature.
Dina swallowed against the heat rising in her chest and dragged her attention back to Mara.
“So what made you open your own place?” she asked, leaning in. “That’s not small.”
Mara’s fingers brushed hers briefly when reaching for the bread basket. Intentional. Testing.
Dina felt it. A spark of awareness that had nothing to do with history or habit. Just two adults at a table.
She didn’t pull away.
She also didn’t lean in further.
She was trying. Really trying.
She held Mara’s gaze. Let the room blur at the edges. Let the candlelight flicker between them.
She could do this. She could show up. She could be fair to the person across from her.
Even if Vespero’s open kitchen kept dragging her mind back to a woman in Brooklyn who’d spent the week treating her like something fragile and off-limits.
Mara was blushing now. It started at their collar and worked its way up, pink creeping into their cheeks in a way that felt unguarded. They ducked their head a little, fingers circling the base of their wine glass.
“Okay,” Mara said, breath hitching with a nervous laugh. “I need to preface this with the fact that Luce in Imagine Me & You was so effortlessly cool, and I absolutely wanted to be her.”
Dina’s laugh came out loud and surprised. She leaned back in her chair, shoulders loosening for the first time since she’d sat down. “No you didn’t.”
“I did,” Mara insisted, laughing harder now, rubbing at the back of their neck. “I was, like, fourteen and fully convinced I was destined to own a flower shop and ruin marriages.”
Dina’s grin widened. That felt good. Familiar. Safe territory.
“Please,” she said, shaking her head. “Every queer person saw that movie and had a minor identity crisis. I had a whole folder of Luce screenshots at one point.”
Mara’s eyebrows shot up. “You did not.”
“I did,” Dina said, pointing a finger at them, amused. “And I refuse to feel shame about it. It’s a rite of passage. You watch it, you fall in love with the idea of being devastatingly cool and owning a flower shop, and then you calm down eventually.”
Mara’s shoulders dropped, tension easing. The embarrassment softened into something warmer. “Thank you,” they said, voice quieter. “I thought I just tanked my game entirely.”
Dina held their gaze and smiled. Steady. Gentle. “You’re fine. Your game is intact.”
She could see it land. The way Mara’s jaw relaxed, the tiny exhale through their nose. Dina cataloged it automatically.
Smile. Be attentive. Make space.
Fake it til you make it.
She hated that thought. She pushed it aside immediately.
She wasn’t faking the kindness. That part was real. Dina was good at this. She had to be. You didn’t survive as a clinical children’s social worker without knowing how to read a face, how to adjust your tone by half a degree, how to tell when someone needed reassurance versus teasing.
She watched Mara’s micro-reactions the way she did with parents in intake sessions. The shift in posture. The relief in their eyes. The way their fingers stopped fidgeting once they felt understood.
She was very good at people.
It came with the territory.
Dinner had arrived a few minutes ago, plates set down with quiet ceremony. Dina’s lemon ricotta agnolotti sat in a shallow bowl, brown butter pooling in golden arcs around the pasta, sage leaves crisp and dark against the pale folds. The scent hit her first—bright citrus cutting through the richness. She’d gone lighter on purpose. She always gravitated toward acidity, something that kept things from feeling heavy.
Mara’s black truffle tagliatelle was dramatic in comparison. Dark ribbons of pasta glistening under a snowfall of pecorino, mushrooms tucked between strands like they were hiding. Earthy and decadent and very Vespero.
Dina speared a piece of agnolotti with deliberate care, bringing it to her mouth. The lemon hit clean. The ricotta soft. The butter rich without tipping over.
She closed her eyes for half a second before she could stop herself.
It was good. Objectively.
Her brain, traitor that it was, immediately supplied: Ellie would say it needs more salt.
She swallowed and forced her face into something neutral.
“Speaking of game,” Mara said, cutting into their pasta, glancing up at her with a playful tilt to their mouth. “What do you think of this place? Was it worth the reservation flex?”
Ah.
There it was.
The inevitable question.
Dina felt it before she answered—the tightening in her chest, the split-second where she had to choose which version of herself was speaking. The honest one. The careful one. The one trying to prove she could be here without thinking about a restaurant in Brooklyn and the woman who worked there.
She set her fork down slowly. Bought herself a second.
“It’s… impressive,” she said first, because that was safe. “The lighting alone probably costs more than my student loans.”
Mara laughed, pleased.
Dina let her gaze drift around the room. The bar packed shoulder to shoulder. The couples leaning in close over candles. The servers gliding past with plates held high. The open kitchen gleaming in the back.
“It’s good,” she added, meaning it. “The pasta’s balanced. The lemon isn’t overdoing it.”
Balanced.
Ellie’s voice in her head again.
She took another bite to ground herself in the actual present moment—the texture of the pasta, the warmth of the bowl in her hands, the low hum of conversation around them.
Mara watched her closely. Not anxiously. Curious. Hopeful.
Dina felt that and softened a little.
“It was a solid flex,” she said finally, lips curving. “I feel very Manhattan right now. Slightly insufferable.”
Mara’s grin widened. “I was hoping for that.”
She met their eyes and held it. Let the joke land. Let the warmth settle between them.
Her heart still carried a low, persistent ache. A background hum. Ellie-shaped.
She pressed it down gently and lifted her glass instead.
“I appreciate the effort,” she said, and meant that part fully.
She did. That was real. Mara had wanted this to feel like something.
The food was good. It was.
Expensive for what they were given, if she was being honest with herself.
And still.
La Fontana—Ellie’s La Fontana—felt different.
The quality. The portion size. The way a plate there felt abundant without being messy. The way the food tasted layered instead of loud. It felt curated with care. It felt like walking into someone’s kitchen who wanted you fed properly. It felt like an Italian grandmother insisting you sit down and eat more while she swatted your hand away from helping.
It felt like comfort.
Vespero felt like performance.
Dina swallowed another bite and pressed her tongue lightly to the roof of her mouth, grounding herself in the present.
She could not sit here and say, actually, this isn’t as good as my gay, currently emotionally avoidant roommate’s cooking at the restaurant she is actively trying to level up in.
That would be unhinged.
She lifted her glass instead, letting the stem cool her fingertips. “It’s a good friend that can get you into such a nice place.”
Mara’s face brightened immediately, shoulders relaxing with visible pride. “It’s actually an ex,” they said, smiling. “Years ago. We realized we worked better as friends. She’s waitstaff here. Fortunately she’s not on tonight, so she can’t embarrass me.”
Dina’s brows lifted. “Oh?”
Mara leaned in slightly. “She would absolutely walk by and announce to the entire section that I once tried to make a charcuterie board and forgot the cheese.”
Dina laughed, sharp and warm. “That is a crime.”
“I know,” Mara groaned. “I’ve grown since then.”
They were charming about it. Self-aware without being self-deprecating. Comfortable in their own history. Dina admired that. Truly.
Mara’s hand rested near the edge of the table, palm open, posture angled toward her. Attentive. Present.
Dina felt the quiet nudge inside herself—give more. Don’t sit back. Don’t let this be one-sided observation. She had to try. Actually try.
“Ah,” she said, tilting her head with a teasing smile. “Queer exes turned friends. The unavoidable canon event.”
Mara laughed into their wine. “It’s practically required.”
“Are you friends with your exes?” Mara asked, curiosity soft, fork hovering before they took a bite.
Dina felt the question settle in her chest before it hit her face. She cut into another agnolotti slowly, buying a second.
“Well,” she said, glancing up, “not really. But not for red flag reasons, promise.”
Her mouth curved faintly. She could feel her pulse in her throat, steady but aware.
“My last ex was three years ago,” she continued, keeping her tone light. “And he was a man. So the likelihood of being friends with him is sitting comfortably at zero.”
Mara laughed, quick and easy. “No explanation necessary.”
They twirled their tagliatelle thoughtfully, then looked back at her. “Three years single? Was he that bad, or just personal preference?”
There it was.
Dina felt the weight of it in her ribs.
Three years.
She shifted slightly in her chair, one ankle crossing over the other beneath the table. The candlelight flickered between them. The open kitchen hissed faintly in the background.
She took a slow breath through her nose.
“Not bad,” she said carefully. Honest. “Just… wrong.”
Her fingers tightened briefly around her fork before she relaxed them.
“He wanted things I didn’t,” she added. “Or maybe I wanted things he couldn’t give.”
That felt safer. Vague enough to hold. True enough not to taste like a lie.
She did not say: I was already in love with someone else.
She did not say: I have been orbiting the same woman for years.
She did not say: I keep hoping she’ll finally stop being so decent and tell me not to go on dates like this.
Instead, she met Mara’s eyes and held them.
“After that,” she said, voice softer now, “I just… focused on work. On my life. On getting stable.”
She shrugged lightly, but she felt the edge of it inside. The truth that three years had passed in a blur of shared rent and shared groceries and shared routines with someone who felt like everything and nothing official all at once.
Her heart thudded once, heavy and low, like it had dropped a floor inside her chest and was waiting to see if she’d follow.
Conversation had been flowing. Easy. Light. And then Ellie slid back in, uninvited and permanent, filling the space between Dina’s ribs like she owned the lease.
Dina’s mouth pressed thin for a second before she smoothed it out. She could feel the shift in her face, the way her eyes had gone a little distant. She forced them back to Mara. Candlelight caught in the rim of their glass. The low hum of the dining room settled around them again.
“No,” she said, drawing in a slow breath, fingers tracing the stem of her wineglass. “Weirdly, the breakup barely grazed me.” She gave a small huff of a laugh, one shoulder lifting. “Work just… takes a lot. Emotionally. It drains the tank most days. By the time I’m home I’m tapped. So it’s been work, going home, living with Ellie, existing. That’s kind of the loop.”
Her voice stayed steady. Even. She could hear how composed she sounded.
Half true.
Work did take a lot. It hollowed her out some days. She carried stories home with her whether she wanted to or not. What it didn’t take—what it never seemed to get its hands on—she handed to Ellie without even noticing. The sharp parts. The soft parts. The pieces she protected from everyone else.
Mara listened. Really listened. Their expression didn’t flicker into calculation. No visible concern about what this meant for tonight. No subtle tightening around their mouth at the mention of the roommate.
They just held her gaze.
Dina felt that. Filed it away. Appreciated it.
“It’s hard to find someone who understands me,” she added, quieter now. She felt exposed and couldn’t quite tell why. “How I move through things. How I process. I’m… a lot of feelings with a decent poker face.”
Her lips curved faintly.
Mara nodded, warmth softening their eyes. “That tracks,” they said gently. “You give a lot at work. You’re probably going to need someone who gives right back. Someone who doesn’t just take the polished version.”
The words landed square in her chest.
Dina’s jaw shifted slightly as she nodded. “Yeah. Exactly.” She swallowed. The next part came out before she’d measured it. “And I kind of already have that with Ellie. People just… don’t get it.”
There.
It hung between them.
A small, fragile offering she hadn’t meant to place on the table.
Pause.
Mara didn’t jump in. Didn’t rush to fill it. They waited.
Dina kept talking, because silence suddenly felt dangerous.
“I mean—Ellie.” She exhaled through her nose, a breath that almost trembled. “She’s a great friend. She cooks. She makes sure I eat when I forget. She notices if I’m cold and hands me a hoodie without making a big deal out of it. She’ll refill my water before I realize it’s empty. It’s—”
She shrugged, aiming for breezy. Casual. Her fingers fidgeted against her napkin, smoothing an invisible crease.
“It’s comfortable.”
The word felt heavier once it was out.
Comfortable.
It sounded small. Contained. Safe.
It did not capture the way Ellie’s presence settled her nervous system. The way a single look from her could unravel an entire day’s worth of tension. The way Dina’s body oriented toward her without instruction.
Mara tilted their head slightly. No flinch. No interruption. Just a thoughtful shift, like they were placing a piece on a board and considering their next move.
“Can I ask you something,” they said carefully, voice soft but direct, “and have it not turn into a weird date moment?”
Oh no.
The words landed in her stomach with weight.
Oh no, she had done it.
She’d given too much. Let Ellie bleed through the cracks. She could feel heat rising up her neck now, a slow climb. Her pulse picked up, tapping against her throat. She held Mara’s gaze anyway, chin lifting half an inch out of reflex.
Her brain was already scrambling.
Backpedal. Clarify. Make it a joke. Do something.
She could feel the shift in her own body—the way her shoulders went tight, the way her jaw set before she consciously told it to relax. Heat crawled up the back of her neck. Her pulse ticked harder in her ears.
Dina nodded, because that was easier than refusing. “Yeah. Of course.”
Her voice sounded calm. She was proud of that. Internally she was bracing.
She absolutely did not want to answer what was coming.
Mara held her gaze steadily. No smirk. No gotcha energy. Just open curiosity.
“You talk about your roommate like… she’s not just your roommate.”
There it was.
The words landed soft. They still hit like a punch.
Dina’s stomach dropped in a slow, unpleasant roll. She felt it all the way down to her lap, like she’d missed a step in the dark.
She had denied this a million times since senior year of university. Denied it in dorm rooms. Denied it over cheap wine. Denied it to men she dated. Denied it to women she almost dated. Denied it to Carla across a lunch table while Carla raised an eyebrow that could split stone.
Denied it so often it felt rehearsed.
But Mara wasn’t accusing her. Mara wasn’t smug. They were looking at her like they were asking something careful. Like the answer mattered.
Dina’s throat tightened.
She could lie. She was very capable of lying politely. She could pivot. She could say people misread closeness all the time.
Instead, she exhaled.
The breath left her in a long, tired line. She felt it in her chest, in her shoulders, in the way her body seemed to sag slightly against the back of her chair.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “Well.”
Her eyes flicked up to Mara’s, then away again.
“She’s not.”
Mara blinked, confusion softening their expression. “Not what?”
Dina dropped her gaze to her plate. The agnolotti had cooled. The butter was starting to congeal at the edges. She poked at it with her fork like she could rearrange the truth into something easier.
“She’s not just a roommate,” she said finally.
The words felt heavier out loud than they had in her head.
“I’m sorry,” she added immediately, because the guilt came rushing in right behind it. “I know that’s not exactly what you want to hear on a date with me.”
Her heart thudded hard once, then again.
“But it’s the truth,” she continued, voice thinner now. “And I’m kind of spiraling about it.”
There.
Said.
The air between them shifted again, deeper this time. Dina forced herself to look up, bracing for discomfort. For annoyance. For the subtle closing-off she’d seen before when people realized she came with emotional complications.
Mara shrugged gently instead. Their smile was small and kind.
“Dating women,” they said lightly, “means accepting that at some point, at least half of us have been in love with our best friends.”
Dina felt her breath hitch.
“And,” Mara added, one corner of their mouth lifting, “it’s not like I didn’t assume you two were dating every time you came into the shop together. It’s kind of obvious.”
They laughed softly, no cruelty in it.
Dina’s face went hot. She could practically see herself in those shop visits—standing too close, laughing too easily, reaching for the same bouquet at the same time.
“Tell me more,” Mara said, leaning in slightly. Their elbows rested near the edge of the table, posture open. “Why are you spiraling?”
Way too kind.
Dina swallowed.
She let out another breath, this one more exhausted than dramatic.
“It’s not… like that,” she said, the words clumsy in her mouth. She shook her head faintly. “For her, I think.”
Her fingers twisted the stem of her wine glass without realizing it.
“It’s not mutual,” she said. The admission scraped on the way out. “We’re actually just friends.”
She forced herself to hold Mara’s gaze through that.
“It’s just easier,” she added, shoulders lifting in a small shrug that felt defensive even to her own ears. “It works.”
Her chest felt tight as soon as she said it.
She knew exactly how that sounded.
Easier.
Works.
Words people used when they were negotiating with themselves.
What she didn’t say was that easier meant safe. That works meant Ellie stayed in her kitchen, in her living room, in her orbit. It meant no detonations. It meant no packing boxes. It meant no dividing up shared mugs and the good knives. It meant Sylvia still curled up between them on the couch like nothing fragile existed underneath.
Across the table, Mara tilted their head, studying her with the kind of patience Dina recognized from therapy rooms.
“Okay,” Mara said gently. “Walk me through that. Works how?”
Dina’s pulse ticked hard in her throat. She felt it in the hollow just above her collarbone. Her tongue pressed briefly to the back of her teeth while she bought herself a second.
Her knee bounced once under the table before she forced it still.
“It works,” she said slowly, choosing each word with care, “because I don’t have to risk losing her.”
There it was.
The truth landed between them, heavy and exposed. Dina felt it in her chest like she’d just set something fragile down without wrapping it first.
She didn’t say she loves her.
She didn’t say she wants her.
She said she’s protecting something.
Mara’s expression shifted, softened. No flinch. No irritation. Just a small, steadying inhale.
“I don’t want to be the risk you take so you can avoid risking her,” Mara said. Calm. Clear. No edge.
The words hit clean.
Dina realized she’d been holding her breath and let it go slowly, like air leaking from a tire. Her shoulders lowered a fraction. Her spine softened against the chair.
She dropped her gaze to her hands in her lap. Her fingers had twisted the napkin into a tight rope. She smoothed it out with her thumb, focusing on the texture of the linen, on the quiet scratch of fabric against skin.
A small laugh escaped her, soft and disbelieving.
“God,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Her voice felt steadier once it was out. Lighter, even. Like naming it had removed some of its power.
Mara didn’t gloat. They just watched her with that open, unguarded face that made Dina’s chest ache in a different way.
Dina nodded once, mostly to herself.
“I’m really sorry,” she said, lifting her eyes again. She held their gaze this time. “I walked in here thinking I needed to fix myself. Like I could just decide to be over her and make it true. That’s… unfair to you.”
Her mouth tightened briefly.
“I don’t know how to untangle from her,” she admitted. “And dragging you into that because I’m impatient with myself? That’s not something I’m proud of.”
Her heart thudded once, firm and low.
Mara’s smile came easy.
“I had a good time,” they said, and it sounded grounded. Real. “You’re smart and funny and you care about things in a way that’s… intense. I like that.” They paused, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “I just think we’d be better as friends. And honestly? The people who spend their days holding everyone else together usually need someone to sit across from them and let them talk it out.”
Dina felt her throat tighten unexpectedly.
God, Mara was kind of wonderful.
She hoped, sincerely, that someone met them with their whole chest one day. Someone who wasn’t mentally mapping the East River every five minutes.
Dina nodded, her smile softer now.
“You’re right,” she said.
Mara’s grin turned playful again, some of the weight lifting from the table.
“Let’s call the date officially concluded,” they said lightly. “We can still hang out until we’re ready to head out. No weirdness. Just two people who like talking.”
Something in Dina’s chest loosened for real this time.
“Deal,” she said. Then she lifted a finger, mock-serious. “On one condition.”
Mara raised their brows.
“You do not try to talk me into confessing my feelings to Ellie tonight. I am absolutely not equipped for that. I can barely handle sitting here without my heart acting like it’s in a spin class.”
She exhaled through her nose, half-laughing at herself.
“I don’t think I could survive her saying she doesn’t feel the same,” she went on, quieter now. “And then what? We still live together. We split rent. We share a bathroom cabinet. We share a cat.” Her eyes widened slightly. “We share a cat, Mara. Do you understand how catastrophic that could get?”
Mara blinked, processing, then gave a slow nod.
“Fair,” they said. “Although I do feel obligated to inform you that co-parenting a cat ranks extremely high on the queer domestic scale.”
Dina dropped her face into her hands.
A muffled groan escaped her.
“Oh god it does, doesn’t it?” she said dramatically, peeking through her fingers. “It’s aggressively gay. We argue about which wet food she prefers. We have a shared Google doc for vet appointments. It’s… so gay.” She whined.
Mara laughed, bright and easy, and Dina joined in. The sound felt clean. Honest. It shook something loose in her ribs.
For the first time all night, her smile came without effort. It reached her eyes. It felt like her.
And even though Ellie wasn’t hers—had never been officially, cleanly hers—Dina felt the pull home anyway. Strong and steady.
She wanted her couch. She wanted the low light of their living room. She wanted to hear Ellie moving around in the kitchen, pretending not to hover.
She wanted to go home.
Fifty minutes later Dina was on the subway back toward Brooklyn, a plastic container of lemon ricotta agnolotti in a white paper bag. The brown butter had slid to one corner. Sage leaves plastered themselves to the lid. She hadn’t meant to abandon it like that. One minute she’d been cutting into it, the next she’d been unraveling six years of emotional repression across a candlelit table.
Now her leftovers were commuting home with her.
To Ellie.
The irony made her jaw tighten.
She shifted in her seat as the train rocked hard through a curve. The of the container rattled softly. She pressed her palm over the lid to steady it, like she could contain the mess that way. Her reflection in the subway window flickered in and out between the tunnel lights—gold hoops catching briefly, eyeliner still intact, mouth set in a line that looked firmer than she felt.
She had insisted on splitting the check.
Actually insisted.
The memory made her lips twitch faintly. She could still see the server hovering with the leather folder, feel the stubborn set of her shoulders as she reached for her card. Pride, yes. Also damage control. That had not been a date. That had been a deeply personal disclosure wrapped in candlelight and overpriced pasta. She refused to let someone else pay for that privilege.
They’d ended it warmly. Clean. A promise to join game night sometime in the future floated between them, light and friendly. Bonus points if she brough Ellie.
Of course.
Dina had smiled, composed, filed it away as a maybe.
And now here she was, barreling under the river with half a dinner she barely tasted and a promise to maybe bring the woman she was actively unraveling over.
Her stomach rolled gently.
First she had to go home.
First she had to see Ellie.
And hope Ellie would even look at her long enough to say something real.
Her jaw flexed.
Ellie hadn’t been silent this week. There had been words. Logistics. “Did you grab the recycling?” “I’ll be late.” “Dinner’s in the fridge.” Entirely normal sentences spoken in entirely normal tones.
And still.
The air between them had shifted. Fewer touches. Fewer lingering looks. Fewer casual brushes in the kitchen. Ellie had moved around her like someone adjusting to new furniture placement. Careful. Measured.
Dina felt it in her body every time.
The train lurched again. Dina’s shoulder bumped lightly against the metal pole beside her. She exhaled through her nose and reached into her bag for her phone, the container rustling when she moved.
Her thumb swiped the screen awake.
11:34 PM.
Almost midnight.
The subway car was mostly empty—three women spaced apart, coats zipped high, eyes down, headphones in. The overhead lights flickered slightly as they passed through another stretch of tunnel. The hum of the train settled into her bones.
It was a short walk from the stop. Eight minutes if she cut across Montague instead of taking the longer route past the grocery store. She pictured the stoop. The brass handle on the front door. The smell that always hit before she even turned the key.
Her chest tightened.
She was about to darken the screen when she saw it.
A red bubble.
One.
Her pulse kicked once, hard and sudden.
She remembered the vibration in her purse at the restaurant. Remembered glancing down at the notification banner. Then Mara had said something that pulled her attention completely sideways.
She hadn’t checked it.
Her thumb hovered over the Messages icon.
Her heart started climbing into her throat in a slow, deliberate way that irritated her. It moved up inch by inch, steady and dramatic, like it wanted to make a point.
It could be anything.
She thumbed the Messages app.
The first favorites bubble sat at the top. Ellie’s face from last Halloween—cheap black eyepatch tilted slightly crooked, eyeliner smudged into deliberate stubble, a crooked pirate grin that she’d insisted on committing to all night. Dina could still feel the weight of the faux-corseted wench dress she’d worn, the way Ellie had grabbed her waist at some point and declared, in a terrible accent, that she was commandeering her for rum-related crimes.
They’d both been pirates. Dina a dramatic tavern wench. Ellie a rum-toting scalawag with far too much commitment to the bit. They’d gotten slightly too into character. There had been a moment in the backyard in Queens where Ellie had bowed low, kissed the back of Dina’s hand, and said something filthy in pirate dialect that had made Dina laugh so hard she nearly dropped her rum runner.
Her stomach went a little floaty at the memory.
Ellie didn’t text much this week. Just logistics. Trash night. “Be careful walking home.” “Cold tonight.” The kind of texts that lived in the responsible roommate column. Dina had assumed this unread message was more of that. A weather alert. A news article about someone getting mugged three blocks over. A gentle reminder to carry pepper spray and avoid dark corners.
She clicked it.
It was a picture.
Taken from behind the couch in the living room. The angle familiar enough that Dina could place Ellie’s exact standing position. Their dark wood floor stretched toward the front door. The antique walnut console table sat steady against the wall, vase centered just right, the bouquet Dina had arranged earlier perched there now, pink and white catching the lamp light.
The white front door was closed.
And Sylvia sat directly in front of it.
Perfectly upright. Tail curled neatly around her feet. Head lifted, ears forward, eyes trained on the door like it might open any second if she concentrated hard enough.
Under the picture:
Ellie: sylvia keeps looking at the door for you
Dina’s breath shifted. Just a little.
Oh.
Interesting.
That was… conversational.
That wasn’t “did you grab milk” or “heat’s acting weird.” That was Ellie choosing to send her something. Choosing to share a small moment from home. Choosing to narrate Sylvia’s vigil.
Her chest warmed in a slow, quiet way.
She zoomed in on the picture without thinking. The edge of the couch. The rug slightly crooked from where Sylvia probably sprinted across it earlier. The flowers where Dina had placed them. Ellie had left them there.
Sylvia waiting.
For you.
Dina’s stomach tightened gently.
It had been sent an hour ago.
She glanced at the timestamp again. Forty-eight minutes, technically. Ellie had taken the picture. Typed the text. Sent it. Then presumably gone back to whatever she was doing. Cooking. Sitting on the couch. Existing in the same apartment Dina had just left.
Dina didn’t reply.
She could have. A quick “Tell her I’m on my way.” Something light. Something flirty-adjacent. Something that said I saw this and it did something to me.
Instead she looked at the phone held in her hand for a second longer than necessary.
She’d be home soon.
Replying felt… unnecessary. Also dangerous. Her brain was already spinning. She didn’t trust her tone right now.
Still.
It made her feel extra homesick.
Which was ridiculous. She’d been gone barely three hours. She was coming back with a plastic container of barely touched agnolotti and a head full of unresolved tension. Homesick implied distance. Implied longing.
Her chest gave a small, traitorous squeeze anyway.
The train rattled through another stretch of tunnel. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Dina shifted in her seat, knees angling toward the aisle. The woman across from her coughed softly into her scarf. Somewhere down the car, a pair of headphones leaked tinny bass.
Out of habit, her thumb opened Instagram.
She didn’t decide to. It just happened. Muscle memory. Scroll to quiet the noise in her head.
Dina scrolled.
Her thumb moved automatically, the same slow flick she used in waiting rooms and on bathroom breaks and during particularly long commercial breaks. The algorithm had no idea she was underground, rattling toward Brooklyn with her stomach in knots. It didn’t care. It just kept serving.
First post.
A carousel from some lifestyle account she followed once during a Sunday-cleaning phase. Soft, honeyed lighting. A woman in an oversized cream sweater stirring soup in a heavy Dutch oven. Steam rising in a way that felt curated.
The caption read:
Build the kind of love that feels like home.
Dina’s jaw tightened so subtly she almost missed it.
She tapped to the next slide out of morbid curiosity.
Two ceramic mugs on a windowsill. Steam curling upward in twin ribbons. A gray cat wedged between them, tail flicking lazily against one mug like it belonged there.
Her stomach gave a slow, annoyed drop.
She scrolled before the third slide loaded.
Of course.
The train rocked gently as it curved under the river. The lights in the tunnel streaked past the window in long bands of white, flashing across her reflection. For a split second she saw herself layered over the dark glass—eyes a little too bright, mouth set in a way that suggested she was arguing internally with someone who wasn’t present.
She adjusted her grip on the phone.
Next post.
A bookstagram account she forgot she followed during a phase where she convinced herself she had time for literary self-improvement. A highlighted quote over a photo of a dog-eared paperback tossed across rumpled white sheets.
You can be deeply loved and still deeply afraid.
Her thumb paused.
She stared at it longer than she meant to. The train hummed around her. Someone’s sneaker squeaked faintly against the floor.
Deeply loved.
Her chest tightened.
By who?
Her brain supplied Ellie’s face without asking. The way she looked standing in the kitchen light. The way she said “You deserve to be happy” like it cost her something.
Afraid.
Dina swallowed.
Her pulse ticked faster, climbing up into her throat again in that deeply inconvenient way.
She scrolled again, a little harder this time, thumb snapping upward with more force than necessary. The motion felt defensive. Petty. As if she could outpace the universe by sheer aggression.
Next.
A random reel. Cramped kitchen. Bad overhead lighting. Two women shoulder to shoulder at a stove that clearly had one working burner. The caption reads:
POV: you’re dating someone who insists on tasting the sauce before it’s ready.
The video loops. One woman reaches for the wooden spoon. The other smacks her hand away with mock outrage. They’re both laughing, bodies bumping into each other, hips knocking against cabinets that have seen better decades.
Dina exhales through her nose.
Of course.
Her brain, unhelpful and thorough, supplies a vivid image of Ellie at the stove. Wooden spoon in hand. Dina hovering at her shoulder. Ellie swatting her wrist away with that exact look. The one that says I love you but also you ruin this, I ruin you.
Her stomach tightens.
She scrolls again.
And there it is.
A photo so sharp it almost feels intentional.
Perfectly sliced steak, medium rare, edges charred just right. Pink center glistening under warm kitchen light. Chimichurri spooned thick and uneven across the top, green pooling between the slices. It looks juicy. It looks excessive. It looks familiar in a way that hits her square in the ribs.
The caption reads:
made too much for just one person
Dina’s thumb freezes.
Her pulse spikes.
She looks at the handle.
@smellieellie.
Of course.
She leans back slightly in her seat, the subway car swaying beneath her, and zooms in without thinking. The cutting board. That board. The one they bought together in Williamsburg because Ellie had insisted the wood grain mattered. Dina had rolled her eyes at the price and bought it anyway. There’s a faint knife mark near the bottom left corner from the time Dina cut too aggressively while ranting about insurance paperwork.
Ellie made that.
Their steak.
The steak they always make together on days off. The one that involves a cast iron preheated to near violence. The one where Dina stands too close and steals the first slice every single time. The one with the dumb little song they made up on how to cook the perfect steak that devolved into nonsense halfway through.
Ellie never made that without her.
Not once.
And now she’s made it. On the night Dina is out on a date.
Made too much for just one person.
Dina’s jaw tightens.
Was that deliberate?
Her heart thuds hard enough she feels it in her throat.
It had to be.
Ellie had never, in six years, casually decided to cook that meal solo. They did it together. It was ritual. It was loud and messy and involved Dina dancing around the kitchen with tongs while Ellie pretended to be irritated.
Now there’s a carefully plated photo and a caption that reads like a pointed sigh.
What the hell, Ellie?
Half silence all week. Sylvia waiting by the door. And now this?
Made too much for just one person.
The words press into her chest.
Dina’s fingers tighten around her phone. The plastic container in her bag shifts when she moves. The subway lights flicker overhead and her reflection flashes across the dark window again—eyes wide now, jaw set.
It irritates her.
Actually irritates her.
How could Ellie—
And then post it?
That’s the part that gets under her skin. Cooking it is one thing. Fine. Maybe she was craving steak. Maybe she had a long shift and needed protein and self-soothing.
Posting it?
With that caption?
That felt intentional.
Her heart pounds faster, heat creeping up her neck.
That was… that was…
She can’t even finish the thought.
Her thumb moves before she fully decides to.
She clicks Ellie’s story.
The steak post fills the screen again. Chimichurri glistening. Caption staring back at her like it knows exactly what it’s doing.
She taps forward.
Next story.
Ellie is on the couch. Filming from a half-laying angle, camera tilted slightly upward like she didn’t bother fixing it. Those damn soft joggers again. The ones that hang low on her hips when she stretches. The ones Dina absolutely refuses to have opinions about.
Sylvia is sprawled across Ellie’s chest, paws tucked, blissed out. Ellie’s hand is squeezing a Churu tube slowly, methodically, the little ribbon of paste appearing at the tip. Sylvia’s pink tongue darts out in tiny, determined flicks. Her eyes are rolled almost fully back in her head in pure, obscene cat ecstasy.
Dina’s mouth twitches despite herself.
The domesticity of it hits first. The couch. The dim light. Some sound in the background, low. The familiarity of the angle. Dina knows exactly where Ellie is positioned—left corner of the couch, head resting near the armrest, one knee bent.
Then she notices the text.
At the bottom, in that purple and white label, it reads:
I guess Queen Syl is my valentine this year 🥺
The pleading sad face emoji.
Dina’s eyebrows lift slowly.
For what?
Her stomach tightens.
Ellie hasn’t had a Valentine in at least two years. Maybe more. Dina doesn’t keep track. It’s never been a thing. They’ve joked about it before. Rolled their eyes at prix fixe menus. Split takeout and called it superior to romantic capitalism.
So why post this now?
Why phrase it like that.
Her pulse ticks faster.
She clicks back.
Steak.
Made too much for just one person.
She clicks forward again.
Ellie on the couch. Sylvia on her chest. That stupid, soft expression Ellie gets when she’s fully melted over the cat. The joggers. The loose t-shirt. The slow squeeze of the Churu.
Dina watches it loop.
Again.
And again.
The train hums around her. The overhead lights buzz faintly. She barely registers it.
There’s a song playing in the background. Low. Soft. Coming from the Alexa in the dining room, she realizes. The faint reverb gives it away. The audio quality of a speaker too far from the couch.
Dina squints slightly and holds the phone closer to her ear.
The melody is familiar. It tugs at something old and dramatic. She watches the story again, eyes flicking between Sylvia’s tongue and the corner of the frame where the Alexa probably sits.
Third loop.
Fourth.
It clicks into place.
Her stomach drops.
Sinéad O’Connor.
More specifically—
Nothing Compares 2 U.
Dina stares at the screen.
Her brain actually goes blank for half a second.
“Seriously, Ellie?” she mutters under her breath.
A woman two seats down glances up briefly. Dina doesn’t care.
The video loops again.
Sylvia’s little pink tongue flicking. Ellie’s hand stroking slowly down her fur, thumb tracing along her spine. The pleading face emoji sitting there like it wants sympathy. Like it wants a reaction.
Dina’s jaw tightens hard enough that it aches.
Ellie posted heartbreak-core content. On the night Dina is out on a date. After encouraging her to go out on that date.
Her chest feels hot now. Annoyed. Wired.
She watches it one more time.
The joggers. The angle of Ellie’s collarbone visible above the cat. The softness in her eyes. The caption.
I guess Queen Syl is my valentine this year 🥺
Dina locks her jaw so tight it aches up into her temples.
Ellie usually posts at a steady, predictable rhythm. A perfect sear. A chaotic dinner rush clip from the line. Sylvia flopped upside down with her paws in the air like she pays rent. That’s the baseline. That’s safe.
But this?
First the text. sylvia keeps looking at the door for you.
Then chimichurri steak night. Their steak night.
Made too much for just one person.
Ellie didn’t wander into that recipe absentmindedly. She chose it. She salted it. She basted it. She spooned chimichurri over the top and took a photo with intention. On the night Dina was out on a date. On the night Ellie had looked her in the face and told her to go on said date.
And now the saddest breakup anthem in existence humming through the apartment like this is some curated spiral?
For what?
Dina’s tongue presses against the back of her teeth. Heat climbs slow up her neck.
Ellie isn’t seeing anyone. There’s no mysterious Valentine slot in their calendar. February fourteenth has always been a shared joke. They roast prix fixe menus. They split dumplings. They drink wine out of mismatched glasses and let Sylvia glare at them like she’s the only one with standards.
So why tonight?
Why the text about the door?
Why made too much?
Why the pleading face emoji?
Why that song?
The train rattles hard through a curve and Dina grabs the pole beside her, fingers wrapping tight around cold metal. Her pulse pounds high in her throat, a steady knock she can feel behind her jaw.
It lines up too clean.
Ellie has been different all week. Measured. Hands tucked into her own pockets instead of sliding around Dina’s waist. No chin resting on her shoulder while she stirs something. No hovering behind her in the kitchen just to breathe her in. No lazy thigh pressed to thigh on the couch until they’re practically tangled without admitting it.
Polite.
Like she’s preemptively respectful.
Like she’s already adjusting.
Dina’s stomach twists, a slow coil.
Sylvia sitting at the door waiting for Dina, missing her. Did that mean Ellie had been looking at it too, feeling the same? Glancing over every time footsteps passed the building.
Making their favorite meal and cooking enough for two because her body moves on muscle memory. Posting about it being for one because she needed someone to witness it.
Playing that song because—
Because Dina is under the river right now with lemon ricotta agnolotti in her bag and another person’s candlelight still clinging to her coat?
The thought lands clean and hard.
Because she told Dina to go and then felt the absence like a punch the second the door shut.
Dina inhales through her nose, sharp, almost a laugh threatening to break loose. She swallows it. A woman across from her shifts in her seat. The subway hum fills the space between her ribs.
All the pieces slide into place so quickly her head swims. The distance. The restraint. The careful, almost formal way Ellie has been moving around her. The steady tone when she said, you deserve to be happy, like she’d rehearsed it.
Ellie isn’t neutral.
She’s managing herself.
She’s stepping back because she thinks she should.
Because she thinks Dina deserves options.
Dina’s grip tightens on the pole again. Her heart kicks hard enough she feels it in her fingertips.
Ellie wasn’t indifferent this week.
She was trying to be decent.
And now she was moping about it on Instagram?
What?
Heat rushes up Dina’s neck so fast she feels it in her ears. She shifts in her seat, shoulders pulling back like that might physically cool her down. A laugh threatens at the back of her throat and dies there. It would sound unhinged in a near-empty subway car at midnight.
It’s funny, because relief isn’t what she feels. There’s no soft bloom in her chest. No gentle oh, thank God easing through her ribs. That might come later. She can already tell there will be a later where this feels tender.
Right now?
She’s confused. Off-balance. Irritated in a way that makes her sit up straighter.
Where does Ellie get off?
Where does she get off telling Dina to go — actively encouraging it — chin tilted, voice steady, all mature and measured about it, and then posting heartbreak-core content like she’s been left at the altar?
Dina’s grip tightens around her phone. Her thumb presses into the edge of the case hard enough to leave a faint crescent in her skin.
You don’t get to hand someone the door and then stand on the other side looking tragic about it.
You don’t get to say go be happy and then queue up Sinéad O’Connor like you’re starring in your own emotional short film.
Her jaw locks again. A pulse jumps in the hinge of it.
If Ellie didn’t want her on a date, she could have said something! She could have pulled her back by the wrist in the kitchen earlier this week. She could have let a little jealousy leak into her voice. She could have been messy about it. Impulsive. Real.
Dina would have taken messy.
She would have taken a raised voice. A slammed cabinet. A blunt, badly phrased don’t go.
Instead, Ellie had been composed. Thoughtful. So controlled it almost looked generous.
And now this.
Dina exhales hard through her nose, chest rising sharply under her coat. The air feels thin for a second, like the subway has shrunk around her. Her heart is racing in a way that feels less romantic and more indignant.
It feels like the universe just dragged a fluorescent highlighter through six years of moments and circled them with aggressive clarity.
The way Ellie always cooks with enough for two even when Dina says she’s not that hungry.
The way she hovers in doorways when Dina’s getting ready to go out.
The way she lingers a half-second too long after a joke lands, like she’s checking if it landed the way she hoped.
The way she says you deserve to be happy with that careful tone, like she’s bracing for impact.
Dina’s stomach flips, slower now.
All at once, everything makes sense.
Ellie feels it.
Ellie has probably felt it.
Ellie has been swallowing it.
Dina’s throat tightens so abruptly she has to swallow twice before it eases. Her tongue feels thick. Her pulse shifts from sharp irritation to something heavier, lower in her chest.
And so has she.
The anger that had flared hot and righteous a minute ago loses some of its edge. It doesn’t disappear. It redirects. Because this isn’t just Ellie cooking steak and hiding behind Sinéad O’Connor like she’s curating a moody playlist for attention.
It’s both of them.
Years of almosts.
Years of choosing comfortable because comfortable came with rent split evenly and shared grocery lists and someone who refills your water bottle without asking.
Years of circling the thing.
Dina presses her lips together, breath shallow now. She can see it so clearly it almost makes her dizzy.
Ellie told her to go on the date.
Dina went.
Ellie stepped back this week.
Dina let her.
Neither of them said don’t.
Neither of them said stay.
The train lurches forward and Dina’s shoulder bumps the pole again. She leans into it this time, grounding herself against the metal. Her breath comes uneven, not panicked, just charged. The kind that lives right under the surface when something clicks into place.
It isn’t that Ellie doesn’t have the right to mope.
It’s that they’re both standing on opposite sides of the same door, hands wrapped around the same handle, expecting the other to open it.
Dina’s jaw flexes.
That realization doesn’t make her soft.
It makes her furious at the stalemate.
Because if Ellie feels it — if she’s cooking their meal and playing that song and watching the door like Sylvia might open it with sheer will —
Then Dina has been lying to herself.
For years.
Her chest tightens around that truth. Not dramatic. Just solid. Weighty.
She thinks about every time she brushed it off as intimacy between best friends. Every time she laughed it away. Every time she told Carla to relax. Every time she pretended the way Ellie’s hand fit at her waist meant nothing more than proximity.
Dina’s mouth presses into a thin line.
That part?
That part is on her too.
She stares at the looping video one more time. Sylvia blissed out. Ellie’s hand steady against soft fur. The song swelling in the background, dramatic and earnest and completely unsubtle.
Nothing compares.
Dina huffs under her breath, the sound almost a laugh.
“Unbelievable,” she whispers, shaking her head slightly.
Her reflection flickers in the dark subway window again. Eyes bright. Cheeks flushed. She looks like someone who just realized she’s been in love for a long time and somehow missed the memo.
She shoves her phone into her bag with more force than necessary. The plastic container inside rustles in protest. The train roars louder as it pushes toward Brooklyn, wheels screaming against track.
Fine.
She’s done doing nothing.
Her stop is next. She can feel the deceleration in her bones.
She’ll be home in minutes.
Dina squares her shoulders, breath steadying with purpose now. The confusion has somewhere to go. The anger has somewhere to land.
Dina is going home.
And she is going to get to the bottom of this.
The key in the door jammed, because of course it did right now.
It was 11:51 on her phone screen, bright and smug in the dark hallway. Dina held her breath through her nose, thumb braced along the ridge of the key like she could intimidate the lock into cooperation. Her tote strap dug into her shoulder. Her fingers already felt stiff from the cold, and the building always smelled like someone’s takeout and old radiator heat.
She pulled the door handle toward her, tried the trick that usually worked—lift the key a fraction, wiggle, turn—and put a little more force into it than she meant to.
Success.
The apartment opened up in front of her like it had been waiting. The console table. The flowers, still sitting exactly where she’d placed them, pink and white catching the lamp light in soft edges. A detail that landed in her chest in a way she didn’t have time to unpack.
And the sound.
Tinny, carried by Alexa across the living room like a dare.
Oh for God’s sake. The song again.
Dina’s jaw tightened as she stepped inside and kicked the door shut with the heel of her boot. She peeled her coat off too fast, sleeves tugging at her wrists, like she was shedding the whole night. Had Ellie put it on a loop? Had she been sitting in here marinating in this all evening, letting Sinéad O’Connor soundtrack her martyr phase?
Dina’s brain—petty and exhausted—supplied an image anyway: Ellie on the couch with a pint of gelato, eyes glossy, Eternal Sunshine on the TV, taking notes on how to erase Dina from her head.
Dina exhaled hard through her nose, shoulders lifting and falling once like she was trying to shake the thought off physically. Her pulse still ran too high from the subway. From the stories. From the sheer audacity of that caption.
She moved down the hall with purpose, steps heavy enough to announce themselves. The kitchen light was on, bright and warm at the end of the corridor. The music got louder with every step, bass vibrating faintly through the floorboards. Ellie’s version of a beacon.
She rounded the corner and saw her.
Ellie at the counter, back to Dina, body angled toward the cutting board. Hands moving in steady, practiced motions. Dicing something into perfect little pieces like her life depended on clean edges. Music up so loud she couldn’t hear Dina’s footsteps over it. Hair pulled back, shoulders loose, posture absorbed. Domestic like this was any other Friday night.
Dina walked in with the tote still in her hand and dropped it onto the kitchen table with a sharp, ugly thud. No grace. No softness. The sound cracked through the room.
Ellie startled hard—full-body flinch—spinning with the knife in hand before her brain caught up. Her eyes went wide on instinct, then landed on Dina.
And then her face drained.
Not dramatic, not theatrical. A real, quick shift. Color leaving her cheeks. A swallow that didn’t go all the way down. Her gaze flicked over Dina’s expression like she was reading a chart, like she already knew what she’d find.
“Alexa, stop,” Ellie said, voice strained in a way that scraped.
The music cut instantly.
Silence fell hard. The apartment suddenly felt too quiet, like the walls leaned in to listen.
Ellie’s grip tightened on the knife for half a second before she remembered herself and lowered it, moving it behind her and setting it down on the counter with extra care. Her fingers hovered there after, like she needed a physical anchor.
“Uh… hi,” she said, and Dina heard the hitch in it. The attempt at casual that didn’t fully hold. “I didn’t expect you home tonight.”
Dina stared at her.
Didn’t expect you home tonight.
The words hit like Ellie had pushed a thumb into a bruise. Dina’s shoulders pulled back, heat snapping up the back of her neck so fast it made her ears feel hot. Her hands curled at her sides, then she shoved them into the crook of her arms, folding herself tight like that could keep everything contained.
Her eyes went sharp.
“Did you think I was going to sleep with Mara on a first date, Ellie?” Dina’s voice came out steady, which almost pissed her off more. It carried a clean edge anyway. “Seriously?”
Her heart hammered. Indignant. Wired. The kind of anger that made her stand taller.
Ellie’s mouth opened and closed once, blank for a beat, like her brain tried to catch the sentence midair and dropped it.
“I didn’t mean—” Ellie started, then her throat worked. Her eyes darted away and back, fast. “I meant it’s late. Valentine’s day is in a few minutes. You went out late, you might’ve—” She winced, like every word made it worse. “You might’ve gotten home later.”
Dina’s laugh came out short and humorless, more breath than sound. She kept her arms crossed, fingers gripping her own elbows hard enough to ground herself.
“No,” Dina said, voice brisk, sharp with intention. “I’m not out sleeping around. It’s your lucky day, I’m home to crash your little mopeathon.”
Ellie’s shoulders lifted a fraction, then sank. Embarrassment flashed across her face—quick, real—her eyes dropping to the linoleum and back up like she’d been caught mid-crime.
“That’s not—” Ellie started, and her voice faltered. Her jaw shifted, decision happening in real time. She abandoned the lie she’d been about to tell and pivoted, eyes searching Dina’s face for somewhere safer to land. “How was your date?” She said, trying for causal and failing.
The dodge was obvious. The desperation under it was, too.
Dina’s stare held, hot and bright. She could feel it in her own body—her pulse in her throat, the tension in her hands, the way her chest kept rising like it wanted more air than her lungs could give.
“How do you think it went, Ellie?” Dina said, each word clipped. “Spoiler alert: it was not a love match.”
Ellie’s face tightened, something uneasy moving through it. Her throat bobbed when she swallowed. Dina watched it, cataloging every micro-shift like it mattered more than it should.
“Mara is wonderful,” Dina continued, voice sharp with honesty she didn’t feel like handing out right now. “Kind. Funny. Great listener. Really observant—”
Ellie looked queasy, did she always look this way when Dina talked about someone else?
Dina saw it happen in real time. Ellie’s jaw tightened, then loosened. Her shoulders shifted like she was bracing for impact. Her fingers twitched once against the counter before she stilled them. There was a flash in her eyes—something sharp and swallowed fast.
Oh.
So that’s new.
“They took me to Vespero,” Dina said, the word landing heavy and deliberate. “Vespero. Of all places.”
She jabbed a finger toward the tote on the table, the plastic container inside rustling faintly. “Your favorite.”
The sarcasm dripped clean.
“They used a connection,” she went on, heat building behind her ribs. “Got us in before Valentine’s. Prime time. Candlelight. Open kitchen. The whole glossy Manhattan performance.”
At the mention of Vespero, Ellie’s expression shifted again. A flicker of offense crossed her face before she could smooth it out. Her brows pulled in tight. Her lips pressed together, thin and controlled.
Like Dina had personally stabbed La Fontana in the chest.
Dina almost laughed.
“They were lovely,” she said, and her voice softened for half a beat because that part was true. “They were actually great. And honestly?” Her mouth curved in something sharp. “They didn’t deserve to be on a date with me.”
Ellie’s head lifted slightly at that, confusion edging in, like she might try to interrupt.
Dina didn’t let her.
“You know why?” she asked, already rolling forward.
Ellie’s mouth parted, a breath gathering.
“They're not my dumb, idiotic best friend,” Dina said, words hitting the air harder than she’d planned. “Whom I apparently could not escape thinking about, or giving away what you mean to me, Ellie. That’s why.”
Ellie’s affronted look faltered. It melted into something stunned. Vulnerable. The lines around her eyes deepened slightly, like the weight of that landed somewhere tender.
“And that dumb, idiotic best friend,” Dina continued, her voice picking up speed, “has apparently been home moping while I’m out on a goddamn date trying desperately to move on from her.”
There it was.
The words sat between them.
Ellie’s face went through at least ten reactions in under three seconds. Shock. Guilt. Recognition. Defense. A flicker of something that looked dangerously close to hope before she tamped it down. Her throat worked. She shifted her weight, then shifted it back. Her hand lifted slightly off the counter and then dropped again.
Dina felt her own heart slam against her ribs, heavy and fast. She could hear her pulse in her ears. She didn’t care.
“So, Ellie,” she said, and her voice dropped, steadier now, which made it more dangerous. “Tell me something.”
She took a breath through her nose.
“Where do you get off?”
Ellie blinked, actually blinked like the question needed time to load. She shook her head once, small and disoriented.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and her voice came out thinner than usual. “I don’t know what I’m answering to right now. That was… a lot.”
Dina barked a short, bitter laugh. It scraped her throat on the way out.
She took a step forward.
The air between them tightened.
“Seriously, Ellie?” Dina said, her eyes locked on her. “You give me the cold shoulder all week. Since Monday. You barely talk to me. You move around me like I’m a hot stove.”
Another step.
Ellie’s hands gripped the edge of the counter behind her. Knuckles whitening. Her shoulders squared instinctively, like she needed the solid surface at her back.
“You make me feel insane all week,” Dina pressed, breath coming quicker now. “After Monday. After touching me the way you did in this kitchen, on the couch—”
Her voice wavered on that for a fraction of a second, then steadied.
“After breathing me in like that,” she added, quieter and sharper at the same time. “After making me feel like I was about to short-circuit in my own home.”
She let out another humorless laugh, shaking her head slightly, gold hoops catching the light.
“And then you shut down the second I tell you someone asked me out.”
She stepped closer again, close enough now that she could see the tiny muscle jumping in Ellie’s jaw. Close enough to smell garlic and olive oil on her skin. Close enough that the space felt charged.
Ellie’s grip on the counter tightened.
“And then,” Dina went on, words tumbling faster, “you post what? Guilt trips. ‘Sylvia’s waiting at the door.’ ‘Made too much for one person.’ Sad girl soundtrack on a loop like I ran off and eloped with someone.”
Her chest rose and fell hard now. She felt flushed, electric.
“What is this?” Dina demanded, her voice low again, deliberate. “Where do you get off acting like I hurt you by going on a date when you told me to go?”
Her voice cracked at the end, the sound ripping up out of her like her body had finally hit a limit. Desperate. Furious. Exposed.
Dina stood there anyway. Stayed planted. Breath sawing sharp in and out of her lungs, chest tight enough that every inhale felt like it had to fight its way in. Her eyes burned. Her hands had curled into fists at her sides at some point without her noticing, nails pressing crescents into her palms. She held Ellie’s gaze like if she looked away she’d lose her nerve entirely.
Say something real.
Say anything that isn’t your careful, decent, grown-up bullshit.
Ellie looked like she’d seen a ghost—skin gone pale, mouth parted, eyes too wide. Like Dina had walked in wearing a stranger’s face and started speaking in a language Ellie hadn’t prepared for.
She had not expected this.
“I wasn’t guilting you,” Ellie said, voice catching on the first word. She blinked hard, swallowed, tried again like she could sand down the rough edge. “I was—” Another swallow. Her throat moved like it hurt. “I didn’t tell you to go on a date.”
The last part came out rough, scraped, like she hadn’t used her voice much tonight. Like she’d been quiet on purpose and Dina had just kicked the door in on it.
Dina stared at her. The anger in her chest didn’t even have room to be surprised. It just stayed hot. Stayed bright.
“Yes, you did.” Her voice came out steady, which felt like its own kind of insanity. Like her body had decided to be calm so her brain could fully lose its mind.
Ellie’s brows pulled together, stubborn and confused at the same time. “No… no, I didn’t.”
Dina felt her face heat. The kind of heat that made her ears burn. The kind that made her want to laugh and scream in the same breath. She probably looked unhinged. She felt unhinged.
“You told me to go,” Dina said, each word clipped and sharp, because if she let herself soften she’d start shaking. “Don’t do that. Don’t deny it, Ellie.”
Ellie’s face tightened. Something in her jaw went hard, like she’d bitten down on a feeling and planned to keep it there. “I’m not denying anything,” she said, but her voice had that defensive edge, that brittle control. “I didn’t tell you to go out with Mara.”
Her breath hitched—small, involuntary—and Dina saw it. Saw the effort in Ellie’s body. Shoulders set. Hands braced. Spine rigid like it was holding her upright through sheer stubbornness. Ellie fighting for control with her whole body.
“I said if Mara could make you happy, you should go.” Ellie’s words came out measured, almost careful, like she was placing them one by one on the counter between them. Like she wanted them to be clean. Undebatable. “That’s what I said.”
Dina’s throat tightened so fast she tasted it. She forced her jaw to stay steady, forced herself to keep breathing through her nose like she was teaching a kid how to self-regulate. Except she was the kid.
Because Ellie had that look in her eyes now—locked in, unblinking, like she was holding the line she’d chosen and daring Dina to shove her off it.
“And then you went,” Ellie said. The words came quieter, somehow worse for it. “You went on the date, Dina. I didn’t make you go.”
Dina blinked. Once. Twice. Her brain tried to catch up to the logic like it had slipped on ice.
Because, fine. Yes. That happened. She did it. She went.
The logic didn’t touch the fire under her ribs. It didn’t cool it. It didn’t change the fact that Ellie’s Instagram had practically screamed into Dina’s face from under the river.
Dina took one more step forward, closer on purpose, the air between them tightening like a wire pulled taut. Her pulse hammered high in her throat. She could feel it in her tongue. In her fingertips.
“You didn’t stop me.”
The words came out low. Certain. They carried everything she’d swallowed all week. Every time Ellie moved away. Every time Ellie’s hands stayed to herself. Every time Dina walked into a room and Ellie suddenly found something urgent to do across it.
“I went because you didn’t stop me,” Dina said, and this time her voice shook—thin, vibrating with the effort of holding herself together. “I went because I kept waiting for you to—” Her breath caught. Her throat tightened hard around the rest. She forced it through anyway. “To do something. Say something. Anything.”
Ellie let out a breath like it got dragged out of her. Like her lungs had been holding on out of spite. Her shoulders lifted and dropped. Her gaze flicked down for half a second—fast, instinctive—then snapped back up, like she couldn’t decide what was safer: looking at Dina or losing her.
“Dina,” Ellie said, and there was warning in it. Fear dressed up as control. A thin line drawn in a shaky hand.
Dina felt it anyway. Felt how close they were to the edge of something that could change everything. Felt the risk humming in the space between their bodies, loud as the silence Ellie had cut the music into.
She didn’t step back.
She couldn’t.
Her feet felt rooted to the tile. Her spine felt locked in place by something older than pride.
“Why didn’t you stop me?” Dina asked, and the words tore out of her before she could polish them. They sounded raw. They sounded needy in a way she would usually joke her way around. “Why didn’t you—”
Her mouth closed on the rest. The words sat there, hot and lethal.
Why didn’t you want me.
She felt them press against the back of her teeth. Her tongue. Her ribs. Saying it would split her clean down the middle. She could feel that instinctively.
Ellie’s eyes went wide again. This time it wasn’t surprise. It was awareness. The kind that creeps in when you realize you’ve been standing one step from the edge and didn’t notice how close your heel was to open air.
Ellie tried to take a step back. Reflex. Retreat.
Her hip hit the cabinet with a soft, hollow thud. The counter caught her. She stilled because there was nowhere left to go. The drawer handle pressed against her lower back. The sink to her right. The fridge to her left. Boxed in by her own kitchen.
Dina stood in front of her. Close enough that the space between them felt charged and tight. Close enough that she could feel Ellie’s breath—short, uneven, hitting her collarbone in warm bursts. Ellie’s chest rose and fell hard under the soft gray sweatshirt she wore, fabric stretching with each inhale like she’d run up too many stairs too fast.
Cornered.
Wired.
Dina’s pulse hammered so loud she felt stupid for it. It thudded in her throat, in her ears, in the base of her palms. If her body had a microphone, it would be feeding back through the apartment speakers. Calm down, she told herself. Very helpful advice.
Ellie’s hands lifted again. Not to push Dina away. Not to pull her closer. They hovered in the air between them, fingers flexing once, twice, like she didn’t know what to do with them. Like every option felt dangerous.
Dina noticed everything. The small tremor in Ellie’s right hand. The faint crease between her brows. The way her jaw kept tightening and loosening, tightening and loosening, like she was chewing on words and refusing to spit them out.
Dina’s voice dropped lower. The anger shifted, deepened. “You were posting like I abandoned you.”
The accusation landed and hung there.
Ellie shut her eyes for a second. A full second. Long enough that Dina felt it in her stomach. Like Ellie had retreated somewhere internal and come back changed.
When Ellie opened them again, they were bright. Not teary. Just sharp with feeling. Lit up in a way that made Dina’s chest ache because she knew that look. She’d seen it when Ellie talked about something that mattered. Something she pretended didn’t.
“Because it felt like you did,” Ellie said.
The words came too fast. Too clean. They slipped past whatever guard she’d been holding all week.
She swallowed hard, jaw working like she was bracing for impact. “And I—” Her breath caught. She tried again. “I didn’t get to be mad about it.”
Dina’s breath caught in her own throat.
It didn’t just hitch. It stopped. Like her lungs forgot their job for a second. The kitchen felt smaller, tighter, the air thick with garlic and heat and everything they weren’t saying.
Ellie let out a shaky exhale and forced herself to keep going, like if she paused she’d splinter.
“Because it’s not fair,” Ellie said, voice dipping lower, rough around the edges in a way Dina had only ever heard late at night, when Ellie let herself be unguarded, “to expect you feel the same way I do, Dina.”
The words hit clean. No padding. No warning.
Dina felt it in her chest first. Then her stomach. Then her face went hot so fast it was humiliating. Her eyes burned. Actually burned. She hated that. Hated how her body reacted before her brain could keep up. She’d walked in here armed with sarcasm and indignation. She hadn’t planned on crying.
Same way I do.
Her heart slammed once, heavy enough to make her dizzy.
She stared at Ellie. Really stared. Took in the way her mouth had tightened after saying it. The faint tremor in her lower lip she was trying to press flat. The way her shoulders were still braced against the cabinets like she expected impact.
Ellie looked away.
That might’ve been worse than the confession.
She couldn’t even look at her.
Dina swallowed hard, her throat thick, pulse beating high and insistent behind her jaw. She wanted to say something sharp. Something clever. Something that would buy her control back. Instead she felt sixteen and exposed and terrifyingly seen.
Ellie shifted, trying to slide sideways along the counter, shoulder angling toward the sink. A retreat disguised as movement. An escape route measured in inches.
Dina moved with her automatically.
It wasn’t aggressive. It was instinct. She stepped into the space Ellie tried to create, blocking the path without thinking it through. Close enough that their knees almost brushed.
No gap.
No space for Ellie to disappear into the hallway and pretend this hadn’t just detonated.
Ellie’s breath clipped in her chest, a sharp inhale like she’d walked straight into a trap she’d set herself. Her eyes flicked up, startled, meeting Dina’s at close range.
Up close, Dina could see the fine tremor in Ellie’s lashes. The shine gathering there that she was trying to blink away before it turned into something obvious. Her pupils were blown wide. Her mouth parted like she wanted to argue and couldn’t find the words fast enough.
“Move,” Ellie muttered, voice tight, stretched thin over too much feeling. “Dina—”
That tone. Half warning. Half plea.
“No.”
Dina didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. The word came out steady, rooted.
Her hand lifted before she had time to talk herself out of it, palm flattening against the counter beside Ellie’s hip. The cool stone bit into her skin. She felt the vibration of her own pulse through her fingertips. She wasn’t touching Ellie. She wasn’t grabbing her. She was just there. Present. Immovable. Blocking the sideways escape Ellie kept trying to engineer.
Her whole body hummed. Adrenaline. Grief. Relief with teeth. The kind of relief that makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time because something has finally cracked open and you don’t get to shove it back in.
Ellie’s eyes snapped back to hers, sharp and startled. There was something raw in them now. No more careful distance. No more curated composure.
Dina could hear her own breathing. Fast. Shallow. She felt it in the tight band around her ribs. Her chest ached from holding too much inside for too long.
Her voice broke on the next words and she didn’t care. She genuinely didn’t care. Pride felt irrelevant. Strategy felt irrelevant. She was so tired of managing this.
“God, you idiot,” Dina whispered.
It came out softer than she intended. Not cruel. Frayed. There was a tremor in it that made her throat burn. It sounded like a whimper because her chest was too full to hold the sentence properly.
Her eyes stung again and she blinked hard, refusing to look away. Refusing to let Ellie look away either.
“Don’t you know that I’ve loved you for years?”
The confession left her body and hung there. Naked. Unprotected.
She could feel the weight of them in that single word. The dorm rooms. The first apartment. The fights over dishes. The nights on the couch. The way Ellie refilled her water without asking. The way Dina pretended that didn’t undo her.
She felt ridiculous and feral and heartbreakingly sincere all at once.
Silence.
Silence.
It stretched. Thick. Charged. Dina could hear the refrigerator hum, the faint tick of cooling metal somewhere behind her, the rush of blood in her own ears. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, like her lungs were afraid to take up too much space.
Ellie stared at her.
One eye to the other, focused and overwhelmed, like Dina was something fragile and dangerous all at once. Like she’d been circling this answer for years and had finally walked straight into it. Ellie’s mouth parted on an inhale she didn’t finish. Her throat moved when she swallowed. Her hands hovered again, suspended between instinct and restraint, fingers shaking just enough that Dina noticed.
Dina stayed still.
She let herself be seen. Fully. No deflection. No jokes ready in her back pocket. She let everything wash through her at once—the fear sitting sharp under her ribs, the embarrassment that came with wanting this so openly, the relief of having finally said it out loud. The ache lingered too, deep and familiar, built from years of waiting and wondering and pretending she could live on scraps.
Her heart felt tender. Bruised. Alive.
Ellie’s eyes went glossy.
It hit Dina hard, that look. She’d imagined this moment so many times she’d lost count. In bed. In the shower. Half-asleep on the couch while Ellie’s knee pressed into her thigh. In those versions, Dina had always been calm. Always witty. Always in control. She’d pictured confidence. A smile. Something smooth.
This felt nothing like that.
Ellie’s breath shuddered, uneven, like it dragged through her chest instead of flowing.
Then Ellie’s hands came down.
Sure. Warm.
They gripped Dina’s waist with intent, fingers digging in like Ellie had been starving and finally stopped pretending otherwise. The contact sent a jolt straight through Dina’s spine. It was grounding. It was real. There was weight behind it. Choice.
Dina gasped, the sound small and unguarded, because Ellie’s hold carried heat and urgency, stripped of restraint.
Ellie hauled her in.
Their bodies met—hips, stomach, chest—colliding with force that knocked the breath from Dina’s lungs. She felt it echo through her bones. Felt Ellie everywhere at once. The kitchen disappeared around them, narrowed to touch and breath and the space they shared.
Ellie’s forehead dipped for a brief second, pressed close, like she was steadying herself, like she needed to feel Dina there before she could go any further. Dina felt the tremor run through her. Felt the hesitation burn away.
Then Ellie tilted her face—
and kissed her.
Ellie kissed her like she’d been holding her breath for years and Dina’s mouth was oxygen.
The realization hit Dina all at once and somehow softly at the same time. This wasn’t imagined. This wasn’t a half-second fantasy she’d replayed alone in the dark. This was Ellie—warm, solid, undeniably here—pressing into her like she’d finally stopped pretending restraint was a virtue.
Dina made a sound into it that surprised her. It scraped up out of her chest, caught between a laugh and something dangerously close to a sob. Her body reacted before her pride could intervene. Her hands flew up, fingers curling into Ellie’s shoulders, gripping fabric and muscle like she was anchoring herself to the only thing that made sense. Like if she loosened even a fraction, Ellie might vanish and this would all snap back into longing.
Ellie kissed her harder.
There was nothing tentative about it. No testing. No easing in. It carried weight and want and the unmistakable heat of choice. Ellie’s mouth moved against hers with urgency that made Dina’s head spin, like this had been waiting just under Ellie’s skin the same way it had under Dina’s.
Dina’s whole body lit up.
Heat rushed through her low and fast, a straight shot that made her breath hitch and her pulse slam hard enough she felt it everywhere—throat, wrists, knees. Her stomach flipped. Her legs went weak in a way that was both humiliating and deeply vindicating. Her body had been trying to tell her this for years. She’d just been stubborn enough to argue back.
Ellie broke the kiss only long enough to breathe, her forehead still close, noses nearly brushing. The space felt unbearable. Ellie’s mouth hovered there, like she physically couldn’t stand the distance even for a second.
Her voice came out wrecked.
“Dina.”
Just her name. Nothing else. It sounded stripped bare. Like a truth she’d been carrying without language until now.
Dina swallowed, throat tight, hands still fisted in Ellie’s shoulders. She could feel Ellie’s breath against her lips. Feel the tension humming through both of them, alive and electric and real.
“Yeah,” she whispered, breath shaking despite herself. Her voice felt softer than she’d ever allowed it to be. “Yeah, El. I’m right here.”
Ellie’s eyes squeezed shut.
Her grip tightened.
And she kissed her again.
This one landed deeper. Slower. Like relief had finally caught up to want. Like coming home after holding yourself together for too long and realizing you don’t have to anymore.
Somewhere behind them, the stove clock glowed.
12:01 a.m.
Valentine’s Day.