Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tina Kennard stood on the side of La Cienega Boulevard, glaring at the front tire of her Audi like it had personally betrayed her. It had, really. The rubber was shredded, steaming slightly like it had just been through a war. She kicked it gently, which accomplished nothing but made her feel marginally better.

“This is not how grown women start their Tuesdays,” she muttered to no one in particular.

The universe, unimpressed, responded by darkening the sky a shade further and sending a stiff breeze to flip the edge of her blazer. She shivered, but not from the cold.

She looked like she had walked straight out of a glossy executive profile in Variety — tailored navy skirt suit, the kind that said confident but approachable, heels now thoroughly scuffed from stepping onto uneven pavement, and her honey-blonde hair swept into a soft twist that had started to fall in gentle waves around her face. Tina had perfected the look of a woman in control — until, apparently, her car decided to sabotage the image.

She pulled her phone from her bag for the fourth time. Still on hold. The jazzy elevator music was now looping so persistently that she suspected she’d be humming it in her sleep.

From somewhere far off, a dog barked. She imagined it was laughing.

“Great,” she said aloud. “This is my villain origin story.”

She crouched down beside the tire, peered at the jack with open suspicion, and poked at it like it might spring to life.

“Still talking to inanimate objects, huh?”

Her entire body went still. She turned her head slowly—like in a horror movie, but more beautiful—and there she was.

Bette Porter.

Looking effortlessly cool in a navy suit that screamed CEO, but make it hotter than necessary, dark sunglasses shielding eyes that had once seen Tina naked, not physically but in an emotional sense. Her hair had that careless, expensive bounce that seemed to say, I woke up like this. The smirk? Classic. 

Tina blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Bette’s lips curved into a smirk. “That’s usually my line.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here. What are you doing here? Besides attempting to fight a tire with eye contact.”

Tina stood, brushing road dust from her skirt. “I had an incident with a pothole.”

“Let me guess,” Bette said, pulling her sunglasses down to get a better look. “You swerved into it.”

“I swerved near it,” Tina corrected. “The pothole had ambition.”

Bette crouched down beside the car, examining the damage. “Yikes. You blew this baby wide open.”

“I’m aware.” Tina rolled her eyes but couldn't help the small laugh. 

She leaned against the side of the car, watching as Bette rolled up the sleeves of her already-too-flattering blazer.

“Do you know how to fix it?"

"I know how to call AAA," Bette said, pulling her phone out. "But lucky for you, I also know how to change a tire."

"You are full of surprises."

Bette didn’t look up. “What, just because I own silk blouses I’m incapable of mechanical labor?”

“I just assumed you’d delegate.”

“Only when the situation involves Excel.”

Tina grinned despite herself. “Still allergic to spreadsheets, I see.”

“And still wearing impractical shoes for life emergencies, I see,” Bette quipped, eyeing her heeled ankle boots.

“I was going to a pitch meeting, not a pit stop on the Indy 500.”

“I’m just saying, those shoes aren’t getting you anywhere unless they grow wheels.”

Tina huffed a laugh, but her cheeks were already tinged pink. It was irritating how Bette could still do this—make her feel seventeen and flustered with just one raised eyebrow.

"I'll help you out now, coffee with me after." Bette's sunglasses sliding down her nose waiting for a reply. 

"Is that your rate? One coffee per tire?" Tina said biting her lip.

"Only with women in power suits who look like they could fire me for changing it wrong."

Tina laughed. "Sold." Bette smiled.

“Do you even have a spare?” Bette asked, now opening the trunk like she owned it.

“Should be under the mat. Unless it turned into dust from lack of use.”

“You’d be surprised how many people forget their spare’s not just a metaphor.”

“Well, if the metaphor fits… I guess I’ve been running on rims for a while.” Tina replied with a half smile.

Bette looked at her for a second and gave her a nod. Already slipping off her coat with practiced ease. It was some designer cut that looked both effortless and expensive.

Before Tina could offer, Bette held it out.

“Hold this for me?”

Tina reached for it without hesitation, her fingers brushing Bette’s just a second longer than necessary. The coat was warm — still holding Bette’s body heat — and surprisingly soft, almost absurdly so. She slipped it over her arms before thinking about it.

Bette got to work. Tina leaned her head back against the car, watching her through her lashes. There was something weirdly hypnotic about it—Bette, sleeves rolled up just enough to make her arms look too good for daylight, hair falling forward, her focus razor-sharp and completely undistracted. Sexy in a deeply unfair, deeply practical kind of way.

“Do you moonlight as a roadside superhero?” Tina asked.

“Only for the hopelessly helpless.” Bette did not pause or look at Tina but she she feels her staring.

“I’m not helpless. I’m… under-prepared.” This time Bette looked up and raised a brow at Tina.

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re enjoying this.” Tina said shaking her head in disbelief that this is actually happening.

“Maybe a little,” Bette said without looking up.

The wind picked up, swirling loose leaves and the occasional napkin across the concrete. Tina watched the clouds churn overhead. The light was soft and strange—the sun trying to break through stubborn overcast. Bette’s profile caught the light just enough to glow.

Fifteen minutes later, the tire was changed and Bette was wiping her hands on an old cloth from her trunk like she did this every Tuesday.

“There,” she said, straightening up. “You’re semi-roadworthy again. Try not to fight any more infrastructure.”

“Thank you for rescuing me.” said Tina. Then “Hold on,” Tina said quickly, already pulling a small pack of wet wipes from her bag. “Let me help you avoid ruining the rest of your day.”

Bette raised an eyebrow, but took the offered wipes with a grin. 

Tina just gave her a look — amused, fond — as Bette wiped the grease from her hands and forearms.

When she finished, Bette glanced over, clearly about to reach for her coat where Tina had draped it neatly over her arm. But Tina stepped in first, unfolding it and holding it open carefully behind her.

“Turn around,” she said softly.

Bette blinked, then did as she was told, hands loose at her sides as Tina gently helped her slide her arms into the sleeves. It was automatic, almost intimate — like Tina had done it before, or had imagined doing it, which maybe she had. Her fingers smoothed the fabric over Bette’s shoulders, brushing lightly along her upper arms, and in that second, the scent hit her.

Warm and clean, with something woodsy underneath — cedar maybe, or amber — and just a trace of whatever Bette’s skin smelled like when it wasn’t trying.

Tina didn’t mean to linger. But she did.

Just half a breath longer than she should have.

Bette turned her head slightly, her voice low. “Everything alright back there?”

Tina snapped out of it with a breathy little laugh. 

Bette faced her and tilted her head, eyes narrowing a little. “You okay?”

Tina blinked. “Yeah. Why?”

In a serious tone, Bette replied “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” Tina asked her, fingers instinctively rubbing her nape, a nervous habit she'd never quite shaken.

“That ‘I’m going to pretend I’m totally fine but actually I want to crawl into my duvet and disappear for a decade’ look.”

Tina smirked. “That specific?”

Bette crossed her arms. “I know you.” Ends the reply with a smiling pout.

That landed heavier than Tina expected. She glanced away, down the street where nothing helpful appeared. When she looked back, Bette’s expression was unreadable, but softer.

“Are you serious about the coffee?” Tina said abruptly. “I mean… I kind of owe you.”

Bette’s brow arched slightly. Then, a slow, dangerous smile. “I’m serious about caffeine.  And meeting up with you again sounds like a better idea than going back to my office.”

The inside of the café was cozy and full of soft jazz and the sound of spoons clinking against porcelain. Walls were lined with mismatched art—some abstract, some slightly erotic, some just confusing—and faded wooden shelves lined with used books that were probably for sale but never bought.

The air smelled like espresso, almond pastries, and that strange comforting mix of cinnamon and furniture polish. The lighting was warm and low, string lights zigzagging across the ceiling and tiny candles flickering in mason jars on every table. It was hipster heaven, but Tina liked it more than she wanted to admit.

They found a booth near the back, half-hidden behind a wall of hanging plants. Tina slid into the seat, letting her breath settle.

Tina ordered a cappuccino with oat milk and a shot of espresso. Bette, predictably, went for black coffee. No sugar. No nonsense.

“You’ve gone full L.A.,” Bette noted.

“Says the woman who changed a tire in Ferragamo loafers."

Bette laughed, really laughed. It was the  kind of laugh Tina remembered without realizing she remembered it. Deep, unguarded (maybe only to her), rich.

“So,” Bette asked. “What are you up to these days? Besides breaking tires and hearts?”

Tina smiled. “Consulting for a few indie studios. Story development. Less drama, more control. You?”

“Curating for a couple of galleries, mentoring some artists. Still lecturing when I feel like punishing myself.”

“Still allergic to rest, I see.”

Bette chuckled. “Still not married?”

Tina gave her a sideways glance. “Still assuming everyone wants to be?”

“I’m just asking.”

“Well, no. Not married. Dated. Got bored. Broke up. The usual.”

Bette nodded. “Still the romantic, I see.”

“And you?” Tina shot back, daring.

“No husband. No wife. No dogs. Still keeping the city’s dating pool spicy.”

Tina snorted. “So basically, unchanged.”

“That depends who you ask.”

"For sure. " Tina replied. 

Their drinks arrived. Tina blew on hers, then took a sip. 

Bette watched her with a slow smile. "You're still beautiful."

Tina nearly inhaled foam. 

"Jesus." Tina said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, buying herself a moment before meeting her eyes again.

Then without a word, Bette reached across and handed her a napkin, her fingers brushing Tina's for a just a second too long.

"Too much?" Bette knew she wasn't subtle and she loved the flicker of panic that crossed Tina's face.

"Just... unexpected."

"Should I pretend it's new for me to say that?"

Tina tilted her head. "You never used to say anything that scary out loud. At least to me."

"Maybe I've changed."

There was a pause.

One of those long, loaded silences where neither woman looked away, and the hum under Tina’s skin grew louder. This had always been the problem—Bette wasn’t just attractive. She was magnetic. Being around her felt like being pulled into orbit.

Tina reached for her cup just as Bette did. Their fingers brushed. Both froze.

It was a tiny moment. A flicker.

Tina set her cup down. "Okay, but seriously. What's your relationship status?"

Bette lifted a brow. "Subtle."

“Hey, I didn’t ask your star sign. I’m evolving.”

Bette chuckled. “Single. Casually dating. What about you?”

“Same,” Tina said, then hesitated. “Though I’m finding ‘casual’ more exhausting than liberating these days.” She looked at Bette, eyes searching. Bette held her gaze, silently turning over a dozen responses in her mind.

Then, because Tina couldn’t help herself and said “For someone who’s dating casually, you sure flirt like it’s your full-time job.”

Bette smirked. “I’m not flirting. I’m just listening intently and looking directly into your eyes while saying affirming things.”

“Right. Totally not flirting.” Tina mumbled, her voice trailing off.

They both laughed, a little breathless.

They talked for almost an hour, effortlessly slipping into old rhythms even though they’d never really had a proper “past.” Just flirtation. Missed moments. One almost-kiss at a party. Glances across rooms. The kind of tension that built quietly and then got buried by life.

Tina licked a bit of foam from her lip without thinking. Bette’s eyes followed the motion.

The air shifted.

As the check arrived, Bette reached for her wallet, but Tina placed her hand over it.

“Hey, you fixed my tire.”

Bette's eyes dropped to Tina's hand. “Coffee was one thing, but this was unexpected.”

“Well, you’re getting a tip.”

“Careful,” Bette said. “I might interpret that as an invitation.”

Tina raised a brow. “Would that be so bad?”

Bette leaned back slowly. Her voice dropped an octave.

“Coffee’s great. But I’ve got wine at my place. And better chairs.”

Tina’s pulse skipped. “That sounds suspiciously like a proposition.”

“Only if you want it to be.”

A thousand little warning bells rang in her head. She hadn’t seen Bette in years. She’d just gotten her tire changed. And now she was seriously considering—

“Yes,” she heard herself say.

Bette blinked.

Tina stood, tossed some cash on the table. “Before I talk myself out of it.”

Tina casually tossed her keys into her purse and kept walking beside Bette toward her car without even glancing back.

“You’re leaving your car?” Bette asked, amused, as they stepped into the afternoon air.

“I’ll get it tomorrow.” Tina said without batting an eyelash.

“Spontaneous. Reckless.”

They reached Bette’s car—a sleek black sedan with leather seats that smelled like citrus and possibility. Tina slid into the passenger seat and buckled up.

“Midlife crisis,” Tina said, getting comfortable in the passenger seat of Bette’s car. “Lean in.”

When Bette got to the driver’s seat. Tina inhaled and said, "Like a moth to a flame." Tina turned to look at Bette.

Bette looked over at her. Eyes locking in. One of those long, appraising looks that used to unravel her from the inside out.

“Let’s see if you burn,” she said.

And Bette pulled into traffic like she’d been waiting for this detour all her life.

Chapter Text

Tina leaned back into the buttery leather seat of Bette’s car, one leg crossed over the other in a motion that felt effortless but wasn’t. Her skirt slid up just an inch too far for coincidence, exposing the smooth line of her thigh in the dim wash of the dashboard lights. She didn’t tug it down.

Outside, the afternoon city pulsed with life, sunlight glinting off windshields, palm trees swaying lazily in the breeze, and long shadows stretching across the pavement like spilled ink. La Cienega Boulevard unfolded ahead of them in a shimmering ribbon of asphalt, lined with squat stucco buildings, neon-lit taco joints, and boutique storefronts with sun-bleached awnings. Billboards towered above like oversized postcards, half fashion ads, half movie promos flickering in and out of the sun. On the sidewalks, clusters of people drifted between crosswalks and bus stops, their silhouettes flashing by like scenes from a flipbook.

Inside the car, it was cooler, cocooned in the hush of climate control and the low hum of traffic. The steady purr of the engine, the rhythmic flick of the turn signal as Bette switched lanes, the distant murmur of a talk radio host. All of it seemed louder in the golden quiet between them, as if the city were holding its breath just outside the glass.

Her purse sat neatly in her lap, but her grip on the strap was anything but relaxed. Her fingers drummed lightly against the leather, a staccato rhythm betraying the pulse hammering just beneath her skin.

She wasn’t nervous. Not exactly.

Just… on.

Every nerve was tuned to the woman beside her.

There was something unmistakably Bette in the air—not just the cologne she wore, rich and dark with cedarwood and a hint of vanilla—but the echo of her laugh from earlier, the rasp in her voice when she’d leaned in too close to ask if Tina preferred red or white. That rasp… it vibrated in Tina’s chest still, like a struck chord refusing to fade.
But she hadn’t answered.

Time had slowed then, her thoughts spiraling into places she wasn’t ready to name, as the car glided smoothly onto a side street. The tires hummed against the pavement, a lullaby under the gentle murmur of the radio. A Nina Simone song played low in the background, sultry and aching.

They passed the coffee shop. There it was—her Audi, parked. Then they passed the shredded tire slumped against the curb like a deflated secret.

Her eyes drifted to the center console. A faint lipstick print—Bette’s—still marked the rim of a discarded coffee cup. The sight tugged something low in her stomach. She stared a second too long, her mind cataloguing the shape, the smudge, the color. Like it meant something.

“I really am just leaving my car there,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Like some college kid sneaking off to make a bad decision.”

Bette didn’t look away from the road, but a smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, the kind that had always spelled trouble. “Please. It’s West Hollywood. That’s practically a mating ritual.”

Tina laughed, the sound low and throaty, rawer than she intended. It rolled out of her like smoke — half humor, half confession. “Oh? Is that what this is?”

She glanced at Bette as she said it, just for a second, then looked away before Bette could answer.

Bette said nothing at first. She kept her eyes on the road, but her body angled ever so slightly toward Tina, like part of her was listening more closely than she let on. Her left hand rested easy on the wheel, fingers long and sure, while her right arm leaned against the center console, relaxed but intentional. She didn’t fidget. She never had. The navy suit fabric was soft but structured, falling in all the right places—the jacket opened just enough to show the line of her light blue long sleeves pushed up neatly to her elbows. Her legs were long and poised, her right foot resting lightly on the gas, the left angled out toward the door, relaxed but ready.

Her hair, darker than Tina remembered, caught the sunlight in soft waves, brushing the tops of her shoulders. It looked heavier somehow, richer in color — like it, too, had gathered things over the years. Her profile was the same, and yet not. The line of her jaw was sharper now, her expression quieter, more contained. And her eyes still dark, still striking and it held a weight Tina couldn’t name. Not colder, exactly. Just older. Eyes that had seen more. And maybe forgotten less.

Without looking at Tina, Bette spoke.

“Would it scare you if it was?” she asked, her voice cool but deliberate — like each word had been weighed before being let out, careful not to tip too much forward.

Tina felt the question land low in her chest. She blinked, her gaze fixed out the window now, but not really seeing anything beyond the blur of palm trees and strip malls sliding past. The old Bette would’ve let the silence hang, used it like a weapon. But this — this version of her — she said it like a challenge and a truth at the same time.

Tina’s fingers tightened just slightly on her purse strap again, but she didn’t flinch. Didn’t let herself. She wasn’t sure what scared her more — the question, or the fact that she didn’t have an answer. Not one she could say out loud.

“I’m not sure I want to answer that,” Tina replied, her tone light, teasing — or trying to be. But her pulse was ticking faster, betraying her. “You’re still a Fear-Flirt, I see.”

She cast a sideways glance at Bette, just long enough to catch the hint of a smirk tugging at her lips. The kind of smile that knew exactly what it was doing.

“Only on Tuesdays,” Bette said, voice dipping into something lower — smooth and velvety, dry as wine. “You got lucky.”

Tina laughed, but it came out softer this time, half breath. She turned her gaze back to the windshield, but the space between them felt warmer now — charged in a way she remembered too well. Bette hadn’t even looked at her when she said it, and that somehow made it worse. Or better. Tina couldn’t decide.

They stopped at a red light.

For a moment, the city seemed to hush with the hum of engines, the buzz of neon signs, even the chatter of people on the sidewalk felt like it had dipped beneath the surface. The world outside the windshield held its breath, caught in that in-between space where time stretched a little longer than it should have.

In that pause, Bette turned her head—not fully, just enough. A slow, deliberate shift. Her eyes moved with unspoken intention, tracing the line of Tina’s crossed legs, the soft drape of her skirt riding high on her knee. Then higher, to the place where Tina’s chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm — too steady, maybe, as if it was being managed. Finally, Bette’s gaze lingered on Tina’s mouth, parted just slightly, the corners pulled into something caught between thought and memory.

She noticed the gloss of Tina’s lips, barely worn down by the coffee earlier, the way a single curl had fallen loose from the neatness of her earlier updo. Her blouse, tucked and crisp this morning, was now relaxed at the waist, a few buttons undone — not revealing, not obvious, but just enough to suggest comfort… or intention. The faint line of tension still lived in her shoulders, but it softened every time she looked out the window, like she was letting the moment stretch, just a little longer.

Bette took it all in, cataloging details she shouldn’t have memorized so easily. Like she’d done it a thousand times before. Like her body hadn’t forgotten a single line of Tina Kennard.

The air shifted.

Then casually, like she was commenting on traffic Bette reached for her phone. “Let me just call the office,” she said, thumbing the screen. “Let them know I won’t be back this afternoon.”

Tina glanced over, lips curling. “Look at you. Playing hooky like it’s 2005.”

Bette didn’t glance up. “Flat tire. Circumstantial.”

Tina's eyes on the road ahead. “Uh-huh. And detouring through cafés and bad decisions is just a coincidence?”

Bette finally looked at her, the faintest smile pulling at her mouth. “You make it sound like I had a choice.”

Bette pressed a button on the steering wheel. “Hey, James—it’s Bette. Something came up. Push the meeting to tomorrow, and have someone email me the revised board notes. I’m—yeah, out for the rest of the day. Thanks.”

She hung up before James could ask anything else. Tina watched her, a strange mixture of admiration and unease pooling in her stomach.

“My turn,” Tina sighed, digging her phone from her purse. She swiped and tapped, then held the phone to her ear. “Hi, yes—Emma? Can we move the draft session? My car blew a tire and… yeah. No, I’m okay. Just out of commission. Tomorrow’s fine. Thanks.”

She hung up and stared out the window again. “God. I think that was the last useful thing I was supposed to do today.”

Bette cast her a sidelong glance. “So what now?”

Tina slumped slightly in the seat, then turned toward her. “Now…” she sighed, “I make it worse.”

Bette raised an eyebrow.

“Drive-thru,” Tina said, pointing to the next block. “In-N-Out. If I’m going to spiral, I’m going to do it with animal fries and a milkshake. Maybe both.”

Bette chuckled. “Bold. Shame-based eating with a side of poor choices. I like it.”

“You would,” Tina muttered, but there was no heat in it.

They turned into the lot, the smell of grilled onions and fried salt already curling through the air. Tina exhaled deeply, her tension loosening just enough for the hunger and something else, something warmer, riskier to slip in its place.

As they inched forward in line, Bette tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. “Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry?”

“Vanilla,” Tina said. Then added, “Classic. Predictable. Boring.”

Bette smiled. “Comforting.”

Tina met her eyes. “You remember.”

Bette didn’t blink. “Of course I do.”

And just like that, it wasn’t about fries or milkshakes anymore.

It was about memory.

And everything they hadn’t said yet.

They inched forward in the drive-thru line, the soft murmur of the radio blending with the hiss of deep fryers behind the neon-lit windows. The scent of seared beef and melted cheese lingered in the air like a dare. Bette tapped her thumb on the wheel, glancing at the oversized menu board, already knowing what she wanted.

Tina unclicked her seatbelt and leaned in toward Bette’s side, reaching past her to speak through the window. It was nothing, really — practical, smooth, like she’d done it a hundred times before.

But the shift in space, the sudden closeness, hit Bette like a slow punch to the ribs.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Bette rolled her window down halfway. “Okay,” Tina said, leaning slightly further. “Double-Double, no tomato. Animal fries no onions. And a vanilla shake. You?”

Tina’s voice was right there, soft and clear. The scent of her perfume stirred something buried — sharp and familiar. Her hair brushed Bette’s shoulder, just barely, but it was enough to set her pulse spiking.

For the first time that day, panic bloomed low in her stomach. Not fear — not exactly.
Just the sudden, unwelcome knowledge that Tina still had that effect on her. That she could close six inches of space and undo ten years of distance without even trying.

Bette looked straight ahead, jaw tight, pretending to study the menu. But she wasn’t reading a single word.

“Fries,” Bette said simply.

Tina turned, arching a brow. “That’s it?”

Bette managed to bounce back quickly. “I’m a minimalist when it comes to regret.”

She placed the order with the teenage voice crackling through the speaker. “Can we get that with light ice in the shake, please?” she added, then settled in her seat and buckled up. 

Bette gave her a sideways look. “Light ice?”

Tina shrugged. “Don’t judge me.”

“I would never,” Bette said, deadpan. “Though I’m pretty sure that’s how serial killers order milkshakes.”

Tina let out a laugh that made her shoulders drop, tension easing. “I like to drink my shake, not chip a tooth on it.”

A few cars crawled ahead, the line creeping forward slowly. As they reached the window and exchanged money for a greasy paper bag and a too-cold cup, Bette passed the bag to Tina with one hand, the other still on the wheel.

“God, this smells amazing,” Tina said, opening the top and peeking in. “You sure you only want fries?”

Bette nodded. “Self-control. I read about it once.”

Tina rolled her eyes and fished one of the animal fries from the carton, warm cheese stretching in a decadent string. She held it up.

“Here,” she said, eyes dancing. “Open.”

Bette turned her head, mouth parting slightly. Tina slipped the fry in gently, watching the way Bette’s lips closed around her fingers just for a second longer than necessary.

Bette chewed, then smirked. “Mmm. Salty. Complicated. Slightly manipulative.”

Tina blinked. “Are we still talking about the fries?”

Bette didn’t answer. She just looked ahead, the corners of her mouth tugging higher.

Tina shook her head, laughing softly. “I swear to God, if you get oil on your leather steering wheel, I will never forgive myself.”

“Oh no,” Bette said, her voice mock serious. “Not the wheel.”

Then she leaned in a little, low and teasing. “Now the burger.”

Tina snorted, but her fingers hesitated just slightly over the foil wrapper. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Hungry,” Bette corrected. “And you started this.”

“Fine.” Tina unwrapped the burger halfway, then took a deliberately slow bite. She chewed, swallowed, then held it up.

Bette raised an eyebrow. “That’s cruel.”

Tina smirked. “I know.”

She fed her a bite anyway smaller, this time, teasing. Bette leaned in again, their hands brushing, and for one electric moment, their eyes locked.

Outside, the world kept moving and cars lining up behind them, traffic buzzing on La Cienega but inside the car, everything felt suspended.

Tina held the burger still, her voice softer now. “You really weren’t planning to go back to work today?”

Bette licked a bit of cheese from her bottom lip and looked at her. “No,” she said. “Not after seeing you standing there like that. Dangerous skirt length , stranded, suspiciously unbothered.”

“I was bothered,” Tina said quietly.

Bette’s gaze flickered to her mouth again. “Good.”

They didn’t talk much after the drive-thru. It wasn’t necessary.

Bette passed Tina the napkins without being asked. Tina handed her the drink wordlessly, straw already unwrapped. It was easy — automatic, like muscle memory. The kind of silent choreography that comes from knowing someone too well, even after too much time. They sat in the soft hum of the car, the scent of fries mixing with the faint sweetness of Tina’s perfume and the lingering scent from Bette’s cologne.

Tina leaned her head against the window for a moment, feeling the chill of the glass against her temple. She didn’t say anything when Bette reached out and turned the music down a notch. It was a small gesture, but it felt intimate. Familiar.

She licked salt from her fingertips, then wiped her hands carefully on a napkin, aware of how Bette’s gaze flicked toward her briefly, not enough to be caught, but enough to confirm what she already suspected.

There was still something here. Still heat. Still danger.

The city blurred by them in hazy streaks of color, and the silence stretched not uncomfortable, but dense, like fog. Everything between them now was slow-building. Winding up.

The breeze through the cracked window danced over Tina’s skin, lifting a few strands of hair that tickled her cheek. She tucked them behind her ear with a flick of her fingers, a gesture practiced to the point of unconscious. But she knew Bette saw it. Every movement now felt observed. Worse — it felt anticipated.

“You nervous?” Bette asked, almost gently.

Tina glanced sideways. Bette’s fingers rested on the wheel, long and elegant, tapping in rhythm with the music. Her other hand lay on her thigh, knuckles brushing the dark fabric of her slacks. She looked maddeningly composed. Like nothing could shake her. Like she did this often.

Tina’s eyes lingered on the angle of Bette’s jaw, then down to her hand, still and relaxed on her leg. After a second, she looked up at her face and said, “No.”

Bette nodded once, subtle. “Good. I like that.”

Tina shifted in her seat, slow and deliberate, recrossing her legs the other way. She caught the flick of Bette’s eyes to the newly exposed skin, then back to the road—faster this time, but not fast enough to hide it.

Satisfaction warmed Tina’s stomach.

The silence in the car was thick, but not awkward — more like a held breath. Something waiting to be said. Tina traced the seam of the leather seat beneath her fingertips, not looking at Bette when she asked, lightly, “So… where exactly are we going? Or is this like — you promise wine and mystery, and suddenly I’m in over my head?”

Bette’s hand tightened on the steering wheel, just slightly. “You weren’t in over your head,” she said, eyes still fixed on the road. Her voice was smooth but taut. “You just didn’t want to stay in the water.”

Tina turned, her breath catching. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“I don’t have to,” Bette said, slowing for a stop sign. She finally looked at her. 

Tina held her gaze for a beat too long. Then she smiled — soft, almost sad — and looked out the window. “Ten years, Porter. You still know how to make a detour sound like a dare.”

“I don’t do pool houses anymore,” Bette said, more quietly now. “And I don’t play games.”

“No,” Tina said. “That was always my part.”

Bette’s smile curled in that maddening, deliberate way — like she was in on a secret she hadn’t decided to share yet. “You wound me.”

“You can take it.”

“I can take a lot,” Bette said, her tone almost idle—but the pause after made Tina’s breath catch. That sentence lingered between them, thick as smoke. 

Chapter Text

11 Years ago

Tina wasn’t supposed to be in L.A. that weekend.

She was supposed to be in New York, buried under deadlines and pretending to be excited about a second-round pitch meeting for a documentary on generational wealth. Her assistant had practically begged her not to go and warned her that flying out last-minute for a docu-series pitch on the West Coast was a logistical nightmare, especially during pilot season.

Her agent hadn’t minced words either. “L.A.?” she’d said with a half-laugh over speakerphone, somewhere between sipping her green juice and yelling at her dog. “Tina, come on. It’s all vanity projects and inflated egos out there. The L.A. scene is too art-adjacent to take anything seriously unless it comes with a celebrity narrator and a Cannes pedigree.”

Even her ex—ever pragmatic, ever ready with a passive-aggressive jab—had rolled his eyes and muttered, “You’re so dramatic. Jetting off every time you’re trying to outrun your feelings like it’s some kind of indie film plotline.”

Tina had ignored all of them.

Booked the flight. Packed in under ten minutes. Slept through takeoff. Landed with a vague migraine and a backpack full of doubts. But she’d done it anyway, propelled by something she couldn’t quite name yet something louder than logic.

By Saturday morning, the sky was threatening rain. A smog-heavy, sullen kind of gray hung over the city like a mood she didn’t want to own. Her hair, which she’d spent twenty minutes trying to tame in the in the mirror, was already beginning to curl at the edges. She looked like someone trying too hard not to look like she was trying.

Fairfax was quieter than she remembered. Or maybe she was just quieter than she remembered. Either way, when she ducked into a narrow café tucked between a record shop and a tattoo studio with mismatched chairs, jazz bleeding from the walls, smell of burnt espresso and rain-soaked concrete. She hadn’t expected anything. She just wanted caffeine. Shelter. Maybe the illusion of stillness.

And then she saw her.

Bette Porter.

Tina didn’t know her name yet. But she knew her presence.

Seated by the window, haloed in that soft, unforgiving gray light, wearing a black turtleneck that clung in all the right places and tortoiseshell glasses that gave her a kind of cerebral edge. She was scribbling furiously in a sketchbook, posture taut with purpose, as if whatever she was writing had a deadline she didn’t trust the world to respect.

Tina stopped just inside the door. Forgot why she’d come in.

It wasn’t just that this woman was beautiful, though she was sharply, unapologetically beautiful, with cheekbones that looked chiseled from the same stone as her focus. It was how she held herself. The way she ignored the room without arrogance. The way she corrected the barista’s mispronunciation of Basquiat without looking up. The way she stirred her espresso with the distracted precision of someone used to living inside her own head. The way her lips moved slightly as she read something in French.

She didn’t even flinch when a clap of thunder cracked against the glass.

Tina should’ve walked out.

She was damp, undercaffeinated, emotionally disoriented. Still aching from a breakup that had left her more hollow than angry. Her rhythm was gone—her timing, her spark, the steadiness she relied on when her career felt like too many versions of herself splitting off in opposite directions.

But the universe never cared for her schedules. It liked drama. It liked tension. And most of all, it liked irony.

Because just as she turned toward the counter, trying not to look back, trying not to want, Bette noticed her.

A blonde in an overpriced wool coat, hair frizzing from the drizzle, standing in the doorway like she wasn’t sure if she’d walked into the wrong decade. There was something in her posture—elegant but uneasy, like she was trying not to exist too loudly. New York radiated off her in invisible waves, too polished, too guarded, too tired of being perceived.

So naturally, Bette couldn’t stop watching her.

Something in the way she blinked slowly, like she was recalibrating. Something in the way she stood alone but carried herself like she’d been surrounded for too long. Bette didn’t believe in fate, but she believed in interruptions and those rare, frictioned moments that cut through your day like a key in the wrong lock.

The blonde didn’t order right away. Didn’t even seem to notice Bette at first. But Bette noticed everything. Every hesitation. Every internal negotiation playing out in the woman’s stillness. She recognized it.

People like that don’t walk into your life for no reason. Not in the middle of a storm. 

The woman scanned the room the way someone does when they’re looking for an escape route not a seat.

Tina’s eyes flicked over the crowded tables with a slight edge of panic, her fingers tightening around the strap of her crossbody bag. Her coat, charcoal wool, sleek and expensive that clung damply to her shoulders, the fabric darkening from the drizzle outside. She was clearly hoping for a quiet corner or a clean exit. Neither existed in the warm chaos of the café.

Her gaze landed on the only open chair.

Across from Bette.

Tina hesitated, her mouth parting slightly like she might speak, then didn’t. One last quick glance around the café told her she was out of options. Her shoulders dropped, just barely. Then she stepped forward, her boots clicking softly on the concrete floor.

She stopped at Bette’s table, eyes wary, posture a little too careful. Her fingers fidgeted with the frayed seam of her sleeve, a nervous tell she likely hadn’t realized she’d picked up.

“Mind if I…?” she asked, gesturing toward the empty seat with an awkward flick of her fingers.

Bette didn’t look up right away.

Her pen kept moving across the page in short, determined strokes. The storm outside had picked up, the rain now tapping insistently at the tall window beside them. The thunder had softened to a low, distant growl, like a conversation behind glass.

“Do I look like I do?” Bette murmured finally, her voice dry, low, almost amused.

Tina gave a crooked half-smile. “You look like you might charge rent.”

That made Bette stop.

She lifted her eyes with a kind of lazy precision, like she already knew she was going to be interested. Her gaze was sharp, but not unkind more observant, curious. Her smirk curved slowly into place, settling like a secret between them.

“Depends on the view,” Bette said.

Tina’s breath caught a little. Just enough to notice.

She slid into the seat without answering. Her movements were too precise to be comfortable. She kept her coat on, kept her hands wrapped around the paper cup the barista had handed her a minute ago. Stirred the contents like it was a science experiment she didn’t quite trust.

A draft slipped through the café door as someone else entered. It sent a shiver up Tina’s spine, made her pull her coat tighter. Bette noticed the way her fingers trembled just slightly enough to betray the chill in her bones, or maybe something deeper.

After a beat, Bette said, “You’re not from here.”

Tina looked up, caught off guard. Her eyes were soft brown, but guarded. They scanned quickly, then narrowed with polite suspicion. “That obvious?”

Bette tilted her head, elbow propped on the table, chin resting lightly against her knuckles. “Shoes are too good. Hair too annoyed. And you look like you miss walking aggressively.”

That surprised a laugh out of Tina, tight and involuntary.

“I do,” she said, half-smiling. “Is that a California burn?”

“Call it a cultural observation,” Bette replied smoothly, then took a sip of her espresso. Her fingers curled delicately around the cup, nails short and unpolished, sketching ink still faintly smudged near her knuckles.

Tina leaned back a fraction, finally letting herself melt into the back of the chair. The corners of her mouth tugged upward. “Well, you’re right. I live in New York.”

“Ah,” Bette said with a small nod, like something had just clicked into place. “And what brings you to the land of smoothies and spiritual awakenings?”

Tina shrugged, eyes darting to the window. Raindrops slid down the glass in long, jagged lines, warping the streetlights into something dreamlike. “Work. Sort of.”

Bette raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Not a startup founder. Too well dressed.”

Tina chuckled softly, still stirring. “I’m a producer,” she said, like she was testing the word’s weight in this air.

“Ah. That explains the thousand-yard stare,” Bette said.

Tina looked up sharply, amused and a little defensive. “And what do you do besides eavesdrop on tourists?”

Bette’s lips curved. “I run a gallery. Curate exhibitions. Occasionally terrify interns.”

“So you’re the gatekeeper of culture?”

“Only the good kind.” She closed her sketchbook carefully, as if sealing a part of herself inside it. “You said producer. What kind of projects?”

Tina exhaled slowly, visibly debating how much to say. “Mostly development. But I’m in town for a pitch. Indie doc. Female artists. Underexposed talent. Still figuring it out.”

Bette’s gaze sharpened, intrigued. “So, you’re chasing stories.”

That struck something in Tina. Her stirring stopped.

She blinked once, then again. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

“And do you always do it this charmingly jet-lagged and underdressed?”

Tina laughed, hand flying to her frizzing hair. “Only on weekends.”

They talked like that for over an hour.

About art. Film. What it meant to live in cities that shaped how you carried yourself. Tina confessed that L.A. confused her that it was all sun but no warmth, openness with asterisks. Bette said cities were just mirrors. The trick was figuring out what part of yourself they were reflecting back.

“You’re very quotable,” Tina said at one point, dragging a finger around the rim of her now-cold latte.

“I’m very caffeinated,” Bette replied. “That helps.”

The flirtation was casual. But it didn’t feel light.

It felt like both women were balancing on the edge of something that couldn’t be named yet. Like if either one of them leaned too far forward, the whole thing would tilt into something irreversible.

“So…” Tina leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest in what might have been defense or warmth. “Do you always interrogate strangers in cafés?”

“Only the ones who look like they might bolt at any moment.”

Tina gave her a tight smile, then lowered her eyes. “I don’t usually do this.”

“Sit with women?” Bette asked. Her voice had softened, but her posture had straightened, like she was bracing for something.

“Or talk to them for an hour without checking my phone.”

That made Bette go still.

The silence between them changed shape—went deeper, quieter, heavier.

“You’re straight, then.”

“Was,” Tina said, after a beat. “Or thought I was.”

“Is this a crisis,” Bette asked gently, “or an evolution?”

Tina tilted her head, considering. “Would it change the answer?”

“No,” Bette said, almost to herself. “Just the pace.”

Outside, the rain kept falling. Slower now. More steady than stormy.

Eventually, Tina glanced at her watch and stood too fast, bumping the table slightly. Bette’s hand darted out to steady it instinctively.

“You’re leaving?” Bette asked, more like a fact than a question.

“I have a meeting,” Tina said. Then hesitated. “But… this was…”

“Unexpected,” Bette finished.

“Yeah. That.”

They stood in a silence so fragile it felt like it might shatter if either one of them breathed too hard. Something had just almost been said. Something that would’ve mattered.

Tina stepped toward the door. She turned over her shoulder.

“I’d ask for your number, but…” Her voice trailed off. “I’m not sure I want this to be real yet.”

Bette didn’t look surprised. She just nodded slowly. “Then don’t. Just let it live here for now.”

“In the rain?” Tina asked, a little smile ghosting across her lips.

“In the tension,” Bette said.

Tina gave her a long, unreadable look.

Then she walked out, disappearing into the storm.

“So, you’re chasing stories.”

Tina hadn’t realized how much that line had gotten under her skin until now, lying in the dim hush of the room, heart heavy with something unnamed.

Yes. She’d chased stories. It was what she did and what she was good at. She could find the human thread in anything, shape someone else’s pain into something poignant, powerful. Always someone else’s. She had learned how to disappear into other people’s lives, how to ask the questions that kept her from answering any of her own.

But tonight... something was different.

The woman had looked at her like she wasn’t just passing through. Like Tina herself was a story worth unfolding. No microphone, no camera. Just presence. Just heat. Just that maddening, undeniable pull.

And now Tina was left wondering if this — if this woman with such beautiful dark eyes was just another moment she’d gather and leave behind. Or if this was the first time she wasn’t running toward someone else’s life… but toward her own.

Her chest tightened. She didn’t know what it meant yet, this slow-dawning ache, this quiet recognition that she moved her in a way that had nothing to do with category or identity.

She didn’t know if she was ready. Or brave enough.

But maybe that didn’t matter.

Because somewhere in the quiet swirl of thought and breath and memory, a new question surfaced so small, but insistent.

Is this time going to be my story? And for once, Tina didn’t want to run.

She hadn’t planned on seeing her again.

That was the whole point, wasn’t it? A brief detour. A glitch in her otherwise over-controlled, over-managed life. No name, no backstory, no expectations. Just a strange, strangely comforting conversation with a woman whose presence had cracked something open in her, quietly, like a window in a stale room.

No name meant no follow-up. No name meant she could walk away.

And she had. Technically.

But she’d looked back. Three times.

The first time was right away, as the café door closed behind her. The soft chime sounded too cheerful in the quiet. She stopped just outside, her hand still on the handle, fingers tightening like she might pull it open again. The air outside felt colder than she expected. She turned just enough to peek through the glass. The woman inside hadn’t moved—still sitting, calm, sipping her espresso with one hand and flipping through a book with the other. Like nothing had changed. Like Tina hadn’t just walked out in the middle of something that felt like it mattered. She held her breath, waiting for something—anything—before finally letting the door close behind her.

The second time was halfway down the block. Her boots made quick, uneven sounds against the sidewalk. The pavement was damp from a morning drizzle, and the sky above was a pale, washed-out gray. She stopped under a blinking neon sign that said Tarot Readings and pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to ease the tightness building there. She turned again, slower this time, pretending to admire the old brick building. Pretending she wasn’t searching. But no one stood in the café’s doorway. No figure appeared in the window. Only the soft sound of jazz spilled out when someone else opened the door.

The third time, she had already crossed the street. She stood at the corner, one foot on the curb, the other still in the crosswalk. A yellow cab honked as it sped past her, but she didn’t flinch. Her heart was too loud, beating fast against her chest. Her throat felt tight. She turned her head—just a quick glance, she told herself. One last look. Just to be sure. But the café was already fading into the background. Its windows no longer warm or inviting, now just glass reflecting headlights and strangers walking by.

And the woman wasn’t looking. Not even a little. Not even once. And that… stung.

Not because she’d expected a chase. But because some tiny part of her, some foolish part had hoped for it anyway.

That night, Tina didn’t sleep.

She lay in the borrowed guest room in Echo Park, the kind that was clearly designed for short-term guests—clean lines, no personality, a plant that looked half-dead on the windowsill. The ceiling fan spun slow circles above her, steady and mechanical, while her mind did the opposite.

She kept going over it in her mind.

The conversation hadn’t been long. It hadn’t even been especially deep. But it had stayed with her—like something heavier than it seemed. She kept thinking about the things she’d said. How her words had come out—some rushed, some slow, some caught in her throat like she wasn’t sure she should say them at all.

And the woman—God, she still didn’t even know her name—had listened. Not in the way people often do, politely nodding while already thinking of something else. And not with the fake interest Tina had grown used to back in New York, the kind that disappears the moment you stop talking.

No, this had been different.

This woman had been there—present in a way that made Tina feel suddenly naked, like every carefully rehearsed line wasn’t landing the way she meant it to, and yet… it didn’t matter. Because the woman wasn’t looking for polish. She was looking for her.

And Tina despite herself had responded to that. She’d felt her defenses falter, her posture soften, her voice lose its edge. She hadn’t meant to stay long. She wasn’t even sure why she’d gone in. But there had been something in the air of that café—jazz playing too softly in the background, the smell of citrus peel and espresso grounds, the low hum of conversation—and something in the way the woman had glanced up, just once, and really seen her.

Neither had asked for a name. Neither had offered one.

It hadn’t felt like disinterest. No, far from it. It had felt like restraint.

Like understanding. Like both of them knew that names came with weight, and maybe neither of them was ready to hold it just yet.

It might have been respect. It might have been fear. It might have been the fragile, unspoken pact of two people who understood that something electric had passed between them—but who also knew the world outside didn’t always allow for electricity to burn freely.

Still, it stuck.

Not knowing her name. Not offering hers.

And now, in this borrowed bed, in this quiet house that wasn’t hers, in a city she was already preparing to leave—Tina couldn’t stop turning that moment over in her mind. That look. That voice. That presence.

Who was she?

By morning, Tina hadn’t even made it to the kitchen before her laptop was open, balanced precariously on the edge of the guest bed. Her hair was still a sleep-tousled mess, sweatshirt hanging loose off one shoulder, and her feet bare against the cold hardwood floor. The ceiling fan still circled above her like a slow metronome, but now it felt more like pressure than rhythm. She pulled the computer onto her lap, fingers hovering above the keyboard, hesitant.

She didn’t even know exactly what she was hoping for. Maybe that the search would turn up nothing. That she’d made it all up—that moment, that presence. Maybe the woman had been some charming, mysterious figment her brain conjured out of jet lag and too much merlot. Still, her fingers moved almost on their own.

L.A. gallery. Black woman curator. Turtleneck. Café Fairfax.

She hit return.

The page blinked, loaded. And then—there it was.

Porter Gallery.

The name sat centered at the top of the results in crisp sans-serif, surrounded by curated thumbnails with high-gloss images of the gallery’s interior—clean aesthetic, moody earth tones, a play of shadow and light that suggested the architecture took itself very seriously. The kind of space where sound disappeared into matte-black walls and art hovered like it was too fragile to be touched by breath.

Tina clicked.

The website loaded with a cinematic slowness that screamed intention. Every element seemed designed to make you feel slightly off-balance. Minimal text. Broad negative space. A monochrome color palette interrupted only by flashes of sharp, modern sculptures or raw, unframed canvases. It was the kind of gallery that made you second-guess whether your shoes squeaked too much or if your perfume was too loud.

She skimmed until she found a press tab, a mention in ArtForum about a recent curation on post-structuralist identity in mixed media. Sparse praise. Understated language. But enough to suggest a reputation that didn’t beg for attention, because it didn’t need to.

Then she found the team page.

And there she was.

Not in a turtleneck this time, but a crisp white blouse, open just enough at the collar to suggest confidence, not carelessness. The sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing toned forearms and the kind of ease that came from knowing exactly how you wanted to be seen. Dark suspenders cut clean, intentional lines over charcoal trousers. Her stance was strong—shoulders relaxed, one hip angled subtly forward but there was an energy to it. A coiled control. Like if she moved, the world would shift to follow her.

And her face.

It was the same, but different. Less intimate than the woman Tina had sat across from the day before, but no less compelling. Her gaze met the camera—not aggressive, not inviting—just aware. Alert. Eyes sharper than the backlighting behind her. Her mouth not quite smiling, but there was the faintest upward pull at one corner, like she was suppressing something—humor, maybe. Or a secret. Like she knew something about you that you didn’t know about her. Not yet.

Tina stared at the screen longer than she meant to.

Her fingers curled loosely around the edge of the laptop. Her breath left her slowly.

Bette Porter.

The name was printed below the image in small, all-caps type. Executive Director. Curator. Founder. Tina swore under her breath. Not out of anger. Not even frustration. It was something closer to disbelief. Maybe a little awe. Maybe a little fear.

Because now she knew her name. And knowing it made it impossible to forget her.

The rest of the day blurred into meetings, work messages, and polite nods in elevators. Tina moved through it like she was checking off boxes, her body going through the motions while her mind hovered somewhere else—still circling a name, a gallery, a face she couldn’t shake.

She’d dressed with intention that morning, though she hadn’t admitted it out loud. After closing her laptop—Bette Porter, Porter Gallery still lingering in her chest—she’d reached for the slate gray suit. Structured. Understated. Feminine in a way that didn’t demand attention but refused to be overlooked. The blouse was soft ivory, slightly open at the collar. Just enough.

She told herself it was just habit, being polished for a workday. But she knew better. She wanted to walk into that gallery and not feel small. Not feel like a question.

So she moved through her day with that quiet decision folded beneath her clothes like a lining and at four o’clock, she had a goal.

She wasn’t entirely sure what that goal was. Curiosity, maybe. A pull she hadn’t reasoned with yet. Or maybe she just needed to see if the static in her chest would quiet in Bette’s presence or if it would flare up into something undeniable.

The gallery was on a quiet stretch of Melrose and wedged between a boutique ceramics studio and a pilates place where the windows steamed up from bodies stretching like ballerinas. The sign was minimalist. Just “PORTER” in matte black, mounted flush with the concrete.

Inside, it was cool. Still. Like walking into a held breath.

Tina hesitated just past the threshold. Her fingers toyed with the frayed edge of her coat sleeve, a nervous habit from her twenties that had never quite gone away. The white walls around her seemed to hum. The pieces were large and bold with sharp angles and muted palettes. She could feel the intention in the space. Nothing here was accidental.

And then—there she was.

Bette.

Mid-conversation with a man in a too-blue blazer and statement glasses. Even in profile, she looked… composed. Structured. A little different than at the café. Like this version of her was pressed and framed in a way that fit the gallery.

Tina looked away quickly, moving toward a canvas with no title. Deep reds. Broad, sweeping strokes. The kind of piece that made you feel like something was about to break loose.

She didn’t have a plan. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to talk to her. Maybe she just needed to see her again. Just to know the woman wasn’t a dream. That the conversation hadn’t just been a well-timed hallucination in a week full of avoidance.

But then. “You came.” The voice was behind her. Calm. Measured. But warm.

Tina turned.

Bette stood a few feet away, hands in the pockets of her trousers. Her expression was unreadable—but her eyes? Her eyes were very, very aware.

“I—” Tina gave a sheepish shrug. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure if that would be... weird.”

“It is,” Bette said, with the hint of a smile. “But I’m not mad about it.”

They stood like that for a moment. The air between them wasn’t awkward, exactly. Just full.

“I realized I never asked your name,” Tina admitted, her voice quiet.

Bette tilted her head. “You didn’t.”

“I think I was trying to make it feel less real. Keep things… light.”

“And did that help?”

Tina smiled without meaning to. “Not even a little.”

Bette stepped closer now, not intrusively, just enough for Tina to notice the way her perfume lingered—something clean and warm, like cedar and vanilla.

“I’m Bette Porter,” she said, finally offering it. Her voice was softer now, like she was giving something up, too.

Tina met her gaze. “Tina. Tina Kennard.”

Bette nodded, like she’d already guessed.

“Would you like me to show you around, Tina?”

The sound of her name in Bette’s voice sent something down Tina’s spine. A tiny, traitorous thrill.

“Yeah,” Tina said. “I’d like that.”

They moved slowly, deliberately, through the space. Bette’s tone shifted as she spoke about the pieces—more grounded now, confident but not performative. She talked about curation choices, about contrast and tension, about pairing international artists with locals to force new conversations.

Tina watched her more than the art.

Noticed how Bette’s hands moved when she talked. Not big gestures, but small ones—an occasional touch to her sternum when something felt personal. A slight press of her thumb and forefinger when describing a difficult installation.

There was grace in her restraint.

When Tina asked questions, Bette paused before answering. Like she wasn’t just responding more like she was considering. That quiet thoughtfulness that had drawn Tina in from the start was still there, just more structured in this setting. More anchored.

They stopped at the final piece. A black-and-white photo installation, a women in motion. Mid-turn, mid-expression. All of them full of unspoken things.

Bette lingered. “This is a guest exhibit. Artist’s from Brooklyn. She doesn’t title her work. Says it makes the viewer lazy.”

Tina stepped closer. “They feel like people I know. Or used to know.”

Bette glanced at her. “Good art does that. Reflects you back at yourself.”

She didn’t say it like a philosophy. She said it like a truth she'd learned the hard way.

Tina hesitated. Her voice dipped. “I leave tomorrow.”

Bette didn’t react visibly. But Tina could see the shift. In her shoulders. In the pause before her reply.

“Early flight?”

Tina nodded. “I know this is sudden. Probably irrational. But…”

She took a breath. “Would you have a drink with me?”

Bette’s brows lifted slightly, amused. “After all that careful anonymity?”

Tina gave a half-laugh. “Turns out I’m not that good at shielding.”

“I noticed,” Bette said, and smiled—a real one this time. Slow. Warm. Like she’d been hoping she’d ask.

“One drink,” Bette added.

“Just one,” Tina agreed.

“Unless we get distracted.”

Tina grinned. “Do you know a place?”

Bette tilted her head. “I know a place.”

She didn’t elaborate. Just started walking, leaving space beside her.

And Tina followed.

She led them back through the gallery, her heels striking the concrete with a rhythm Tina was already starting to memorize. When they reached the back corridor, she paused at her office door, glanced once at Tina one of those long, unreadable looks and stepped inside.

Tina waited, uncertain.

Tina was still outside the office door. Waiting.

Bette could feel her there—quiet, steady, like she'd settled into her decision and wasn’t second-guessing it. She moved through the familiar motions—slinging her bag over one shoulder, tucking a folder under her arm—but her thoughts were still caught in the way Tina had looked at her just moments earlier.

It had been Tina who asked.

Simple. Direct. “Would you have a drink with me?” Like it wasn’t loaded. Like the air between them hadn’t been humming since the second Bette showed her that last piece in the gallery.

Bette had paused, looked at her. Not surprised, exactly. But not untouched either.

She knew the types—women who lingered too long, women who flirted with their eyes, women who mistook her attention for permission. Tina wasn’t like that. She didn’t chase. She didn’t perform. She just stood there, open but self-contained, offering a sliver of something real—and letting Bette decide what to do with it.

That was the unsettling part. Not the drink. Not the invitation. But the feeling that Tina already knew what she was doing. And that Bette, for once, didn’t.

As she stepped out of the office, her gaze flicked toward the woman waiting. Backlit by the gallery’s muted lighting, Tina looked like she belonged there and didn’t all at once—like she could disappear if Bette blinked too long.

And suddenly, Tina's invitation is not an option. It felt inevitable.

A moment later, Bette reemerged with her bag slung over one shoulder, a folder tucked neatly under her arm. She gave James, seated at the front desk, a brief nod.

“Heading out,” she said simply.

James blinked. “Oh. Okay.”

And then Bette turned to Tina, walking past her without hesitation. As Tina moved to follow, Bette looked back, the edge of her mouth lifting.

Tina stared at the woman infront of her. She wasn’t sure what she expected. Maybe someone a little more reserved, maybe someone who didn’t look like she’d just walked out of a black-and-white photograph and into color. But mostly, she hadn’t expected Bette to be so tall.

Not towering, but tall enough that Tina had to tilt her chin just slightly when they stopped in front of each other. It shifted the dynamic—not in a way that made her feel small, but in a way that made her suddenly, sharply aware of herself. Her posture. Her breath. The suit she’d chosen that morning like armor, now feeling more like invitation.

“Walk beside me,” she said. “I want to see if you’ll hold your ground.”

Tina laughed—caught off guard, but not unwilling. “Ha!”

“Thought so.” Bette responded with a slight grin.

They fell into step outside, the air thick with late afternoon heat, the city shifting into golden hour. Traffic murmured in the distance. Their shadows stretched long on the sidewalk.

The bar didn’t have a sign, just a matte black door, set back from the sidewalk like a secret waiting to be discovered. A single amber bulb hung overhead, casting warm light onto the wet pavement. It had rained earlier. The air still smelled of it like cool, metallic, tinged with something floral from the planters outside a closed boutique two doors down.

Bette stepped inside, letting the door ease shut behind her. Her eyes adjusted slowly. The space was quiet but full—just enough of a hum to feel alive, not crowded.

Inside, it was low-lit and layered in velvet. Burnt orange, deep green, oxblood. The walls were a mix of exposed brick and dark wood paneling, with small gold-framed mirrors and vintage sconces creating pockets of soft glow. The jazz trio in the corner played something slow and steady, the upright bass like a heartbeat beneath it all. Tables were scattered with intentional asymmetry, and the whole place felt curated and effortlessly intimate without veering into cliché.

Tina stepped in behind her, hesitating for half a second, taking in the space with a glance that was more cautious than curious.

Bette clocked it, then kept walking, leading them past the front tables toward a secluded alcove near the back, a two-stool set-up with a velvet banquette pressed into a corner. Not too close to the stage, not quite in shadow, but far enough from the entrance to leave no easy escape.

She chose it on purpose.

Once they were seated, Bette slid off her coat and draped it neatly on the back of her chair. The fabric whispered against the leather as she settled in beside Tina—not across from her, but beside, leaving just inches between them. Not enough space to hide behind a table. No room for deflection.

Tina sat with one leg crossed over the other, the toe of her heel barely grazing the stool rung. She wore a fitted grey blazer over a soft ivory blouse, and jeans that skimmed just above the ankle, sharp and casual at once. Her hair was pinned up with a few wisps loose, framing her neck, and her lipstick was a deliberate crimson. She hadn’t dressed for a date—but she hadn’t not dressed for one either.

Bette let her eyes linger just a moment, then tilted her head, a quiet smile forming as she turned to face her.

Tina arched one brow, amused. Her eyes scanned Bette’s face like she was memorizing the lines of it now that she had a second chance.

“I almost bolted,” she said, voice soft, but not uncertain.

“Why didn't you?” Bette asked, watching her closely.

Tina turned toward her fully now. She took a breath before speaking, like she wanted the words to land exactly right.

“Because you intrigue me,” she said, eyes steady. “And because I had one night left in L.A. and I didn’t want to spend it wondering what might’ve happened if I said yes to this curiosity.”

There was no room for coyness in that moment. Bette tilted her head, her mouth twitching at the corner.

“So this is your version of taking a risk?”

“I’m not as calculated as you think,” Tina said, while biting her lips.

Bette let her eyes drop briefly—to her hand, the curve of her wrist, the tension in her shoulders just beneath the confidence. “Aren’t you?”

Before Tina could answer, the bartender approached, quiet and practiced. Bette ordered a mezcal neat, her voice low but firm. Tina’s asked for red wine. They clinked glasses—no toast, no fanfare—just a soft chime in the dim room. A nod, a look. Recognition. Maybe respect.

“Where are you staying?” Bette asked casually, tracing the condensation on her glass with a finger.

“Eco Park,” Tina said. She made a face—half-apology, half-admission. “But it doesn’t feel like me.”

Bette looked at her. “What does?”

Tina exhaled a short laugh through her nose. “I’m not sure. I’ve lived in New York so long I forgot how to feel like I belong anywhere.”

Bette studied her for a beat. “You don’t strike me as someone who doesn’t belong.”

“You don’t know me.”

“No,” Bette agreed. “But I read people. It’s what I do.”

Tina tilted her head slightly, her smile teasing but cautious. “And what do you read now?”

Bette’s gaze lingered. Not invasive, but deep. Searching. “That you’re pretending you’re not curious about me.”

Tina’s smile curled, subtle and one-sided. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not the same.”

“No,” Tina said, swirling her wine. “It’s not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged. Like the space between a match and a flame.

“You’re not what I expected,” Bette said eventually, her voice thoughtful.

Tina leaned in slightly. “What did you expect?”

“A New York documentary producer?” Bette said, glancing sideways. “Buttoned-up. Strategic. Vague in a way that screams guarded.”

“And?”

“You’re worse,” Bette said with a small grin. “You pretend you’re open, but you give away nothing.”

Tina laughed, surprised by the accuracy. “That’s funny. I thought the same thing about you.”

They kept talking, in spirals rather than straight lines. Tina asked about the gallery, about how long Bette had run it, what drew her to curation. Bette asked about New York—what Tina loved about it, what she’d outgrown. Tina confessed she used to paint but hadn’t picked up a brush in years. Bette admitted she couldn’t draw a straight line, but once curated an entire show around imperfection.

It was flirtation, yes—but not the glossy, surface kind. It was intellectual sparring. It was skin and soul, wrapped in silk and subtext.

Their fingers brushed reaching for the olives in the small brass dish between them. Neither flinched. But neither lingered.

When Tina leaned in to comment on the jazz trio—the smoky, late-night tone of the trumpet and her breath grazed Bette’s cheek. Bette didn’t move. She just turned her head, slowly, deliberately, and met Tina’s gaze.

“You do this a lot?” Tina asked, her voice low. “Take women out for drinks after gallery hours?”

Bette’s smile was slight. “No. Not often.”

Tina raised her eyebrow and asked. “So I’m special?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Tina said with confidence.

That made Bette laugh—quiet, breathy, almost surprised.

“You’re not shy,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m just honest.”

“And what is it you want, Tina?”

Tina paused. Set her glass down. Met Bette’s eyes with a calm, focused intensity.

“That’s not the right question,” she said.

“No?”

“The question is, what are we afraid of?”

Bette didn’t answer immediately. She looked down, then up again. Sipped her mezcal. Let the silence fill in the space her words didn’t.

Tina leaned back, crossing her legs. “You don’t chase, do you?”

Bette smiled faintly. “Never had to.”

“And what happens when someone makes you want to?”

Bette’s eyes flicked to hers, it was sharp, clear, direct. Something unspoken passed between them, heavier than the jazz, heavier than the drink in her hand. She set her glass down with intention, fingers resting against the bar.

“Then I wait,” Bette said. “Because if she’s worth chasing, she’ll come closer on her own.”

Tina let out a breath that was part laugh, part exhale of something more fragile. “You’re good.”

“I know.”

Tina looked down at her hands. “But maybe I don’t want to be the one who always comes closer.”

“Then we stay here,” Bette said, voice low. “Like this.”

And they did. Until last call.

As they were preparing to leave, Bette asked. “I forgot to ask. How’d your meeting go?”

Tina smirked. “Shockingly great.”

Bette tilted her head. “Look at that. L.A. manages to impress the New Yorker.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Tina said, stepping closer. “But it was... promising.”

Bette raised a brow, arms loosely crossed. “So, does that mean I’ll be seeing you again soon?”

Tina smiled, head tilted. “Where’s the fun in knowing?”

Bette huffed a laugh. “You say that like I enjoy the suspense.”

“You don’t?” Tina asked, eyes gleaming. “You seem like someone who likes a little tension.”

“I like my tension in art. Not in women who flirt like it's a competitive sport.”

Tina gasped, mock-offended. “Are you accusing me of weaponized charm?”

“I’m saying you came in here with zero warning, stirred things up, and now you’re pulling the classic exit move,” Bette said, leaning in slightly. “It’s manipulative. Honestly, it’s impressive.”

“Well,” Tina said, starting to turn, “I guess you’ll just have to wonder.”

When they stepped outside, the night was balmy and close. The scent of wet concrete and night jasmine drifted on the breeze. A cab waited at the curb, headlights casting long shadows across the pavement. Tina stood with her arms folded, heart thudding beneath her blazer, not from nerves but from restraint. From everything not said. Bette stood beside her, hands in her coat pockets, body angled just slightly toward hers.

“I’m not going to kiss you,” Tina said softly.

Bette turned her head. Looked at her. Really looked. “Good,” she said. “You’d regret it.”

“You think so?” Tina answered as she bit her lower lip.

Bette gave a mischievous yet knowing smile. “I know so.” 

The car pulled up. Tina didn’t move right away. “This was…”

“Almost,” Bette finished.

Tina opened the door. Slid in. Closed it without another word.

Bette stood there, watching as the car pulled away, tail lights bleeding red into the street behind it.

She didn’t stop her.

But she’d remember.

And so would Tina.

Chapter Text

It had been five days.

Five days since Bette Porter sat across from Tina Kennard in that dim bar with the terrible acoustics, the kind of place where voices bounced off the high ceiling and disappeared before they reached their point. The booths were red leather, cracked at the seams. The candlelight flickered more than it glowed.

Tina had sipped her red wine like it was something to be considered, not consumed. She kept tracing faint shapes on the table with her fingertip—soft, looping lines like she was sketching something invisible, something only she could see.

Bette had stared more than she meant to. Five days later, she still was.

Which was, frankly, irritating. She’d had infatuations before—brief flickers, women who shimmered for a night or a week, all the way until Bette got bored or they did. Nothing a long run or a strong drink couldn’t sweat out.

But Tina?

Tina fucking Kennard had seeped into her like red wine into white silk—slow, stubborn, and completely unwilling to wash out.

Now it was Thursday night. They were at some aggressively ambient vegan place with lighting that made everyone look vaguely sun-deprived. Bette sat with her bamboo bowl of overpriced kale and stared at it like it might give her answers. Across from her, Alice was halfway through a monologue about a podcast she might be co-hosting, while Shane was deep in a flirtation with their server, all soft smirks and chin tilts.

Alice paused mid-sentence and narrowed her eyes. “Okay. You’re being weird.”

Bette didn’t look up. “I’m not being weird.”

“That was word number four,” Shane chimed in, not taking her eyes off the waitress. “You’ve officially said more to that bowl of kale than to us.”

Alice leaned in, fork in hand like it doubled as a lie detector. “Is this an intervention?” Bette asked dryly.

“No,” Alice said. “This is a vibe check. And your vibe is loud. And distracted. Is this about the woman?”

Bette finally looked up. “What woman?”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Not even pretending to lie. So there is a woman.”

Bette sighed, setting her fork down with deliberate care. “We just… talked.”

Alice let out a scandalized gasp. “Bette Porter doesn’t just talk. She gives convention talks. She presents. She seduces and quotes Sontag in the same breath.”

“She curates,” Shane added, biting into a lettuce wrap.

Bette gave them both a look. “She was just—unexpected.”

Alice exchanged a look with Shane, then zeroed back in. “What’s her name?”

“Tina. Tina Kennard.”

Alice scrunched her nose. “That sounds like someone in witness protection. Is she real?”

“She’s in film,” Bette said. “Producer. Smart. Quiet at first. Then out of nowhere, she asks me what I’m afraid of.”

Shane let out a low whistle. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t,” Bette said. “I couldn’t. She decided for me.”

“Oh no,” Alice said, already grinning. “She read you. What was her conclusion?”

“That I don’t chase,” Bette muttered into her wine.

Alice slammed a hand down on the table. “She’s good.”

“She laughed,” Bette said, almost defensive. “She didn’t make fun of me. She got me.”

“And then?” Shane leaned forward, mouth tugging into a grin. “You slept with her?”

“No,” Bette said, picking at her napkin.

Alice gawked. “Wait. What?”

“She said she was straight,” Bette said. “She believes, that if she kissed me, it would make everything too real.”

Shane choked on her ginger beer.

Alice sat back in her chair, stunned. “She said that? To your face?”

Bette nodded, slowly. “Like she knew exactly what it would do.”

Alice slapped her palm to her chest. “Oh my God. Bette’s got a soft spot.”

“She said it like… like she was trying to protect both of us,” Bette added, quieter now. “Then she got up and left.”

“And you let her?” Shane asked, mouth falling open. “You let her walk?”

“She had a flight,” Bette said. “Back to New York. She was always going to leave.”

There was a pause. Not judgmental. Just… thick with what they weren’t saying.

Alice broke the silence, eyes narrowing with purpose. “Okay, but you got her number, right?”

Bette grimaced. “No.”

“Instagram?”

“No.”

“Email?”

Bette looked personally offended. “Do I look like I ask for emails?”

Alice threw her arms up. “So what do you have?”

“Ghosts of her in my gallery,” Bette said, quietly now, like it was a secret. “Just walked in, looked around, and asked if I wanted to get a drink.”

Alice blinked. “And you’re still here in L.A. because…?”

“Oh you know why. Well, she said goodbye like it was a handshake,” Bette said, her voice faraway again. “Like we hadn’t just opened a door we weren’t ready to walk through.”

Shane leaned forward. “Okay. I’m officially in. I want a sequel.”

Alice nodded. “This is like one of those French films. Long stares. Lingering hands. Nothing happens for ninety minutes and then you cry.”

“No one’s crying,” Bette muttered.

“Except your ego,” Shane said, deadpan.

Bette rubbed her temple, laughing despite herself. “She got under my skin. That’s all.”

“No,” Alice said, grinning like a devil. “You got got. Admit it. You’re already planning your surprise art-diplomacy mission to New York.”

“I was going to ask…” Bette cleared her throat, fiddling with the stem of her wine glass. “...if either of you still have contacts there. In the gallery scene.”

Alice froze. “Wait. You’re actually thinking—?”

“Just thinking,” Bette said, forcing nonchalance.

Alice didn’t blink. “Thinking of flying across the country for a woman who didn’t even let you kiss her.”

Bette met her gaze. “She didn’t have to let me.”

That made both Alice and Shane pause.

“She already owned you,” Shane said.

And just like that, the table fell into silence. Even Alice was speechless.

Shane stared at her like she was seeing her for the first time, then slowly raised her glass. “To Tina Kennard.”

Alice lifted hers too, stunned but grinning. “Who cracked the code for the uncrackable.”

Bette shook her head, but she smiled.

Because deep down, she knew. Tina hadn’t walked away. Not really. She’d left a challenge. 

And Bette Porter?

She didn’t back down from those. Not when they came wrapped in red wine, invisible sketches, and eyes that dared her to look back.

The first week after Tina left, Bette showed up at the gallery every morning like she always did — sharp, composed, keys jangling in one hand, black coffee in the other. Business as usual.

What wasn’t usual was that she stayed. Late. Every night.

Even when there were no clients scheduled, no new shipments of work to inspect, no events to prepare for. The space would slowly empty out — staff gathering bags, murmuring goodnights — until it was just her. Alone with the soft hum of the climate control system, the hush of her own footsteps against polished concrete, and the art on the walls.

Or more precisely, the memory of a woman looking at the art.

Because even with all that was hung — the abstracts, the installations, the saturated colors and torn edges — her mind kept drifting to a single image. Tina Kennard, standing quietly in front of the Basquiat. One hand curled around her elbow. The other dragging slowly across her chin, almost like she was holding herself together. Eyes fixed. Not blinking.

It was stupid. It was completely ridiculous. It was impossible to stop.

By Thursday, James finally said what everyone else was likely too scared to say.

He appeared beside the reception desk at 8:43 p.m., holding an empty coffee cup like it was a prop to legitimize his interruption. “You waiting for someone?” he asked, casually — the way only someone could who’d known Bette long enough to know when she was spiraling.

Bette didn’t look up from where she was sitting — on the bench across from the Basquiat, sketchpad resting on her thigh, pencil twitching but barely making contact with the page. “No.”

James tilted his head. “You’ve been here every night this week.”

“It’s my gallery,” she replied.

“Exactly,” he said. “Which means you can leave. You don’t usually loiter in your own kingdom.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Do you need something?”

James grinned, unfazed. “Just wondering if I should start dusting the guest book more often.”

That made her pause. “…What?”

He gestured toward the front desk with a casual flick of his wrist. “She left her number.”

Bette stared. James nodded. “And her email. First page. Neatly written. Right under the part where she said, and I quote, ‘You were right about the Basquiat.’”

The silence was instant. Dense.

Bette stood — too fast — and strode toward the guest book like she didn’t want to hope, like her feet had already decided for her. She flipped the thick paper cover open with a touch more force than necessary, fingers scanning quickly until they landed on the unmistakable handwriting. Clean. Sharp. Slightly leaning left.

TKennard.
You were right about the Basquiat.
Here’s my number: (917) xxx-xxxx.
And my email: [redacted].
If you still want to prove me wrong.

The breath Bette let out came with a sound — something between disbelief and a laugh that caught at the end. She ran her fingers over the letters, like they might vanish if she didn’t hold them still.

James watched from a safe distance. “So… I take it that’s a yes?”

Bette turned toward him, eyes gleaming with something too wild to name. “James, I could fucking kiss you.”

James recoiled. “Please don’t.”

She laughed again — quieter this time — as she looked back down at the page. Her smile was a strange thing. Not triumphant. Not cocky. Something softer. Like she’d just stumbled across a door she didn’t know she’d been hoping to open.

Tina Kennard.

It made perfect sense. That she would leave a message in the most analog place possible. No dramatic farewell. No flirty text. Just her name on a page, between two strangers and someone’s doodle of a horse.

Because Tina didn’t follow anyone else’s rhythm. She created her own tempo, then disappeared before you could catch up.

And Bette Porter — who never waited, never chased, never allowed herself the vulnerability of not knowing — was now standing there two steps behind, completely, irreversibly intrigued.

Because this wasn’t just a number. It was a breadcrumb. It was a challenge wrapped in ink and calm confidence.

10 years & 11 months ago. 

Rain clouds casting over New York, the kind of gray that made everything look a little cinematic. The rain wasn’t loud or showy—just a soft, persistent fall, the kind that smudged the outlines of buildings and made the city feel like it was being held in suspension. Traffic lights blurred into the puddles. Umbrellas bobbed past in waves. It was the sort of day the city whispered instead of roared.

Bette had spent the morning at the Whitney, standing longer than necessary in front of an Agnes Martin. Then she’d drifted down through Chelsea, hands deep in her camel coat, pretending to window-shop but really… orbiting. Hovering in a city she hadn’t admitted she came to chase someone in.

The lie had been well-rehearsed. She’d even said it aloud on the flight—murmured to a stranger with a scarf and a novel, “Just some meetings. A few curators. Nothing serious.”

But she’d booked a hotel in SoHo. Ten minutes from the studio Tina had offhandedly mentioned. Booked it before she could talk herself out of it. She’d walked past that building twice yesterday, eyes grazing the buzzer like it might speak to her.

It had been thirty-one days since L.A.

Since the bar, and the drink Tina insisted wasn’t a date. Since Tina had leaned in, too close, and said, low and even, “I’m not going to kiss you.” And Bette—never the one to chase—had let her mouth curl into that slow, deliberate smirk. 

They hadn’t spoken since.

Now, Bette stood in the doorway of a narrow café off Prince Street. The glass fogged slightly at the bottom. The bell hadn’t jingled yet. The door hadn’t decided if she belonged inside.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket—James, probably. She didn’t check. What she did check, stupidly, was the Notes app. And there it was, Tina’s number, copy-pasted from the guest book in West Hollywood.

She hadn’t asked for it. Tina hadn’t exactly offered. But she’d left it anyway. A name, a scribbled note, a dare. You were right about the Basquiat. If you still want to prove me wrong…

Bette’s thumbs hovered.

Then,
       | Hey stalker. I found the number you left at reception. It’s raining. Not a storm. Want to meet me in a café?

She paused. Thought about softening it. Rewording. Editing. But no.

Send.

Immediate regret.

She flipped her phone face-down like it might bite, ordered a pour-over from a barista who looked like he DJed on weekends and never wore socks, and slid into a window seat. She pulled out a notebook. Didn’t open it. The rain traced slow, clean lines down the glass.

Fourteen minutes.

Then the screen blinked.

        | Tina: Hey slowpoke. You’re lucky it’s not a storm. Which café?

The smile came before Bette could stop it—private, automatic, like muscle memory. The kind of smile that made her look younger. More open. She sent the name.

Fifteen minutes later, the bell over the door jingled. Tina walked in like she knew she’d be seen. Charcoal coat, slightly damp at the seams. No umbrella. Her hair twisted up in that loose, too-casual way that felt intentional—strategic mess. Her boots barely made a sound, but her presence did. Her eyes swept the café, caught Bette’s—and there, just there, the tension arrived. Silken. Immediate.

No one smiled. That would’ve been too easy.

Instead, Tina stepped over, unwrapping her scarf with slow fingers. “You look very intense with that notebook.”

Bette’s lips curved, subtle. “It’s empty. Like most of my defenses.”

Tina gave a soft snort, one brow rising as she slipped into the seat across from her. “Still dramatic, I see.”

“And you,” Bette said, her voice low, “still impossible to ignore.”

Silence stretched between them, charged and deliberate.

Tina took her time pulling off her coat. Beneath it, a ribbed black sweater that clung in all the right places, tucked into high-waisted jeans. She rolled her sleeves up with idle precision, revealing bare wrists and fingers that wrapped around the coffee cup like she’d done it a thousand times before. Familiar. Unrushed.

“So,” Tina said finally, “you’re in New York for…?”

Bette tilted her head, feigning nonchalance. “Work. Galleries. Pretending I didn’t check your studio’s location three weeks ago.”

Tina’s eyes flashed—amusement, or something sharper. “Ah. So not stalking. Just passive proximity.”

“Very passive,” Bette murmured. “I only flew across the country.”

“Completely casual,” Tina replied dryly. “Nothing says laid back like tracing someone’s steps through a five-borough radius.”

“I didn’t think you’d answer,” Bette said.

“I didn’t think you’d text. Took you awhile.”

“And yet…” Bette gestured between them, her fingers gliding through the air like smoke. “Here we are.”

Their drinks came. Tina stirred hers slowly. Bette’s gaze tracked the movement—small, sensual, almost maddening.

“You’re staring,” Tina said, not unkindly.

“You’re hard not to.”

Tina met her eyes, and there was that pause again—the one where something could tip, if either of them dared.

“Would it have been weird,” Bette asked softly, “if I said I came hoping I’d run into you?”

Tina exhaled, eyes flicking to the window, the rain behind it, the space between them.

“In New York?” she said eventually. “Yes. That’s not how this city works.”

“But it would’ve been honest.”

“That,” Tina said, her voice quieter now, “would’ve been surprising.”

They held each other’s gaze, and it was impossible to pretend this was casual anymore.

Tina looked down, thumb tracing a circle on the table. “Do you always do this?”

“What’s this?”

“Keep someone in your head for a month. Show up in their city. Sit across from them like it’s nothing.”

“I don’t usually meet women like you in cafés.”

Tina’s eyes narrowed. “Like me?”

“Complicated.”

Tina’s mouth curved. “Try difficult.”

Bette shrugged. “Same difference. Both irresistible.” That pulled a real laugh from Tina—warm, unwilling.

“All right,” she said, setting her cup down. “Here’s the rule.”

“There’s a rule?”

“There’s always a rule,” she said. “We finish this coffee. We pretend we’re good at being casual. Then maybe we walk. No umbrella.”

“In the rain?”

“In the almost-rain,” Tina said. “And if you ask me to dinner…”

“What happens?”

“I say no.”

Bette leaned forward just slightly. “And if I ask again?”

Tina’s voice dropped a fraction. “Then I leave. Before I kiss you.”

A beat. A quiet crackle in the air. Bette swallowed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Still sticking to that?”

“I have to,” Tina said. But her eyes said otherwise.

Bette looked down at her hands. Then back up, steady. “We'll see..”

When they stepped out of the café, the rain had softened to nothing.

The sky above SoHo was the kind of overcast that lets the sun through just enough to make the wet pavement glow, like someone had turned down the contrast but left the warmth. People emerged from doorways and awnings with tentative steps and closed umbrellas, as if the city was slowly remembering itself.

Bette didn’t say anything right away. Neither did Tina.

They just fell into step beside each other, slowly, their coats brushing lightly at the elbows. It wasn’t crowded—late afternoon on a weekday, the lull between tourists and dinner reservations—but there was just enough movement around them that they didn’t have to talk unless they wanted to.

After a block or two, Bette glanced over.

Tina’s cheeks were flushed, not from exertion—just from the weather. From the heat that lingers in the air after rain, from the kind of damp that settles just beneath the skin. Her hair had come loose more, framing her face in these soft, golden strands that caught whatever sunlight slipped through the clouds.

She looked— geez. She looked so undeniably here. Present in a way that made Bette’s stomach ache. Not because she wasn’t allowed to want her, but because she did.

Tina caught her looking. “What.”

“You’re different in the light.”

Tina smiled, small, like she didn’t trust it fully. “Better or worse?”

“Real,” Bette said.

They walked past small boutiques and corner bistros, pausing now and then for no reason except to be in it. This moment. The unexpectedness of it all. And somehow, it wasn’t awkward. Even with the tension between them—still taut, still unresolved—it felt good. Right, in the way things sometimes do when you stop trying to name them.

They turned down a quieter side street. The kind with trees that arched over the sidewalk like they were trained for aesthetic value alone. Tina slowed near one, ran her fingers across the peeling bark.

“I used to live three blocks from here,” Bette said.

“Before L.A.?”

“No, during. I just… ran away for a while.” She looked up. “Ever do that? Leave and pretend it’s some profound statement when really you just didn’t know what else to do? I’ve made a career of it,” Bette said, and Tina laughed again—but gentler this time. Almost fond.

They stopped at a crosswalk.

“Your hands are in your pockets,” Tina said.

“And?”

“You do that when you’re trying not to reach for something.”

Bette didn’t respond.

The light changed. They crossed. The moment stayed suspended between them, like it didn’t care about traffic.

A few steps later, Tina said it. Quietly. Like it was a confession, or maybe just a test.

“I got back with someone.”

Bette stopped.

Tina didn’t look at her. Just stood next to a wrought iron fence and traced a line along one of its ridges.

“Someone you knew?” Bette asked.

Tina nodded. “An old boyfriend. Comfortable, I guess. Predictable.”

“And you went back because it was easy.”

“Yes,” Tina said.

She didn’t qualify it. Didn’t add “but” or “except” or “it’s complicated,” even though it clearly was. She just let it hang there, honest and unvarnished.

Bette looked away, toward the edge of the street, where the trees gave way to a row of townhouses that looked too perfect to be untouched.

“I’m not here to interfere,” she said eventually.

“I know.”

“I didn’t text you to start anything.”

“I know that too.”

And then, as if pulled by something not quite rational, Tina stepped closer. Close enough that Bette could smell the faint trace of her shampoo. Bergamot. Maybe something floral underneath. Familiar from that night in L.A.

“You know,” Tina said, her voice just above a whisper, “I said I wouldn’t kiss you.”

“I remember.”

“And that we’d walk away from this.”

“You did say that.”

Tina exhaled, almost a laugh, but one tangled with nerves. She looked up at Bette, really looked. “But do you want to have dinner with me?”

Bette stared at her.

“I thought this was the part where you walk away,” she said.

Tina shook her head. “I’ve done that before.”

“And?”

“It never worked.”

Bette studied her face—her flushed cheeks, her too-honest eyes, the way her lips pressed together like she already knew the answer might hurt.

“I don’t do halfway,” Bette said softly.

“I know.”

“Even if we don’t touch each other, this—you—would be all over me.”

“I know that too.”

They stood there, in the pause between decision and desire, while the last of the rain evaporated off the city like it had never happened.

And then Bette nodded.

Just once.

“Okay,” she said.

Tina smiled—quietly, slowly, like she was afraid to be relieved but couldn’t help it.

They turned and walked on.

Together. Toward dinner. Toward something neither of them knew how to name yet—but neither could walk away from.

The place Tina chose didn’t have a name—just a green door with chipped paint and a smudged glass window, its frame leaning slightly into the crooked sidewalk of a quieter block in NoHo. The door looked like it had been painted over a dozen times and worn down just as often. A tailor’s shop sat on one side with yellowed curtains in the window, and a vape store blinked on the other, casting erratic blue light onto the wet pavement.

Bette stopped in front of it, one brow arching, skeptical but not entirely displeased. “You’re sure this is it?”

Tina turned, the corner of her mouth lifting into a lazy smile. “I’m insulted by your lack of trust.”

“It’s not a lack of trust,” Bette said, eyeing the door. “It’s just… you strike me as someone who eats somewhere with linen napkins and a website.”

“God,” Tina said, pulling the door open, “you sound like you think I’m predictable.”

“I didn’t say that,” Bette replied, stepping in behind her, “but the last time I saw you, you were drinking a fifteen-dollar cocktail and quoting Bell Hooks.”

Tina laughed, not turning around. “I’m multidimensional, Bette.”

The inside glowed.

Not in the obvious way, not polished or trendy. But in a way that felt slow. Lived-in. The walls were brick and warm-toned, scattered with mismatched frames and crooked art prints. Herbs—real ones—dangled from wooden beams. A soft amber light pooled on worn tabletops. Italian music played, old and unpolished, like it was coming from a scratched record. There was no pretense here.

The air smelled like lemon zest, garlic, and something deeply roasted, smoky. Intimate.

Bette hesitated in the doorway. Something about the place quieted her. Softened the edges.

Tina moved ahead, confidently, without checking to see if Bette followed. She slipped out of her coat in one fluid motion, draping it over the back of a two-top tucked into the corner by the fogged window. She sat down like she belonged in this world—unhurried, centered, curated without seeming self-aware.

Bette’s throat felt suddenly dry.

“This used to be my favorite lunch spot when I was in school,” Tina said, fingers lazily circling the base of her water glass. “Seven-dollar pasta, overly generous pours of Chianti. The fastest way to ruin an afternoon class.”

“NYU?” Bette asked, finally taking her seat across from her.

Tina nodded. “Tisch. Film and media.”

Bette exhaled through a quiet smile. “Of course.”

“Oh?”

“You have the air of someone who’s definitely made a short film about a woman staring at a body of water and grappling with late-stage capitalism.”

Tina blinked—and then laughed, loud and bright and real. It cracked the air open, drew a glance from the couple two tables over.

“I did, actually. But it was a sink. The ocean was out of budget.”

Bette grinned. “Knew it.”

They ordered—squid ink pasta for Tina, grilled artichoke and a glass of Barbera for Bette. Once the waiter left, a quiet settled between them. But it wasn’t awkward. It was thick with awareness. The kind that lives in glances and pauses. In how Tina kept brushing her thumb along the rim of her wine glass. In the way Bette's gaze lingered on Tina’s mouth just a second too long when she smiled.

“This is weird, right?” Tina asked finally, voice low.

“What is?”

“This. Us. Sitting here. After not speaking for a month.”

Bette tilted her head slightly. “It’s… not not weird.”

Tina’s lips twitched. “I’m okay with weird.”

“I am too,” Bette said. Then added, quieter, “I’ve gotten very good at pretending things aren’t.”

Tina studied her for a second, one brow arched. “That sounds like a survival tactic.”

“It is,” Bette admitted. “Curation. It’s a whole thing. Galleries. Board meetings. Wealthy men who love to feel intelligent around sculpture.”

Tina took a sip of wine, eyes never leaving hers. “So you’re emotionally unavailable but exquisitely dressed.”

Bette choked, genuinely surprised. “That’s brutal.”

“I think of it as efficient.”

They both laughed—this time softer, lower, the kind of laugh that didn’t rise so much as curl around them. Shared air. Shared heat.

The artichoke arrived. They ate slowly, deliberately, trading the dip back and forth without comment when their fingers brushed. Once, Tina's thumb grazed Bette’s, and neither pulled away. But neither said anything either.

“So,” Bette murmured, watching Tina tuck her hair behind her ear, “was it always film for you?”

Tina nodded, gaze drifting toward the window like the memory lived out there. “Since I was twelve. I used to sneak out of my room and watch TCM in the dark. Fell in love with composition before I knew what the word meant.”

Bette smiled. “Of course you did. That tracks.”

Tina glanced at her. “And you? First museum?”

“LACMA. Age eight. I cried in front of a Rothko.”

“Because it moved you?”

“No,” Bette deadpanned. “Because I was angry it wasn’t a horse.”

Tina burst out laughing, loud enough to have to cover her mouth. Her eyes glittered. “You’re not what I expected.”

“How so?”

Tina took a breath. “You’re all composed angles and that voice that sounds like it costs money. But then you say something totally unhinged and ruin it in the best possible way.”

Bette felt something shift in her chest—an ache, maybe. A kind one.

“You’re not what I expected either.”

Tina’s smile faltered slightly. “Why not?”

“I thought I’d forget you after that night.”

Tina blinked, the laugh gone from her mouth. What replaced it was softer. Sadder.

“But you didn’t.”

Bette met her gaze. Steady. “No.”

Tina looked down, fingers tracing the condensation on her glass.

“I wanted to kiss you that night,” she said, so quietly Bette almost didn’t catch it.

“I know.”

“But I didn’t.”

“I know that too.”

“I thought maybe if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter.”

The silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, but fragile. A held breath.

Bette didn't speak. She couldn’t.

Tina looked up again, and her voice didn’t waver. “Turns out you can still miss someone you barely know.”

And just like that, something real settled between them. Not dramatic. Not romantic. But grounded. Honest.

Something with roots.

They stayed for another hour. They talked about obscure films and the first time they realized they were good at something. About love in theory, and cities they’d lost themselves in. About the different ways people leave.

They stood on the sidewalk just outside the restaurant. The air had that wet shimmer of recent rain, the pavement slick beneath the amber glow of the streetlamp. A taxi passed by, splashing the edge of the curb, but neither of them flinched. The city carried on in the background—horns, footsteps, distant laughter—but around them, it felt quiet. Not silent, just... suspended.

Bette’s hands were tucked in the pockets of her coat, fingers curled tightly around the lining. Tina’s arms hung loosely by her sides, one foot angled slightly outward like she was already halfway turned to leave. But she hadn’t. Not yet.

They looked at each other like two people standing on the edge of something invisible.

“So this is...” Bette started, her voice low, but the sentence dissolved halfway through.

Her brows lifted slightly, like maybe she was waiting for Tina to finish it for her.

Tina didn’t. She just nodded once, slow.

“Maybe the start of something else.”

Bette tilted her head. Her mouth tugged, something between a smile and a wince. “A friendship?”

Tina’s eyes crinkled a little—just the edges—but it wasn’t mockery. If anything, it was gentle. Almost fond.

“Or a long, slow kind of orbit.”

There was something about the way she said it—light, poetic, but grounded. Like she meant every syllable even as she made it sound offhand.

Bette’s heart squeezed.

Tina shifted then, just enough to break the moment. Her body angled away from the light, from Bette, like she might turn fully and disappear back into the night. She didn’t say goodbye. And that absence—the absence of a clean ending—already made Bette’s chest ache. She could feel herself filing this moment into that drawer of her memory reserved for the almosts. The what-ifs. The you-almost-said-something nights.

But just before she could close it—

Tina turned back.

And without a word, no build-up or nervous preamble, she stepped in and wrapped her arms around Bette.

It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t perfunctory.

It was intimate.

Her arms locked around Bette’s back, and her cheek pressed against Bette’s shoulder with a kind of finality that said I needed to do this. It was quiet, but it was real. Her fingers curved slightly into the fabric of Bette’s coat, holding—not desperately, not pleading—but firmly. Like she knew it would be brief but still wanted it to matter.

Bette froze, breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat.

Her eyes fluttered shut. She hadn’t known how much she wanted this—until it happened. Slowly, her hands lifted, hesitant at first, barely grazing Tina’s back, and then—settling. One palm between her shoulder blades. The other lower, steady. Full-bodied. She breathed in, deeply. Tina smelled like linen and citrus and something herbal—maybe bergamot or rosemary. Something grounded. Clean and familiar, even though this was all so new.

The hug wasn’t long. But it wasn’t short either.

It was long enough for the walls around both of them to feel just slightly thinner.

When they pulled back, it was unhurried. Natural.

Tina’s face had changed—nothing dramatic, just a shift. Softer around the mouth. Eyes a little glassy, not from tears, but from presence. From being fully in the moment.

“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered. Her voice had that hushed quality that people reserve for confessionals.

Bette’s throat tightened. “I don’t either.”

And that, somehow, felt like enough.

They just looked at each other for a second longer. Really looked. The kind of look that sees someone—not their résumé, not their clothes, not their public persona—but their rhythms. Their contradictions. Their pulse under the surface.

Tina exhaled, her smile curling, quiet and bittersweet. “But I’m really glad you texted me.”

“Me too,” Bette said.

There was a faint pause where neither of them moved. It felt like one of them might say something more, something riskier. But instead, Tina gave a small, decisive nod. Like she'd folded something private back inside her. Then she stepped away—one, two steps down the sidewalk—her hands in her pockets, her head tipped slightly toward the night sky like she was listening for something the city might never say out loud.

Bette stood there. Still. Anchored.

She felt her body trying to understand the moment before her mind could.

That hug. The way Tina had leaned in like the world tilted just enough to make it necessary. The way it didn’t feel romantic exactly—but was too intimate to be casual.

This wasn’t a beginning.

But it wasn’t an ending either.

It was something in between. The kind of thing that plants itself in your chest like a seed and waits.

Waits for time. For permission. For one of them to finally name it.

[12:47 a.m. | Incoming Call: Tina Kennard]

Bette blinked at the screen, thumb hovering.

The hotel room was quiet but alive—window cracked just enough to let in the hum of Manhattan. Sirens in the distance, the occasional roar of a late-night cab, someone laughing on the street below. She picked up, already leaning back into the pillows like she’d been waiting.

“Hey.”

A pause. Then,

“Were you asleep?”
Tina’s voice came low, smoky, like she was trying not to wake the whole city.

“No. Can’t sleep.”

Another beat of silence. The line hissed faintly between them, like it was holding its breath.

“I wasn’t going to call,” Tina murmured. “But I figured you might still be up.”

Bette smiled softly, unseen. “Are you outside again?”

“Balcony. Midtown.”
There was a sound—maybe a lighter flicking, maybe the scrape of wind on glass.
“It’s freezing. But it helps me think.”

“I usually just drink too much Pinot and pretend I’m introspective.”

That pulled a laugh from Tina. Quiet. Warm.

“You get back to L.A. tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah. Early flight.” Bette glanced at the suitcase she still hadn’t packed. “You alright?”

“I don’t know. I had a call about a series. I hate off work calls.”

A pause. Then, “Especially the ones where people tell me who I’m supposed to be for the next nine months.”

Bette straightened slightly. “You’re talking about the series.”

“They want me in Atlanta. Nine months. Two network execs and a publicist already sent me monogrammed notebooks.”

“So... congratulations?”

“I passed.”

That stilled Bette. “Tina…”

“I couldn’t do it.” A sigh. “I don’t know what I want, but I know it’s not that. I don’t want to disappear into something that doesn’t even feel like mine.”

“You’d be brilliant in it.” Bette said. 

“You don’t know that.”

“I don’t need to,” Bette said. “I’ve heard you talk about your edits. I’ve seen you watch people when they don’t know they’re being watched. You already direct everything.”

A quiet smile in Tina’s voice, “That’s a little creepy.”

“Only a little.”

Another pause.

“Can I ask you something?” There was hesitation in Tina’s voice. 

“Sure.”

“Why are you really here?” Her voice lowered. "You said it was a board meeting, but... that can’t be all.”

Bette was quiet. She ran a finger down the seam of the pillowcase. Then “I needed space.”

“From what?” 

Bette hesitated. Then “L.A. started feeling tight. Like wearing someone else’s clothes. There was… pressure. From donors. From the museum. One in particular wanted something I couldn’t give, and when I pushed back—”

“They pushed harder.” Tina said with concern in her voice. 

“Until I ‘need a break.’” Bette air-quoted into the dark. “Their word. Not mine.”

Tina exhaled. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. So, New York might welcome me. And five-dollar espressos with you in corner cafes. I will not exactly suffer.”

Another laugh from Tina. This one lingered. “We really only know each other a month.”

“Barely.” Bette added. 

“And yet...” she trailed off.

“I know.”

Tina was quiet. The city filled the space. Then she said, “You’re kind of a mystery, Bette.”

“Oh?” Bette asks. 

“You talk like you’ve been edited within an inch of your life. But then you do this thing where you look at me like... you already know the ending.”

Bette didn’t answer right away. Her voice dropped. “I don’t know the ending. That’s what scares me.”

“Yeah.” Tina’s voice thinned. “Me too.”

Bette sat forward, elbows on her knees, phone pressed closer. “Tina…”

“Yeah?” Tina held her phone closer to her ear.

“What are you really afraid of?”

Another breath. A beat. Then, quieter Tina said, “Wanting something that doesn’t make sense.”

Neither spoke. Their silence felt electric, frayed. A thread pulled taut.

“I almost kissed you,” Tina said suddenly.

“I know.”

“You knew?”

“Of course I did.”

Tina exhaled again. “Why didn’t we?”

Bette leaned her head back against the wall, eyes closed. “Because if I kissed you, I wouldn’t have stopped.”

There it was. Unsaid, but there—what wasn’t supposed to be happening. What both of them felt anyway.

Then Bette, without ceremony, without buildup, said “I should tell you... I am seeing someone.”

Silence. One long second. Then two.

“Oh.”

Another second.

Then Tina, tone dry said “Let me guess. She wears real silk, knows her wine regions, and probably corrects people on the difference between modern and contemporary art.”

Bette smiled despite herself. “She’s a good person.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t." Then softer, but with a hint of bite said “She sounds very... safe.”

“She is.”

Tina’s voice dropped into something quiet and pointed “Does she wreck you?”

Bette froze. The words hit their mark. “I should sleep,” she said finally.

“Right.”

“I’ll text you when I land.” Bette offered. 

“You better.” Tina replied with a lighter tone in her voice. 

“You gonna stalk my flight or something?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Tina said, the smile audible in her voice—barely. “I’ve done weirder things for less.”

Bette laughed, but it didn’t last long.

They sat with the silence again, the way you do when you don’t want to hang up but know you should.

“Goodnight, Bette.”

“Night, Tina.”

Click.

Bette stared at the ceiling. And the room felt fuller. And lonelier.

Chapter Text

Bette was back in L.A., supposedly resuming life as usual, but the first thing she did after landing before even leaving the gate was text Tina. Then she caught herself smiling, asking herself what she was doing.

The Los Angeles sun was sharp. Not warm, not kind — just bright and relentless. Bette stepped out of the car and blinked hard against it, sunglasses shielding a face that hadn’t quite returned from New York. The moment she walked into the gallery, she was met with a scent she knew too well, the overbrewed coffee, archival paper, a hint of lavender oil someone had taken to diffusing in the staff lounge like it could calm the collective panic.

She was back. But her body was still two hours ahead, and her mind — days behind.

“Morning,” James said, too neutrally, as he handed her the daily reports. “They moved the Morrison deadline up. And Ainsley from the board dropped in yesterday.”

“Unannounced?” Bette asked, but she didn’t really care about the answer. Her hand was already scanning through the list of exhibits, her gaze skimming too quickly.

“Yeah. She asked if we were still… ‘aligned with the mission,’” James said, with air quotes and the practiced deadpan of someone who’d been through this before.

“God,” Bette muttered, exhaling. “When they start talking like that, it’s never good.”

James offered her a small, conspiratorial shrug. “You’ve survived worse.”

But Bette wasn’t sure she believed that this time. The gallery pulsed with a kind of expectant anxiety. She could feel it in the overly polite greetings, the watchful stares from junior curators. Everyone knew the board was nervous. And the truth was, she hadn’t gone to New York for work alone. Not really. She’d met with three artists and a bored museum liaison. That was the pretense. But what she’d really done was walk into a coffee shop, feel the air shift, and let a woman get under her skin in a matter of hours.

Tina. The name felt like something both blooming and bruising in her mouth.

Bette pushed open the door to her office and dropped the reports on her desk like they were heavier than paper. She sank into her chair and stared at nothing.

They’d had one perfect day. Well — not perfect. Real. Sharp-edged. Honest.

When Tina had admitted she’d gone back to her boyfriend — “It was just easy,” she’d said with a shrug and a look that wasn’t really casual — it hit Bette harder than it should have.

She’d told Tina the truth then, more than she usually told anyone. That she was seeing someone. A woman named Margot — smart, curious, someone Bette had been seeing casually for two weeks before New York. She hadn’t planned to say anything. She never did. If people didn’t ask, she didn’t offer. But Tina is different like she deserved something better than withholding. And for some reason, Bette wanted to give her that.

That night, Shane and Alice came over with beer and sharp commentary. Alice kicked her shoes off before she even sat down. “Okay. You’ve been back for three days and you haven’t told us anything. What happened?”

“New York was productive,” Bette said, grabbing a sparkling water from the fridge like she hadn’t heard the trap in Alice’s tone.

“Productive?” Alice echoed, incredulous. “God, you sound like a press release.”

Shane watched her for a beat. “You didn’t tell her.”

Bette glanced at Shane, then back at Alice. “Tell her what?”

Alice turned her head dramatically. “Tell me what?”

“That you met someone,” Shane said, deadpan.

Alice’s eyes went wide. “Wait. What?! Who is she? Is she hot? Is she a painter? Tell me she’s not another emotionally unavailable artist who lives in a converted train car.”

“No,” Bette said, exasperated but smiling despite herself. “She’s— She’s not like that.”

There was a pause.

Shane leaned forward, her voice quieter. “You still seeing Margot?”

Bette’s answer came slower. “We’ve been… not serious. It wasn’t serious before I left.”

“But it is now? Will I meet her?” Alice said, eyes narrowing.

Bette didn’t answer.

“Wait what? I'm confused. I was asking about the New Yorker, Tina! What happend?” Alice protested but Shane held her hand down like asking her to drop it.

Shane sensing soemthing else watched Bette closely. “You always have it under control. This? You’re… somewhere else.”

“I’m fine,” Bette said, too quickly.

They didn’t push. Not hard. They didn’t have to.

The thing was, Tina had only texted twice since New York. Once to send a blurry photo of a mural in the East Village — something abstract and messy with a quote scrawled underneath. It was the wrong time, but maybe not the wrong person. No caption. Just the image. Bette stared at it longer than she should have.

Another time, Tina had called. Late. 1 a.m. in New York. 10 p.m. in L.A.

“I know it’s late,” Tina had said. Her voice sounded like she’d been crying, but Bette didn’t ask. “I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

They talked for an hour. About movies. About how Tina is planning to adopt a dog. About nothing.

Bette didn’t tell her that she had company over that night. That Margot had been curled up on the couch, half-watching an old Fellini film, half-listening. She’d walked out to the patio to take Tina’s call. Stayed out there until the line went quiet. When she came back in, Margot had already gone to bed.

It felt like a metaphor. She never asked Margot over again - not to her place, and not into her life.

A week passed. Then two.

The gallery settled into its old rhythm. Bette signed papers, reviewed installations, gave terse nods during board meetings. She functioned. But something was… muted. Like the saturation had been turned down on the entire city.

One morning, James dropped a glossy portfolio on her desk. “Local sculptor. Up-and-coming. You’ll like her.”

Bette nodded absently, flipping through it. Her phone buzzed beside her — a message from Tina.

     |Saw this and thought of you.

Attached was a photo of a wide, empty gallery space with light spilling in through high windows. No explanation. Bette stared at the screen. She didn’t answer. Not right away. But she saved the photo. Like a secret.

10 years and 9 months ago

1:08 AM. Late Night Call — Bette’s Bedroom

Bette’s phone buzzed on the dresser, cutting through the low hum of her bedroom fan. She’d been half-reading, half-rewriting a grant proposal in her head, eyes tracing the same paragraph for the fourth time, not really absorbing any of it. But the second she saw TINA Kennard light up the screen, everything inside her stilled — the way a room stills before a confession.

She didn’t hesitate. She pressed accept, then leaned back into her pillows, voice dry but warm.

“Is this a ‘you up’ call disguised as a crisis?”

There was a pause. A breath. A rustle, like Tina was shifting under a blanket or walking into another room with her phone pressed tight to her ear. Then her voice came through, low and slightly breathless, like she’d been holding it in all night.

“I found a ring.”

Bette sat up straighter, tugging the comforter higher on her lap. The glow from the bedside lamp softened her features, but her expression sharpened.

 “Okay… what kind of ring? Onion? Championship? Mood?” she asked, the humor not quite masking her concern.

Tina didn’t miss a beat.  “Engagement. Tucked into his coat pocket like something you forget on purpose.”

There was silence then — thick and suspended. On one end of the call, Bette’s hand stilled over the loose thread she’d been picking at on the edge of her blanket. On the other, Tina was pacing barefoot across a cold kitchen floor in New York, wineglass untouched beside the sink.

 “I think he’s going to propose,” Tina added, voice breaking just slightly. “And I’m not scared of the question. I’m scared of how fast the ‘no’ came into my head.”

Bette leaned back against the headboard, the phone tucked closer to her ear now, like proximity could somehow steady the tremor she heard behind Tina’s words.

 “You know, most people call their therapist when they’re spiraling,” she said gently.

There was the faint sound of Tina settling onto a stool — a quiet exhale through her nose.

 “She’s on a silent retreat. In Portugal.”

Bette blinked. “Of course she is.”

 “And you’re the only person I know who won’t say ‘congratulations’ out of politeness.”

Bette smiled faintly, eyes closing for a second.  “True. I’d at least pause and make a face.”

That earned a soft, surprised laugh from Tina, muffled like she’d tucked her face into her hand. The kind of laugh that comes when you're right on the edge of something else — relief or tears.

Then quieter said, “I want to run.”

Bette shifted again, legs folding under the blanket. “Where?”

 “L.A. Five days. Maybe a week. Long enough to clear my head, short enough to pretend it’s not avoidance.”

On the other end of the line, Bette could hear the click of a cabinet door. Tina was probably pouring herself another glass of wine she wouldn’t finish. The familiar rhythm of her voice filled the room like an echo from a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

Bette didn’t answer immediately. Her thumb moved absently over the phone case, thoughtful.

Then softly said, “I’ve got a guest room.”

Tina paused. She was quiet long enough that Bette thought the call had dropped.  “You’re offering to host me?”

Bette smiled, eyes flicking toward the ceiling.  “Well. You’re emotionally compromised and probably dehydrated. I’d be a terrible friend if I didn’t.”

Tina’s voice dropped into something teasing.  “Friend, huh?”

Bette didn’t fill the silence right away. Let it hang between them like a question they’d already asked with their eyes a dozen times.

Then, almost under her breath said, “Or whatever this is.”

Tina let out a slow exhale. The kind that bends a person in the middle.

 “Half flirtation, half existential support group?”

 “Exactly.” Bette replied.

A quiet stretched again — not uncomfortable. Just real. Just late. Just the two of them, speaking across state lines like they were still sitting at that café on Bowery, half-finished lattes and things they weren’t ready to name.

 “Okay,” Tina said at last. There was the sound of a zipper — she was already pulling out her suitcase. “I’ll book the flight.”

Bette closed her eyes.  “And text me when you land.”

“You’ll probably be the first to know.”

Then the line went quiet — not hung up, not ended. Just quiet. Both of them holding the moment like it might tip over if they moved too fast.

Day 1: Tina Arrives – LAX, Late Afternoon 2 days after that late phone call.

The sun was warm and unbothered, casting that specific golden Los Angeles haze as Tina stepped out of the terminal, her oversized tote slipping off one shoulder. She wore sunglasses and uncertainty, the kind of arrival that looks casual but feels like a storm front building.

Bette was waiting at the curb, leaning against her car with one hand on the door and the other wrapped around a cold brew.

“You really came,” Bette said.

Tina smirked. “You thought I was bluffing.”

“I thought you were dramatic.” Bette replied.

"Both can be true.”

They stared at each other for a moment too long. Bette opened the passenger door with a flourish. “Welcome to the land of traffic, gluten aversion, and overpriced therapy.”

Tina got in. “Feels like home already.”

The drive from the airport had been quieter than either of them expected. Not awkward. Just... suspended. Like the city itself was holding its breath while they crossed it in Bette’s car — windows down, the late afternoon sun bleeding into gold. Tina had leaned into the breeze, sunglasses low on her nose, watching palm trees streak past like a dream she wasn’t sure she belonged in.

And now, hours later, she was standing barefoot in Bette’s kitchen, holding a glass of wine like it was the only thing anchoring her. Her bag was still by the front door, unopened. Everything about her looked both unraveled and composed — like someone who had cried in a cab and reapplied her lipstick before ringing the bell.

Bette glanced and asked, “You hungry?”

Tina shook her head and said,  “I’m good. Ate on the flight.”

Bette raised an eyebrow. “Airline food counts?”

Tina shrugged, smiling. “Loosely. But I survived.”

“This place is beautiful,” Tina murmured, turning slowly to take it all in — the clean lines, the shelves of books with broken spines, the quietly lived-in elegance that Bette somehow made look accidental. “Did you… decorate this yourself?”

Bette shrugged, tossing her jacket over a nearby chair. “Some of it. Shane picked the couch, though. I was going through my chaotic-neutral phase.”

Tina stepped closer to the couch and ran a finger across the back of it. “Shane has taste.”

“She also once painted her bathroom with black chalkboard paint and drew cartoon genitalia on the walls for inspiration.”

Tina laughed, half a breathy snort, shaking her head. “So… textured taste.”

Bette poured herself a glass, then leaned back against the counter. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, the top two buttons of her shirt undone, collar slightly skewed from the drive. She looked tired but settled — like hosting Tina had given her something solid to hold on to.

“Speaking of Shane,” Bette said, lifting her glass, “she and Alice are dying to meet you.”

Tina raised an eyebrow. “You warned them, right?”

Bette tilted her head. “They’ve been building conspiracy theories about you for weeks. You’re basically Bigfoot to them.”

Tina laughed into her wine. “Should I be nervous?”

“Yes,” Bette said, completely deadpan. “Alice already has a list of questions and a bingo card titled ‘Bette’s Crush or Not.’”

Tina nearly choked. “Are you serious?”

“I’ve seen it. It has squares like ‘lingering eye contact’ and ‘shared dessert,’” Bette added. “Also, ‘accidental shoulder touch with meaning.’”

Tina raised her wine like a toast. “I’m honored. Tell her I’ll make it easy and just stare into your soul all night.”

Bette chuckled, but her eyes flicked over Tina’s face — maybe to catch a flicker of intent. Maybe just to look. “That would definitely get her a bingo.”

They stood like that for a moment — the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional gust from the open window, a jazz record playing low in the background, like the house was exhaling after being quiet too long.

Tina took another sip, then leaned against the opposite counter. “I still don’t know what I’m doing here,” she said, quieter now. “Not here here, I mean. Just… this trip. 7 days in L.A. No itinerary. No work. No plans. Just… running.”

Bette didn’t answer right away. She watched Tina, really watched her — the way she gripped the base of the wine glass like it was grounding her, how her mouth turned a little when she admitted something vulnerable.

“Sometimes that’s the smartest move,” Bette said softly. “Getting away before you decide whether to stay.”

Tina looked at her. “That supposed to be comforting?”

“No,” Bette said, offering a faint smile. “It’s supposed to be honest.”

There was a silence then. Not tense. But heavy with things unsaid.

Tina finally exhaled and set her glass down. “Why did I have to see it?,” she said abruptly, eyes on the marble countertop.

Bette didn’t move. “You hadn’t talked about it?”

Tina shook her head. “Not really. Not in any real way. I think he just… assumed. That this was where we were heading.”

“And you don’t want that,” Bette said — not a question. A statement.

Tina looked up. “I don’t know what I want. I just know I looked at it, and I felt like I was about to vanish.”

That made Bette’s chest tighten, something deep and familiar. The words sat in the space between them like a quiet alarm bell.

“You’re not disappearing,” Bette said. “You’re here.”

Tina smiled. It was soft, grateful, and somehow sad. “Yeah. I’m here.”

She picked up her glass again—this time steadier, though her fingers still betrayed her—and turned toward the double French doors that opened out to the patio and pool.

“Do you mind?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Be my guest,” Bette said, already moving to unlock and push one of the doors open for her with a soft creak. She followed Tina outside, barefoot against the cool tiles, the glass of her own drink warming in her palm.

The evening air greeted them—mild, with a hint of jasmine from the neighbor’s hedge and something faintly citrus carried from the lemon tree near the pool. No crashing waves or ocean salt—just the quiet hush of West Hollywood at night. Palm trees swayed gently in the distance, silhouetted against a sky turning from deep indigo to velvet black. The city lights blinked low and slow along the hills, a distant hum of something happening far away.

It was calm. Insulated. A pause between lives.

Tina stepped out barefoot onto the deck and let her eyes close for a second. Just breathing.

Behind her, Bette leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, watching her.

“You can stay as long as you need,” Bette said after a beat. “There’s no rush to figure it all out. No pressure.”

Tina turned. “You sure I’m not interrupting your quiet, meticulously curated solitude?”

Bette smirked. “Please. You’re the best chaos I’ve had in months.”

Tina laughed. “Well then. I aim to disrupt.”

And Bette, God help her, smiled in a way she hadn’t in weeks — the kind that reached her eyes, that softened something inside her she hadn’t realized had gone rigid.

The kind that said, Stay. Even if they didn’t say the word out loud.

“Come on,” Bette said, breezing past her toward the hallway. “I put fresh towels in the guest bath.”

Tina followed, padding behind her slowly. “You say that like you didn’t dig through a closet five minutes before I landed.”

“I say it like a good host,” Bette replied, flipping on the light in the spare room. The walls were soft grey, the bedding a pale cream. It looked peaceful. Nothing like a crash pad. “If the mattress sucks, lie to me.”

Tina smiled. “It looks perfect.”

Bette crossed the room to the dresser, pulled open a drawer, and handed Tina a folded cotton shirt.

“It’s soft,” she said simply. “And I figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your ‘this might be a life-altering trip’ jeans.”

“It’s huge,” Tina had said when Bette tossed it to her.

“You’ll swim in it,” Bette had replied, a little flustered. “It’s from grad school. I only wear it when I’m hungover or depressed.”

“So you’re lending it to me because...?”

“Don’t read into it.”

“No promises.” She hesitated in the middle of the room, then turned toward the doorway, where Bette still hovered.

“Is there… a possibility,” Tina asked, tone teasing but eyes sharp, “that someone walks into this house tomorrow morning, sees me in your shirt, and asks who the fuck I am?”

Bette blinked.

“No,” she said. “No one has a key. No one’s walking in.”

Tina narrowed her eyes. “Are you still dating that woman?” There it was. The question Tina hadn’t asked on the phone. On the flight. On the drive over.

Bette leaned against the doorframe.

“She doesn’t wreck me.”

Tina let that sit for a second. Then nodded once, slow. “Okay.”

But the word echoed strangely in her own ears.

Has anyone ever wrecked you?

Or will I?

Another pause.

Bette said, her voice was soft, like the hour. “Hey… before you crash—any allergies I should know about?”

Tina looked up from where she was fluffing the pillows, eyes catching on Bette’s silhouette in the low hallway light. There was a beat too long before she answered.

“Commitment,” she said lightly, but her smirk came with a flicker of something else—like the truth had slipped under the joke.

Bette’s brow lifted. She didn’t look away. “Good thing I wasn’t offering that,” she murmured, voice dipping just enough to make Tina’s stomach tighten. “Just almond milk.”

Tina laughed, breathier than she meant to. “Then we’re safe,” she said.

Bette stepped back into the hall. “Good night, Tina.”

Tina called after her. “Hey, Bette? Thank you.”

“Good night,” she said again, quieter this time.

The door shut gently behind her. And Tina stood in the middle of the room, holding the shirt like it meant more than it should. Which, of course, it did.

Day 2. Tina woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of a blender wailing like it was being murdered.

For a beat, she thought she was still in New York—maybe back in her apartment, or the production office, or inside the long echo of a day she hadn’t wanted to live through. But then she opened her eyes, and the strangeness of stillness told her she wasn’t anywhere she knew.

The gauzy white curtains lifted gently in the breeze. The bedroom smelled faintly of linen and citrus. Someone had cracked the window open.

And then—there was Bette.

In the kitchen, barefoot, hair knotted high and slightly off-center on her head, a white tank top clinging lightly to her skin, Bette stood—half-glorious, half-grumpy—locked in a standoff with the blender. She frowned down at the appliance like it had insulted her professionally. Her fingers were braced on the counter, one hip jutting out, the soft scrape of morning sunlight catching the curve of her collarbone. It was an ordinary scene, and yet Tina couldn't look away.

“You’re not even doing anything hard. It’s just frozen mango.”

Tina lay still for a moment longer, watching from the hallway, wrapped in an oversized Yale T-shirt Bette had handed her the night before. 

“Morning,” Tina called, voice still sandpapered with sleep.

Bette turned, startled. Her eyes flicked to the T-shirt, then to Tina’s bare legs beneath it, then quickly back to her face. She smiled, soft and slow, and it landed somewhere between fond and flustered.

“You sleep okay?” she asked, trying not to look again.

“I was woken by the sound of blender warfare, but otherwise? Yeah.”

Bette rolled her eyes. “It’s the mango. Apparently that’s the line.”

“You could’ve just said good morning like a regular person.”

“And deprive you of my breakfast theatrics?”

Tina padded across the tile, barefoot, accepting the mug Bette handed her without asking how she took it. It was perfect. Of course it was.

She took a sip and leaned on the counter. “So this is how you always start your day? Coffee and passive-aggressively yelling at fruit?”

“Not always. Sometimes I fight with the toaster.”

Tina laughed, the sound low and a little sleepy. “You’re surprisingly domestic in the mornings.”

Bette shook her head. “Don’t let the robe fool you. I’m about to leave you to fend for yourself.”

Tina lifted an eyebrow, sipping again. “Oh?”

“I have to swing by the gallery,” Bette said. “New sculpture’s coming in. The install guys panic if I’m not there to ‘bless’ it like a priest.”

Tina smirked. “Do you bring incense and holy water?”

“Only when it’s over $100K.”

There was a pause then, not uncomfortable but definite, and Tina looked around the kitchen like she was trying to memorize it without looking like she was.

“So… I’ll just be here?” she asked lightly.

Bette nodded, watching her. “Unless you’d rather go out, explore a bit. I can give you a key.”

Tina shook her head. “No. This is good.”

Bette tilted her head. “So you're just staying home?”

Tina shrugged, but her voice softened. “Home. Yeah, i'll be here.”

The word hung in the air for a second too long.

Bette blinked. She didn’t answer, just turned and stirred her coffee even though nothing needed stirring. Then, “I’ll text you when I’m on the way back.”

Tina nodded. “I’ll hold down the fort. Maybe go through your records. Alphabetize them just to freak you out.”

“You’re welcome to,” Bette said, her mouth tugging into a smile.

They stood there for another beat—Tina barefoot in the Yale shirt, coffee in hand, eyes steady but unreadable; Bette trying not to let her gaze linger too long. The sun was climbing slowly over the hills outside, pushing light into the corners of the room.

Bette finally turned toward the hall. “Okay. Shower time. Art calls.”

“Take your time,” Tina said, voice lower now. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Bette paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame. Her mouth opened slightly like she might say something, but instead, she smiled.

“Don’t read into it.”

Tina raised her mug and smiled back. “No promises.”

The late afternoon light cut sideways through the windshield as Bette pulled into the drive, her tote bag in the passenger seat stuffed with takeout—two salads, grilled peaches, a fresh baguette from the café near the gallery, and a slice of something decadent and chocolate because she knew herself and, maybe, she was starting to know Tina too.

She’d texted an hour earlier,

     |Bette: On my way back. Bringing goodies. Hope you’re hungry.

But Tina hadn’t responded. No read receipt. No reply.

Bette didn’t overthink it—at least not out loud—but her eyes lingered on her phone longer than they needed to before she stepped out of the car.

Inside, the house was still. Warm with sun. She set the food down on the kitchen counter, kicked off her shoes, and moved quietly through the space until the faint sound of water caught her ear—then music, muffled and close. She pushed open the door to the patio.

And there she was.

Tina was sitting at the edge of the pool in a black two-piece, legs dangling in the water, skin glistening from the late afternoon swim. Her top clung wet against her, straps sharp against her shoulders, and her stomach rose and fell in quiet rhythm, toned and sun-warmed. Her hair was swept to one side, damp and a little wild from the water, strands curling loosely and sticking to her cheek. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, earbuds in, completely absorbed in the music—eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable, like she was somewhere far off and private.

Next to her, on a low chair, sat her laptop—still open, screen dimmed. A half-finished iced coffee stood sweating beside it. Bette could see her notes open, the mess of text and color-coded highlights. Tina had clearly been working—intensely, if the hunched shoulders and bare feet tucked beneath her were any clue.

And still, Bette didn’t announce herself. Not right away.

She just… took it in. The way Tina sat in her space like she’d always belonged there. The way the light hit her skin. The way it made Bette’s chest tighten unexpectedly, that low flutter of warmth she hadn’t prepared for. Bette went back to the kitchen decided to unpack the takeout containers.

“Oh,” Tina said casually, “you’re back. I almost took my top off.”

Bette didn’t even look up, just called back dryly, “Not too late for that.”

The laugh that came out of Tina was startled and delighted. She leaned against the doorframe for a second, watching Bette arrange the salad containers with deliberate care.

Tina looked up, startled, tugging one earbud out. “I’m sorry,” she said, blinking like she hadn’t realized how much time had passed. “I didn’t hear you.”

“You looked busy. Figured I’d let you finish your poolside conference call with Lana Del Rey.”

Tina chuckled, flushed faintly. “It was actually Phoebe Bridgers, so… sadder.”

“Of course it was.” Bette pushed off the frame. “I brought food. Thought I’d lure you back inside with arugula and guilt.”

Tina stood, brushing off her damp hands on her thighs. “I worked through lunch. Got a few things done. Told Eric I’m in L.A. chasing a story.”

Bette raised a brow. “A story, huh?”

Tina shrugged. “He didn’t ask what kind.”

Bette couldn’t help it—her smile spread, slow and genuine. “Remind me to thank Eric for being so trusting.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, but her voice was softer now. More familiar.

And Bette turned to look at her, smirking. “So I’ve been told.”

For a moment, the air between them stilled again—like it always did when they weren’t trying. Just this subtle pause, warm and charged, something unspoken swimming just beneath the surface of every exchange.

Tina nodded toward the hallway. “I’ll rinse off. Be right back.”

Bette nodded, watching her go, towel slipping slightly lower on her back.

When she was gone, Bette exhaled a quiet breath and turned back to the food, lips still curved in a smile she couldn’t quite shake.

Tina was in her house. And somehow, that felt more significant than either of them had admitted yet.

Day 3: The sun had barely crested over the rooftops when Tina pulled the front door shut behind her.

She stretched once, adjusted her hoodie, and jogged down the quiet street. L.A. was still blinking itself awake — runners in matching sets, dog walkers with coffee thermoses, the occasional early bird unlocking a boutique. Tina’s headphones stayed tucked in her pocket. She liked the sounds of the city like this. Liked the idea of doing something simple for once.

Something like picking up breakfast for someone who made her coffee yesterday and let her sleep in their guest room like it didn’t mean anything.

Like it didn’t mean everything.

Twenty-five minutes later she was back at Bette’s door, cheeks pink, hair wind-tangled, a brown paper bag tucked under one arm, and a green smoothie she already regretted ordering in her other hand.

The door was unlocked, and she stepped inside quietly.

In the kitchen, Bette stood at the counter, back to her, wearing soft navy pajamas and a sleep-creased tank top, swirling the French press with practiced grace.

Tina smiled. “God, you’re annoyingly put together.”

Bette turned, unsurprised. “You went running?”

“Don’t act like I did it to be impressive.”

“I wasn’t,” Bette said, deadpan. “I was wondering how bad the smoothie is.”

Tina held it up. “Lime, ginger, kale, despair.”

Bette smirked and took it from her hand anyway, sipping once and wincing. “Christ. This tastes like punishment.”

“I brought real food too,” Tina said, holding up the bag like a trophy.

“Bagels?”

“And some croissant things. I panicked. The man behind me was humming aggressively.”

“I know the place,” Bette said. “That man does not blink.”

They sat on the couch cross-legged, plates on their laps, the sun angling in just right through the windows. Bette brewed another pot of coffee while Tina scrolled through her notes and tried to pretend she hadn’t just gotten butterflies from how Bette stirred her sugar.

“So,” she said, tone measured, “I know you’re finally on a roll, and I’ve got three budget revisions and a sponsor going radio silent.”

She paused.

“But if I let you work in peace till five, would you maybe do something fun with me tonight?”

Tina arched a brow. “Fun?”

“Not that kind of fun.”

“Oh, so no kissing under the moonlight?”

Bette’s eyes sparkled. “You have rules, remember?”

“Tragically.”

“I’m thinking something stupid,” Bette said. “Arcade? Mini golf? Bad karaoke?”

“You own silk blouses, Bette.”

“I also own poor impulse control.”

Tina grinned. “God help me, I’m intrigued.”

But by 4:40, Tina was curled up on the couch, her head resting against the armrest, a blanket tucked around her waist, and an expression that screamed not tonight.

Bette stepped into the living room, all dressed,  a her bag over her shoulder. She paused when she saw her.

“You okay?”

Tina groaned lightly. “I think my body’s staging a rebellion. Too much airport food, not enough vegetables, and I might have drank a lukewarm green juice that was… hostile.”

“Should we just stay in?” Bette asked.

“God, yes.”

Bette smiled. “Alright. I’m changing into sweatpants and ordering something with salt and carbs.”

“I could kiss you.”

“No kissing,” Bette said as she walked away. “Your rules.”

“Right, right,” Tina murmured, eyes closing. “No kissing the woman who just offered me dumplings and stretchy waistbands. What kind of dystopia is this.”

Twenty minutes later, Bette reappeared in a vintage Bowie tee and joggers, carrying a steaming bowl of noodle soup and a box of spring rolls.

She set it all down carefully on the coffee table and nudged Tina’s foot. “Dinner is served, Ms. Kennard. May your stomach accept this peace offering.”

Tina peeked at the soup and sighed. “That smells like recovery.”

Bette handed her a spoon and sat down beside her, their knees nearly touching.

They ate in quiet for a few minutes, the kind of silence that didn’t need filling.

Then Tina glanced sideways. “Hey.”

“Mm?”

“Thanks.”

Bette looked over. “For what?”

“For not pretending I have to be fun and shiny all the time.”

“You’d be annoying if you were,” Bette said. “I like you better when you’re half-feral in a blanket and slurping broth.”

Tina snorted. “You really know how to make a girl feel hot.”

They shared a look.

And even in the softness, even in the quiet, it was there — the familiar pulse of something they weren’t naming.

But neither of them reached for it.

Instead, they watched bad reality TV, and Bette made a joke about one contestant’s tragic bangs that made Tina wheeze-laugh through her congestion.

By the time Tina nodded off with her head leaning against Bette’s shoulder, the soup was cold and the stars were out.

Then, without thinking, without breathing, she pressed a kiss to Tina’s forehead. Just barely there.

And then she whispered into her hair, quiet like a prayer, completely unguarded,

“This is so shitty. Having you this close. Your lips right there. And I can’t kiss you.”

There was a long pause. The kind that stretched forever.

And Bette didn’t move.

Didn’t dare.

Day 4: “You still okay with tonight?” Bette asked.

Tina hesitated. “Remind me who’s coming?”

“Shane,” Bette said, ticking it off with a finger. “And Alice. But I should warn you, Alice’s version of a casual dinner feels a lot like being fed to the lions.”

“She’s not subtle?”

“She has no concept of subtle. She also talks fast and keeps receipts on everyone.”

Tina sipped her coffee. “Sounds terrifying.”

“She’s worse when she likes someone.”

“Great.”

By 7 p.m., Tina was freshly showered and sitting on the couch with a glass of wine. Bette paced like she was preparing for a United Nations summit.

“They’ll love you,” Bette said abruptly, turning to face her. “But Alice—she might—she’s just—she’s Alice.”

“You’re nervous.” Tina said looking at Bette.

“I’m not.” 

Tina smiled. “You’re adorable when you lie.”

It started, like most things with Alice and Shane, in a flurry of chaotic energy and too many opinions.

Bette had barely opened the door before Alice waltzed in like she owned the place. “Okay, where is she? Is she real? Does she glow? Is she annoying perfect or just charming perfect?”

Shane trailed behind her with a lopsided grin and a six-pack in hand. “We brought beers,” she said, holding them up like a peace offering. “And Alice brought judgment.”

“I brought curiosity,” Alice corrected, eyes already scanning the room. “Which is healthy and appropriate for meeting someone our emotionally constipated friend has been low-key soft for.”

“She’s in the kitchen,” Bette muttered, dryly. “And she can hear everything.”

Tina appeared just then, barefoot in jeans and a soft grey tee that hugged her in all the right places, holding a wine glass and doing her best not to look like she had just nervously fixed her hair five times in the last three minutes.

Alice’s eyes lit up. “Ohhh. Oh, you’re trouble.”

“Hi,” Tina said, warm but cautious, smiling as she extended a hand. “I’ve heard a lot.”

“Oh no, no handshakes,” Alice said, brushing it aside. “I’ve waited months to meet the myth. I’m going in for a hug.”

Tina laughed, surprised, but met her with open arms. Shane came next, more reserved but still friendly, offering a quiet, “Hey. Glad Bette finally let you out of the vault.”

They all settled into the living room—Bette opening wine, Shane pulling up a chair backwards like a teenage boy, and Alice flopping dramatically onto the couch beside Tina.

“So,” Alice began, twirling her glass with a grin. “How long have you two been married?”

Tina blinked. “I—what?”

Shane smirked. Bette sighed.

“Oh, come on,” Alice said, gesturing between them. “You’ve got the whole old couple energy thing. The ‘we like each other’s company but haven’t kissed since the Bush administration’ vibe.”

Tina nearly choked on her sip of wine, laughing. “We’re not—”

“We’re not anything,” Bette cut in, too quickly.

Alice pointed. “See? That right there. The synchronized denial. It’s too polished. Years of practice.”

Shane chuckled. “They’ve got the shared glance thing going. You know—talking to someone but watching each other across the room.”

“I swear,” Alice continued, “why can’t I find something like that? Someone who just… gravitates toward me silently and pours me the exact wine I like?”

“You hate wine,” Bette deadpanned.

“Details,” Alice waved off. “Anyway. You two are like the couple in a French indie film. The ones who never actually get together, but spend an hour and a half making tension-filled coffee.”

Tina smiled into her glass. “I think I saw that one. Someone dies at the end, right?”

“That was metaphorical death,” Alice corrected. “From unspoken feelings.”

Bette rubbed a hand over her face. “Why did I invite you.”

Shane raised her beer. “Because you knew she’d say what you won’t.”

For a second, silence threaded between the teasing. Tina looked at Bette. Bette looked back. It was just a moment—half a beat—but it lingered.

Alice didn’t miss it.

“Bingo,” she whispered, smug.

“What?” Tina asked.

“Lingering eye contact,” Alice said, pulling out a folded paper from her bag. “You just gave me a row. All I need is ‘accidental shoulder touch with meaning’ and I win.”

Tina turned to Bette with a grin. “Well, I guess I know what I’m doing next.”

Bette looked her up and down, amused and maybe a little affected. “Make it count.”

Shane stood up to grab another beer. “You guys are exhausting.”

“And weirdly hot,” Alice added.

“Don’t make it weird,” Bette muttered, walking toward the kitchen.

“It’s already weird,” Shane called after her. “Just lean in.”

And Tina—still seated on the couch, glass resting against her knee—watched Bette’s retreat with the kind of soft stare Alice would definitely count as soul-piercing. Not that she’d admit it.

Dinner was a flurry of wine refills, stolen glances, and absolutely no privacy. Alice was relentless.

“So, Tina,” she said, halfway through a second glass of Barolo, “what are your intentions with our friend here?”

Tina nearly choked. Bette groaned. Shane looked delighted.

“I—uh—”

“She’s staying in my house,” Bette hissed. “Could we not—”

“I’m just saying,” Alice continued. “Seven days. That’s enough time to ruin someone’s life and redecorate.”

Tina set her glass down. “I’m actually trying not to ruin anyone’s life this week.”

“That’s the vibe,” Shane said.

Alice turned to Bette. “Do you even know why she’s here?”

Bette frowned. “Of course.”

Tina gave her a warning glance.

Alice, eyes glittering, leaned forward. “Because I heard a little something about an engagement ring showing up in someone’s boyfriend’s coat pocket, and then poof —suddenly she’s in L.A., staying with you. Cozy.”

Shane let out a slow whistle. Bette looked like she might slide under the table.

“You’re a monster,” Bette muttered.

Tina looked at Alice, half-impressed. “You get intel fast.”

“I have a network,” Alice replied. “And nosiness is my love language.”

Tina raised an eyebrow. “So what else do you know?”

“Oh, honey,” Alice said, gleeful. “So much.”

And she did. By dessert, Tina had learned,

• That Bette had once dated a cellist who wrote an entire symphony about their breakup (“It was unlistenable,” Bette muttered).
• That Shane had almost officiated Bette’s almost-wedding in Spain but got too high and missed the ceremony.
• That Bette, under duress, had once sung Landslide at karaoke while drunk in Palm Springs.

Tina couldn’t stop laughing. Bette looked like she’d been betrayed by the Geneva Convention.

“What I’m hearing,” Tina said, eyes twinkling, “is that there’s still time for me to leave a mark.”

“I’m changing the locks,” Bette muttered.

Shane leaned back, arms crossed. “So, Tina. Serious question.”

“Shoot.”

“What made you come here instead of just… staying where you were?”

The room quieted a little. Tina glanced at Bette, who was watching her with a kind of low-simmer stillness.

Tina exhaled.

“I saw the ring,” she said, voice calm. “And I realized—I wasn’t ready to say yes. And the second I admitted that to myself, I knew where I wanted to go.”

Alice blinked. “Holy shit. That’s… hot.”

Shane nodded. “Respect.”

There was a silence that wasn’t awkward. Just… honest.

Later, after Alice and Shane had finally left—after Shane had hugged her and said “You’re good for her,” and Alice had whispered “I like you, don’t screw it up”—Tina helped Bette clear the empty glasses.

“They’re not what I expected,” Tina said.

“Better or worse?”

“Better,” Tina said, pausing. “They love you.”

Bette shrugged. “They’ve had practice.”

Tina handed her a plate. “Do you hate that they told me things?”

Bette smiled, small and genuine. “No. I kind of like that you know.”

“Even the karaoke?”

“Especially the karaoke.”

Bette turned to look at her then—really look. Something warm passed between them.

“You held your own tonight,” Bette said. “No one survives Alice and lives to smile about it.”

“I think I like her,” Tina murmured. “She’s… deranged.”

“Fully.”

They stood in the kitchen, soft music still playing in the background. The room was half-lit, full of clinking glass and unsaid things.

1 week could be very long or not long enough.

Day 5: Tina woke slowly, wrapped in the kind of stillness only early morning could offer.

The soft light was just beginning to warm the edge of the guest room, sliding across the hardwood in lazy strips. Bette’s sheets smelled like lavender and some impossible combination of cedar and rain. Tina lay there for a few moments, letting the quiet settle, staring at the ceiling.

Alice’s words came back in pieces. It happened sometime between dessert and Bette trying to convince Shane not to steal her limited-edition mezcal.

Alice slid in beside Tina on the balcony, carrying two more glasses of wine and the unmistakable glint of mischief in her eyes. “Just us girls,” she said. “Quick interview. Don’t panic.”

Tina raised a brow. “Should I lawyer up?”

Alice waved a hand. “You’re too charming to sue. Also, I Googled you. Don’t act surprised. That ‘producer in New York’ thing is cute and all, but you’ve got more credits than the Criterion Channel.”

Tina smirked, taking the glass. “Are we… bonding or interrogating?”

Inside, Bette was laughing at something Shane said—head thrown back, mouth wide, that full, unguarded laugh that made Tina’s heart twist, because she’d already decided it was her favorite.

Alice noticed. “She doesn’t laugh like that often, you know,” Alice said, like she was just tossing it out casually. “Not anymore.”

Tina looked at her, suddenly still. “What happened?”

Alice leaned against the balcony railing like she was about to narrate a true crime documentary. “God, where to start? Bette Porter, who is fierce, intimidating, allergic to being vulnerable in front of people she didn’t personally vet through a six-stage process. Then she got her heart broken. Bad.”

Tina blinked. “By who?”

Alice pursed her lips. “You ever seen someone try really hard to be perfect for someone who didn’t want them to be? She dated this woman—Lauren. Photographer. Gorgeous, but cold. Like, emotionally iceberg-cold. Bette tried to keep up, to be enough, to mold herself into whatever Lauren needed. And the whole time, the rest of us were screaming babe, you’re playing Twister in a straightjacket. But she wouldn’t leave.”

Tina took a slow sip of wine. “What finally did it?”

“Lauren had an exhibit opening in London. Didn’t invite Bette. Told her the night before she flew out. Said she wanted to ‘keep things casual.’” Alice made air quotes so aggressive she nearly spilled her drink. “Bette flew to London anyway. Showed up. And Lauren pretended she didn’t know her.”

Tina’s stomach dropped. “Jesus.”

“Yup.”

Silence for a moment.

Then Alice tilted her head at her. “So. If you’re here for some kind of heartbreak sabbatical, that’s fine. But if you think she’s casual about you, you’re wrong.”

Tina’s voice was quiet. “I never said I thought she was.”

Alice studied her. “She hasn’t looked at anyone like that in years. Years. Not like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re the part of the painting she didn’t know was missing.”

Tina blinked, caught off guard.

Alice smiled, softer now. “Bette thinks she’s subtle. She’s not. It’s all over her face when you walk into a room.”

Tina looked down, throat tight.

“She wouldn’t tell me all this,” she murmured.

“Nope. She’d kill me if she knew I told you.”

“So why are you?”

“Because,” Alice said, gently now, “I think maybe someone should.”

Then, like nothing had happened, Alice stood. “Anyway. That was the emotional portion of the evening. Back to chaos.”

Tina closed her eyes tightly one last time, shook her head, let out sigh and rolled onto her side, tucked under the covers, and let herself think about it for longer than was healthy.

She heard a cupboard click. A distant hum of water boiling. Bette was up.

By the time Tina padded out into the kitchen—barefoot, sweater tugged loosely over her tank top—Bette had already made coffee and was halfway through slicing grapefruit like she was auditioning for a food magazine.

“You’re up early,” Bette said without looking up.

“You’re slicing citrus like a serial killer.”

“I like clean lines.”

“You need therapy.”

Bette smirked and handed her a mug. Same as yesterday—no questions, just correct. Tina took it, their fingers grazing for one charged beat longer than necessary.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They stood there quietly for a moment, the morning heavy with unsaid things. Tina stole a glance at Bette—hair still damp from the shower, no makeup, a loose tee with a tear near the hem. She looked… human. Soft. And also absurdly beautiful in that way that made Tina feel like she was in trouble.

“You okay?” Bette asked, sensing something.

Tina nodded. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“About last night?”

Tina gave a wry smile. “Are you worried about what Alice said?”

Bette narrowed her eyes. “Terrified. But resigned.”

“She told me some things.”

Bette froze slightly, her knife hovering over the fruit. “Of course she did.”

“About London,” Tina said quietly.

The pause that followed was thick.

Bette looked down, started slicing again. “I’m going to kill her.”

“She cares about you,” Tina said gently.

“She’s nosy.”

“She’s nosy because she cares.”

Bette’s jaw ticked once, and then she let the knife fall to the board with a soft clink.

“I didn’t want you to hear about that,” she said finally. “It was years ago. Ancient history.”

“Doesn’t feel ancient,” Tina replied, voice low.

Bette exhaled, slow and careful. “I was in love. I thought she was too. I held on longer than I should have.”

Tina set her mug down. “It’s not weakness, you know. Loving someone like that.”

“I’m not ashamed of loving her,” Bette said. “I’m ashamed of losing myself in the process.”

Tina’s chest pulled tight.

“You didn’t seem lost last night.”

Bette met her eyes, steady and open. “That’s because you were here.”

Silence.

Tina blinked. There it was. No performance. Just Bette, plain and true in the morning light, with her ridiculous grapefruit and her cautious vulnerability.

Tina reached for a piece, took a bite, and made a face. “God. That’s bitter.”

Bette rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome to make your own breakfast.”

“I’m staying here under duress.”

“You begged to come.”

“I fled here.”

Bette tilted her head. “So you’re saying I’m the prize at the end of your emotional escape room?”

Tina looked down, lips pressing into something that might’ve been a smile but a sad one.

There was so much more she wanted to say. Tina felt it. All of it humming under the surface like an engine left idling. But instead, Bette offered her a plate and changed the subject.

They ate in silence after that — comfortable on the surface, easy even — but Tina’s mind was far from still.

She watched Bette out of the corner of her eye, the way her fingers curled around the mug, how her jaw flexed when she was lost in thought, how she wore her solitude like second skin — not with pride, exactly, but with practiced familiarity.

And Tina wondered what it had taken to get her here. What had been broken. What had been buried. Who had left before Tina.

The guilt crept in, sharp and unwanted. Because this wasn’t a game to Bette. It never had been.

And Tina—Tina had a habit of showing up just long enough to feel everything too deeply, then vanish when the weight of it became too real. Her relationships came with expiration dates stamped in emotional shorthand. She didn’t want that here. Didn’t want to be that here.

Not to Bette.

The gallery was unusually quiet. Today, Tina finally decided to go with Bette to see the gallery.

But Bette had stepped out to meet a potential buyer for lunch. Tina, who’d commandeered the office under the guise of needing quiet for script notes, had secretly just wanted the smell of her. That blend of sandalwood, archival paper, and something faintly citrus she couldn’t identify but now associated entirely with longing.

Her laptop sat open, screen idle, cursor blinking like it was taunting her for writing nothing.

She leaned back in Bette’s chair, stretching, sipping from the iced coffee Bette had left her with and saying to no one in particular, “This is the weirdest version of a residency I’ve ever had.”

Then a knock. Barely.

More like the soft push of someone who thought they didn’t need permission to enter.

Tina turned.

The woman in the doorway was tall, striking. Tousled blond curls, sharp cheekbones, well-worn leather jacket over crisp linen. The kind of beautiful that made you feel like you should know who she was.

She paused, clearly surprised.

“Oh,” the woman said. “You’re not Bette.”

Tina stood automatically. “She’s not in right now. Can I help you?”

The woman gave a cool smile. “No. I know where everything is. I used to work with her. Sort of.”

She stepped in casually, eyes skimming the space like it hadn’t changed. Tina felt a pulse of something—intuition, maybe. Or just the crawl of territorial discomfort.

“You’re Lauren,” Tina said, before she could stop herself.

The woman blinked. Just for a second. Then smiled, but slower this time.

“I am,” she said. “And you are…?”

“Someone who knows what you did to her.”

Lauren’s smile faltered. “Wow. She’s getting faster at briefing the new girlfriends.”

“I’m not her girlfriend,” Tina said evenly. “And she didn’t brief me. But she doesn’t have to lie about heartbreak.”

Lauren laughed, dry. “Bette always was good at that. Heartbreak. Mystery. Turning silence into mythology.”

“She was in love with you.”

Lauren looked at Tina for a beat too long. “And now you’re here. Playing what, savior? Sequel?”

Tina stepped forward slightly. “I don’t have to be anything. But I won’t let you mess with her again.”

That landed. Lauren’s expression didn’t crack, but something shifted under the surface.

She turned, glancing toward the hallway. “Tell her I stopped by. I had a few pieces I thought might interest the gallery.”

“She’s not interested,” Bette’s voice said from the doorway.

Both women turned.

Bette stood there—composed, but clipped at the edges. Eyes sharp. Shoulders tight. Her bag still slung over one shoulder like she hadn’t made it all the way in before she heard Lauren’s voice.

Lauren’s smile tried for charming. “Bette—”

“You don’t get to walk in here and speak for me anymore.”

Tina didn’t move. She wasn’t even sure she was breathing.

Lauren lifted a brow. “I wasn’t here to start anything.”

“No,” Bette said coolly. “You’re never here to start anything. Just to watch the aftermath.”

Silence stretched.

Lauren glanced once more at Tina, then back at Bette. “Well. It’s good to know you’re still surrounded by… passionate defenders.”

She walked out without another word.

The gallery door shut behind her with a soft, final click.

Bette stood frozen for a beat.

Tina stepped toward her, slow. “You okay?”

“I didn’t know she’d show up.”

“I know.”

Bette let out a long breath, setting her bag down, bracing herself against the desk.

Tina stayed close. “You don’t owe her anything. Not civility. Not silence.”

“She has this way,” Bette said. “Of showing up just when I’ve forgotten how much it used to cost.”

“She didn’t get to stay,” Tina said. “That’s something.”

Bette looked at her—really looked at her—and something like gratitude flickered behind her eyes.

“You didn’t have to say anything,” Bette murmured. “But you did.”

“I don’t like watching people hurt you.”

“You barely know me.”

“I don’t need more time to know what’s decent and what’s not,” Tina said. “And I’ve seen enough of you to know what you deserve.”

They didn’t move closer. Didn’t touch.

But something broke open anyway.

Quiet and irrevocable.

Day 6: It started like a getaway — small, casual, impulsive.

“Let’s just go,” Bette had said, toes curled under the kitchen stool, hair still wet from the shower, wearing a t-shirt Tina liked too much. “No plans. No city. No gallery. No overthinking.”

Tina grinned into her coffee. “So… we’re doing the impossible.”

And off they went.

They drove with the windows down, Bette’s car too clean for how recklessly Tina peeled the label off her iced coffee bottle and dropped it in the cup holder. The stereo played everything from Tracy Chapman to The Cars, with a dramatic Adele moment that Tina demanded and Bette tolerated with a single raised brow.

The beach was one Bette remembered from a shoot years ago — a little hidden cove past Malibu, locals only, hard to get to. Tina stood barefoot in the sand like she was trying to memorize the horizon. Her rolled-up jeans soaked at the hem from standing in the surf too long. Bette watched her, sunglasses on, heart way too close to the surface.

Tina had that open-lipped, sun-drunk smile that made everything feel like summer, even when it wasn’t. And for a moment, Bette let herself believe this could be normal.

That this was theirs.

They drove back with salt-damp skin and sandy ankles, Tina with her feet on the dash, humming along to whatever Bette played like it was instinct. At some point, they got hungry.

Tina perked up the second she saw the sign. “Oh my god,” she said, straightening. “Can we please stop at In-N-Out?”

Bette glanced over. “You’re a sucker for a burger.”

“I’m a sucker for this burger. And the fries. And the ridiculous hats.”

Five minutes later, they were parked in the lot, Tina in possession of a double-double, animal-style fries, and a milkshake that looked like it was trying to kill her. Bette sat with an iced tea and a sigh.

“You didn’t get anything,” Tina accused.

“I’ll just share yours.”

Tina looked over, eyebrows raised. “So you didn’t want anything except everything I have?”

Bette smirked. “I’m practicing intimacy.”

“You’re practicing theft.”

Bette leaned over and stole a fry. “Same thing.”

Tina licked ketchup off her thumb with exaggerated slowness, eyes on Bette. “You’re lucky I’m generous.”

Sun bleeding out behind the hills. The sky was streaked in soft oranges and bruised purples, the kind of quiet drama the city wore so well. Inside the car, Bette and Tina were caught mid-laugh — something about Bette’s precise, over-serious method for ordering burgers, something about Tina mispronouncing Los Feliz and pretending she meant to.

"God, you’re so smug when you’re right,” Tina said, still grinning, finishing the last fry.

“I’m not smug,” Bette said. “I’m just rarely wrong.”

“Oh my God.” Tina leaned her head back against the seat. “Who raised you?”

Bette shot her a look. “A single father with very high standards.”

Tina chuckled and reached over, mock-applauding her. “Well he’d be proud.”

They sat in it a moment, the fading laughter, the little echoes of something easy between them. Then the warm breeze swept in through the crack in Bette’s window — gentle, full of dusk and jacaranda and memory. It stirred Tina’s hair, curled through her collarbone, and something shifted.

It was sudden. Like the gravity in the car changed.

The playfulness drained into quiet. Not the bad kind. Just… deeper.

Tina’s fingers brushed an empty straw wrapper on her lap. She looked out the window as the light dimmed, as the city rolled on, full of people and stories and moments she didn’t belong to.

Tina watched the city pass by, windows aglow with lives she wasn't part of. Her voice broke softly into the quiet,

“Say something scary.”

Bette glanced over, brows knitting. “What? Is this a game?”

“Something that freaks you out.” Tina’s voice was calm, too calm. Her knuckles tightened slightly where her hand rested on the center console.

Bette tilted her head but didn’t answer. Tina didn’t look at her. She just said,

“Never mind. I’ll go first.”

She tore off the last bite of her burger, chewed it like it was suddenly hard to swallow. Then wiped her hands on a napkin she didn’t need and leaned back, eyes still forward.

“What if… I go back to New York and we actually try to let this go? You do your thing. I do mine. No texts. No ‘saw this and thought of you.’ No calls that start casual and end with neither of us hanging up.”

Bette didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“We just… let it fade. If we’re meant to cross paths again, we will. But we don’t hold on. We don’t orbit anymore.”

The silence after that was brutal. Too loud for how soft the words had been.

Tina turned, slowly. “Scary enough?”

Bette’s voice, when it finally came, was low. Steady, but fragile.

“It’s not just scary.”

Tina watched her.

“It’s terrifying. It’s the kind of thing that breaks something in you. Quietly,” Bette said. “Like a splinter under the skin. You don’t even realize it until it starts to ache.”

Tina’s throat bobbed, and for a second she looked away, like she needed to. Like keeping her gaze on Bette would undo something she was desperately holding together.

And still, she said it — forced the smirk, the tease, her voice barely catching,

“Guess I win.”

But no one was smiling. Not really.

And between them, their fingers hovered — not quite touching on the console. But close enough that the absence burned.

Bette looked down at the crumpled napkin in her lap. She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

“So this is how the streak ends — not with a crash, but a clean break.”

The words hung there, soft and bitter, like smoke curling in still air.

They drove back in near silence, the sky turning lavender. Bette’s hand sat on the gearshift. Tina didn’t reach for it. The In-N-Out bag crinkled in the back seat, the only sound.

A day that felt like forever had already started to dissolve.

That dare — what if we try to move on — echoed louder than anything else. Like a chime that hit something hollow inside Bette.

And yet.

It wasn’t cruel. Tina hadn’t said it to punish. It was honesty. Fragile, uncertain, but real.

Bette drove with the windows down, eyes forward. But in her mind, she was stuck on one image of Tina’s hair lit gold by the sun, the way she’d laughed barefoot in the surf, how her fingers had brushed Bette’s wrist when they shared fries like something already familiar.

She didn’t want to let it go.

But maybe the point wasn’t letting go.

Maybe it was letting it become whatever it needed to be.

Day 7: The next morning was pale and quiet. L.A. hadn’t fully woken up yet.

Tina had a flight to catch. Bette brewed coffee like it was muscle memory, neither of them saying much at first.

Until Tina turned, coffee cup in hand, and leaned against the counter.

“Well,” she said. “Looks like we’re doing the scary thing.”

Bette gave a soft, crooked smile. “Yeah. Guess we are.”

They looked at each other, long and quiet, the kind of silence that had weight to it.

Tina stepped forward. “I meant what I said. We try to figure things out. Apart.”

“I know,” Bette said.

“But,” Tina added, softer now, thumb brushing the side of Bette’s hand, “just remember. I exist. And I’m here. That part doesn’t change.”

It landed like a heartbeat.

Bette blinked, once, slow.

Bette blinked, once, slow. “You always say things like that.”

“Like what?” Tina asked, her voice quiet, but steady.

“Like you’re walking away but leaving the door cracked.”

Tina gave a small, tired smile. “Because maybe that’s the only way I know how to walk away.”

They didn’t kiss. They didn’t cling. They just stood close. Tethered by something invisible but steady.

The moment stretched—one of those impossible silences where neither of them knew if it was the end or the inhale before something else. And then—

Tina moved first.

Wordless, like she couldn’t risk saying anything that might unravel her, she stepped in and pulled Bette into her arms. It wasn’t slow or shy this time—it was certain. Her arms wrapped around Bette’s waist, and she tipped onto the balls of her feet, pressing her body full against her.

Her cheek found the warm curve of Bette’s neck, just beneath her ear, and settled there like she belonged. She closed her eyes. Tightly. Like if she could press them hard enough, maybe this wouldn’t be real.

Bette let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her hands moved—unsure, then not—finding Tina’s back, then her shoulders, pulling her closer. Her lips grazed Tina’s hairline, not quite a kiss, more of a confession. And then, softly, she whispered into the hush between them, “Why does this feel like a heartbreak?”

Tina didn’t pull away.

“Because it is, Bette.” she said, barely audible.

She lingered another second, breathing in Bette’s scent—coffee, sunlight, warmth—and then she slowly stepped back.

Not far.

Just enough to see her face.

Bette reached up, thumb catching the single tear that had traced its way down Tina’s cheek. She wiped it gently, reverently, like it wasn’t a tear at all but a mark of something holy. Then, with a steadiness that belied everything unraveling inside her, she leaned in and pressed her lips to Tina’s cheek.

It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t platonic. It wasn’t safe. It was soft. Precise. And charged enough to leave a scar. Tina’s eyes fluttered shut at the contact. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

And when Tina finally picked up her stuff and walked toward the front door, Bette followed. Not out of obligation—but because she didn’t know how not to.

They moved down the front steps like they were walking through water, every step a weight.

And as the car pulled up and Tina slipped inside, Bette stood there, barefoot on the concrete. Sunlight crept across her shoulders like a slow tide.

The door closed and the car pulled away. And still, Bette stayed there. Watching.

The city stretched open around her. And the distance had already begun.

Chapter Text

10 years and 5 months ago.

Four months had passed since Tina stood in the doorway of Bette’s house and said goodbye like she was doing something noble. Four months since her cheek had pressed to Bette’s neck, like maybe, for a second, they both imagined a life that would never be theirs. Four months since sunlight poured across Bette’s bare shoulders and the car door closed and the air changed shape around her.

And life, predictably, went on.

Bette worked, harder than ever. A new season at the gallery had been one of her most ambitious—rotating installations, a successful collaboration with a Berlin-based queer sculptor, and a write-up in a West Coast arts publication that called her “a singular force with the taste of a scalpel.” She liked that. Kept the clipping in a drawer she never opened unless she needed to feel less breakable.

She dated. She would say yes for a dinner or drinks. Not much,  and never seriously. There was a chef who texted her late-night poems and made risotto like a religious experience. A journalist with sleepy eyes who asked real questions but never stayed long enough to get answers. And a yoga instructor who’d tried to read her aura one morning and said, gently, “There’s grief in there, but it’s folded too neatly to see.”

Bette had smiled at that. It was true. Lauren had taught her how quickly someone could turn cruel. That sweetness could be strategy, and desire could be used like a scalpel too. After that, Bette learned to build quieter walls—no alarms, no panic buttons. Just a polite, unreachable distance. She didn’t ghost people. She didn’t lie. She just never offered up the parts of herself she couldn’t afford to lose again.

She became someone who knew exactly when to step back.

Which is why she hadn’t seen Shane or Alice in four months at least in person. She answered texts with emojis and well-placed “crazy week” replies. Ignored calls. Declined invitations for brunch, drinks, hikes. Shane had stopped asking. Alice hadn’t.

The last voicemail said, “I don’t know what happened on that road trip, but whatever it was, you’re acting like it wrecked you. Just call me back, okay? Or don’t. But I miss you.”

Bette had replayed it once. Then again. Then deleted it. Because no—Tina hadn’t wrecked her. And yes—Tina had.

Tina had done what she had to do. Bette believed that. She’d said it to herself enough times for it to sound true that Tina wasn’t cruel. She didn’t pull the rug. She didn’t vanish without a word. She sounded broken when she said, “Because it is, Bette,” when asked why it felt like heartbreak. Then she walked away with her spine straight and her heart, presumably, in pieces too.

It had never been a relationship. Not technically. Not on paper. But some part of Bette still checked her phone like it might matter. Still noticed when it was 3:14 p.m., the exact time Tina had once called her just to say she saw a woman on the street with a dog that looked like a loaf of bread.

Little things. Insistent things.

She wasn’t broken. She didn’t cry. Adults didn’t fall apart over maybes, and certainly not over almosts.

But sometimes, late at night, when her body was finally still and her mind refused to be, Bette would walk out onto her front porch and stand barefoot on the same concrete where Tina had once stood, bag in hand, and said goodbye.

And she’d wonder if that was love, or cowardice, or both.

Four months is a long time to pretend.

And still, Tina finds herself stopping mid-step as she passes the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal, where the city light turns gold just before dusk—exactly the way it did that one day. The day they walked through this city like it might belong to them. Like a single afternoon could rearrange the bones of something.

One day in her city, and Tina still walks like Bette's shadow trails her - soft, unseen, but never far. She wonders if, in L.A., Bette feels it too- the ghost of her in doorways, in sunlight, in the air. 

Bette had given her the guest room—made it up like it mattered. Fresh towels. A little glass of water by the bed. A shirt folded neatly at the foot. Overworn Yale grey shirt. Collar a little stretched, the fabric soft enough to suggest years of use.

     “Are you sure you want this back after I basically lived in it?” Tina asked, holding the shirt up, the hem brushing her thighs — just barely.

     Bette leaned in the doorway, gaze trailing slow.

     “Honestly?” she said, voice low and teasing. “I’ve been wishing that shirt was shorter ever since you started walking around in it.”

     Tina arched a brow, feigning innocence. “Oh? And here I thought I was being modest.”

     Bette smirked, her voice dipping. “You wear that thing with just your underwear and expect me to focus on anything else? Cruel.”

     Tina grinned, folding the shirt over her arm. “So… I’ll keep it?”

     Bette shrugged, playful. “At your own risk. But don’t blame me when it starts reminding you of all the things you didn’t do.”

Tina had laughed then. But now, weeks and states away, the memory turns itself over in her mind like a coin she can’t spend.

She remembers slipping it on—how it draped over her thighs, warm and worn-in and entirely Bette. She remembers standing at the pool in the blue-gray light of morning, arms crossed against the chill, thinking about what it meant to be safe inside someone else’s softness.

And she remembers wanting to steal it. Really wanting to. But she didn’t. Instead, she folded it. Carefully. Smoothed out the collar, tucked the sleeves. Placed it at the edge of the bed like an apology and left a note beside it. A simple thing.

She would never know what Bette’s response to that note might’ve been. That was part of the dare. A line drawn so sharply that neither one of them could cross it without cutting open what was left.

The shirt is still probably folded in that guest room, or stuffed in the back of a drawer. She wonders if Bette ever wore it again. If she kept the note. If she’s moved on.

She probably has, Tina tells herself. Bette is built for reinvention. She’s too stunning to stay still.

And yet… she can’t imagine Bette offering that shirt to someone else. That was the kind of intimacy people don’t share twice.

Tina told herself she left to protect Bette.

She told herself that after Alice filled her in—hesitantly, over drinks—on Lauren, the ex who had somehow made even Bette Porter small. Someone who chipped away at Bette’s sense of self until all that strength looked like overcompensation. That was the moment Tina felt it, this cold twist in her chest.

She could see the pattern. The repetition. The chance to become just another weight around Bette’s heart. She couldn’t offer what Bette needed. Couldn’t promise her certainty, or stability. She wasn’t that woman—not now. Maybe not ever.

And the worst part? She knew what kind of hold she had on Bette. She wasn’t being arrogant. It was just true. The way Bette had looked at her—like Tina was a secret the world didn’t deserve. Like she was the beginning and the problem. That kind of gaze stays with you. Haunts you.

So Tina left.

Not in the middle of the night. She wasn’t cruel. She said goodbye with her hands and not her mouth. And she walked out like it wouldn’t gut her later.

She told herself it was just a spark. A flicker, not a fire. Not meant to be. She told herself that if she held the boundary now—if she didn’t text, didn’t call, didn’t find an excuse to ask if Bette had slept at all that night—then maybe the weight would lift eventually.

She hasn’t reached out. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. There were nights when her fingers hovered over the screen of her phone. When she thought about typing -  I don’t think it was just a spark or I regret not kissing you when I had the chance or simply to ask 'Are you okay?'

But this was her dare.

She had always been the one who cracked - to find a reason to stretch things just one more day. She told Bette she’d say no to dinner, that it was time to walk away. But then Bette would look at her like that, and staying would stop feeling like a mistake. It would feel like a choice.

So this time, she holds her ground. Because if she breaks it—if she reaches out now—it means she can’t control it. It means she’ll want more. And she’s already seen what “more” looks like when she isn’t ready to give it.

And she thought about Eric.

Eric is safe. He’s kind, steady — the kind of man who makes dinner without needing praise, who leaves space without needing to fill every silence. With him, there are no sharp turns, no emotional whiplash. Just predictable days and soft, forgettable nights. He doesn’t reach into the vulnerable parts of her. He never asks her to come undone. 

And Tina, whether she admits it or not,  has built a life around avoiding the kind of love that undoes her. Because she saw it once. In her mother - Someone still crawling out of the long shadow of mistaking chaos for love. She had loved people who made her feel like she was on fire.

With Eric, she didn’t have to worry about any of that. She could be functional. Even likable. She could go weeks without questioning herself, without falling into old spirals. He didn’t make her feel exposed. He didn’t ignite the fear in her gut that said, this will cost you.

It wasn’t thrilling. But it was survivable. It was selfish and she knows it.

But Bette—oh Bette. Why does she have to exist in a world where Tina is all sharp edges and broken parts?

That night she climbs into bed and turns off the light. The city outside her window hums, restless and alive. And Tina closes her eyes, willing herself to forget the way Bette’s voice sounded in the dark. She doesn’t succeed. But she doesn’t break the silence either.

Bette heard them before she saw them.

The jingle of keys at the front gate. The thud-thud-thud of Alice’s boots like she was leading a raid. Shane’s smoother footsteps behind her. And then — with full drama — the rustle-thwack of a grocery bag smacking the front door.

“We know you’re in there!” Alice shouted. “Your car’s here, the lights are on, unless you’ve gone full recluse and started staging your house like a Pottery Barn catalog for no one.”

Bette opened the door with a sigh and a half-full wine glass. “You’re both terrible at stealth.”

Alice barged in like a sitcom character who’s never once respected a boundary. “We don’t need stealth. This is a wellness check.”

“Slash interrogation,” Shane added, stepping inside with a peace-offering smile and a bag of chips.

“You come uninvited,” Bette said.

“We come with snacks,” Alice countered. “And love. And concern. And nosiness.”

Bette gave them both a look and headed back to the couch, blanket still folded like a monk’s robe. “Maybe I didn’t want to get dragged into your latest conspiracy theory about horoscopes and hot baristas.”

“They were clearly flirting with me,” Alice muttered. “They used two espresso shots. That’s code.”

“For caffeine,” Bette said, sipping her wine.

Alice dumped the bag on the coffee table, the wine, licorice, sharp cheddar, and crackers that definitely cost more than her rent in 2002.

“You’ve been weird lately,” Alice said. “And not your usual haunted elegance. You’re—what’s the word, Shane?”

Shane, chewing calmly, shrugged. “Tender.”

Bette paused. “That’s illegal.”

“You’re emotionally leaking,” Alice said, pointing a cheese knife. “Like a dignified faucet.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been quiet,” Shane said. “We noticed.”

Bette closed the door behind them and turned back to the couch, where her throw blanket was still folded with monastic precision. “Maybe I didn’t want to get dragged into your endless dating chaos.”

“I’m providing content,” Alice said, dramatically pulling out two bottles of wine and a pack of red licorice from the paper bag. “You’re welcome.”

Shane leaned against the kitchen counter. “We missed you.”

Bette glanced at them and allowed the smallest smile. “I missed you too.”

They didn’t ask about Tina. Not directly.

They talked about Alice’s failed audition to host a queer cooking show (“They said I was too aggressive with the blender”), Shane’s new crush at the dog park who didn’t own a dog, and a mysterious photo Alice found on her phone from a night she still swears did not happen.

“Why do I look like I’m holding a ferret?” she asked, showing them her screen. “Where was I?”

“You’re wearing two different shoes,” Shane observed.

“That doesn’t help me.”

“You’re also at a gas station,” Bette said.

“Why does that actually track?” Alice muttered, horrified.

They laughed until their stomachs hurt.

Halfway through the second bottle of wine, Alice asked, as casually as she could manage, “So… seeing anyone?”

Bette nodded, unbothered. “Met someone at a fundraiser. Works in publishing. Her name is Julia.”

“Ohhh,” Alice said, eyebrows wiggling. “So she uses words professionally. Sexy.”

“She’s nice, beautiful. We’ve had a few dinners.”

“Does she eat cheese or is she one of those non-dairy sad people?”

“She’s lactose tolerant, Alice.”

“Hot.”

Shane grinned. “Will we meet her?"

"Here? Guess not, haven't invited her over. We usually stay at her place. " Bette replied. 

Alice stunned said, "You? The queen of curated furniture? Bette Porter?”

Bette shrugged, perfectly serene. “just because...”

A beat. Shane didn’t say anything. Alice tilted her head.

“You still haven’t gone in there?” Shane finally asked. Nods towards the guest bedroom door.

“Nope.”

“And we’re… okay with that?”

“I’m okay,” Bette said simply. And she meant it—mostly. Enough to say it without cracking.

Alice studied her. Then nodded, accepting it. “Well. That’s either growth or repression. We’ll call it a tie.”

Later, when the laughter settled into something quieter, Bette told them about the fundraiser. About the conversation she had with the new woman—how they talked about museums and public education and terrible wine.

“And you didn’t flirt?” Alice asked, scandalized.

“I was polite,” Bette said.

“So, is that a new a way of flirting I should learned about?” Alice said smiling.

“I didn’t invite here, we went to her place instead.”

Alice looked personally offended. “Quite a new thing for you Bette, come on. This house is begging for tasteful seduction.”

“I didn’t say I'll never bring her here,” Bette said. “I’m just… taking things slow.”

Shane smiled softly. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I’m not broken, you know,” Bette said. “You don’t have to tiptoe.”

“We’re not,” Alice said. “We’re just… recalibrating our expectations.”

Bette raised a brow. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Alice said, “that you used to brood for sport, and now you’re smiling like a woman who owns a citrus juicer.”

“I do own a citrus juicer,” Bette said.

“See?” Alice clapped. “Growth.”

When they finally said their goodbyes - after Alice insisted on hugging Bette three separate times and Shane gave her that quiet, lingering look that said we know- we just miss you.

As they headed down the front steps, Alice tossed her scarf over her shoulder like a cape. “Okay, but real talk—I came here fully expecting at least one scandalous pool story. A moonlit swim, a misplaced bikini top, someone whispering ‘don’t do this’ and then doing it anyway. 7 days with a woman gives plenty of room to be horny. ”

Bette leaned against the doorframe, unimpressed. “Sorry to disappoint your very vivid imagination.”

“I’ve seen the pool, Bette. It’s begging for emotional mistakes.”

Shane snorted. “Honestly, I thought I’d walk in and smell chlorine and regret.”

Bette deadpanned, “That’s just Alice’s perfume.”

“Oh my god,” Alice gasped. “Rude. You know I wear sandalwood and good choices.”

“Debatable,” Shane muttered.

“Excuse me,” Alice said, scandalized. “I provide ambiance.”

“You provide noise,” Bette said, laughing now.

As they reached the gate, Shane turned back and gave Bette a mock-serious nod. “Next time? More gossip. Less…well-adjusted emotional pacing.”

“I heard that,” Bette called out.

Alice grinned. “Good. Let it haunt you.”

They waved dramatically as they left, Alice blowing kisses, Shane saluting with her car keys like a cryptic general.

The door closed behind them with a soft click.

Bette stood at the door and watched them go. She just stood there, the night breeze brushing against her skin, the weight of laughter still warm in the house behind her.

The armor was holding.

And maybe, just maybe, that was okay—for now.

The email came in at 6:03 a.m. — which, under normal circumstances, would have meant Bette didn’t see it until at least coffee number two. But lately, her mornings had been… earlier. Not restless exactly, just efficient. Sleep was functional. Dreamless. There was no lingering.

The subject line read: Pitch Meeting: Women in Art—Past, Present, Unwritten.

Bette scanned it absently at first. Assumed it was another panel invitation or one of those glorified networking mixers the museum boards loved to organize. She flagged it. Made a mental note to run it by James.

By 8:17 a.m., she had forgotten about it.

By 9:42 a.m., she got the call.

It was Cate from the European Contemporary Arts Alliance. Which meant this wasn’t just a panel. It was something.

“Bette,” Cate said brightly, “we loved the concept. We think there’s a real global hook. Historical context, modern voices, underrepresented artists — it’s all there. And frankly, they love you to be at the center of it. They are asking us to be a part of this whole thing.”

Bette blinked. “You mean… moderating?”

“No,” Cate said. “They mean featuring. They want to film inside your gallery. Interview you. Profile the artists you believe in. Think documentary meets editorial manifesto. Your curatorial voice is the exact lens they need.”

Bette sat back in her chair, phone pressed between shoulder and ear, eyes narrowing at the skyline outside her office.

“Right,” she said, slowly. “Because nothing says avant-garde feminism like putting me in front of a camera.”

“Don’t be modest,” Cate laughed. “They not asking for spin. They asking for vision.”

When the call ended, Bette didn’t move for a full minute. Then she turned her head toward James’ desk.

“James.”

He looked up instantly. “Yes, boss?”

“Do you remember that documentary pitch?”

“The one with the aggressively vague title?”

“They want me in it.”

James blinked. “Like, you-you?”

“Yes. Me. Apparently, I am the face of women in art now.”

James smiled, amused. “You are an icon of tasteful rage and professional trauma.”

Bette rolled her eyes. “Book the meeting. Let’s see what this actually is.”

The pitch meeting was held in a sleek office in West Hollywood, where every surface looked too expensive to touch. The producer, Miriam was calm, crisp, and frighteningly articulate. She introduced herself with the kind of smile that came from owning five blazers and never once losing an argument.

“We want to profile women curators, collectors, and creators who’ve changed the landscape,” she said. “Not just historically. Now. Today. Tomorrow. You, Ms. Porter, are one of the few people who’s moved the needle while keeping the door open behind you.”

Bette blinked. Once. Then nodded slowly.

They showed her a treatment. Mood boards. A list of cities: Los Angeles, New York, London, Tokyo. A rotating camera team. Guest curators. And then—

“We’re hoping,” the producer said, “you’ll help us shape the artist list. And—if you’re willing—co-produce the gallery profiles. We want you to have creative license. This is your world. The plan is to focus on L.A. first and then make it a series to highlight other cities and women curators all over the world. Maybe New York next. Totally your call. You’ll travel a lot and I hope that’s not a problem.”

James whispered under his breath later and said “You’re about to be art-world Beyoncé.”

Back at the gallery, after the meeting, Bette stood near the skylight and stared up at the softened LA afternoon.

“This is big,” James said, watching her with something like awe. “Like career-changing big.”

Bette nodded. Slowly. Her fingers traced the edge of the file folder in her hand. Inside were names — possible artists, collaborators, stories waiting to be told.

“I didn’t see it coming,” she admitted.

“You earned it.”

She gave a half smile. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true,” James said. “And because it keeps you from spiraling.”

Bette exhaled. Not quite a laugh, but close.

She should’ve felt triumphant. And part of her did. Her name had weight. Her work was opening doors. The kind of exposure this project could bring? Sponsors would line up. Emerging artists would thrive. The gallery would finally—finally—break into the next tier.

And yet.

Something in her stayed still. Braced. Like she didn’t entirely believe it would last.

James watched her a moment longer. “You know,” he said lightly, “between this and your fundraiser charm, you might need to prepare for a new problem.”

Bette arched a brow. “Which is?”

“Women. Flocking. Cameras love you. The mystery. The eyes, jawline and your arms. It’s going to be a situation.”

She laughed, finally. “God help me.”

Later that night, as she sat at her dining table with a glass of wine and the preliminary project notes spread in front of her, Bette thought about something Miriam had said. We’re asking for vision.

She thought about the word. Vision. Not influence. Not legacy. Vision meant the future. Meant belief in what could be, not just what was.

And for a moment, just a sliver of one, Bette let herself feel it. Hope. Not the aching, desperate kind. The quiet one. The kind that might let her open the guest room door someday, and not drown.

She reached for a pen and underlined a name on the list — a young, Indigenous sculptor out of Alberta whose work made her feel something new.

It was a start.

Julia had outdone herself again.

The table was set with easy care — mismatched taper candles glowing low between bowls of roasted carrots, warm couscous, and slices of lemon tucked into a ceramic dish like punctuation. Her small apartment smelled like rosemary, garlic, and something a little sweet Bette couldn’t name but felt wrapped in the moment she walked through the door.

It was simple. Honest. The kind of effort that didn’t ask to be noticed, but was felt all the same.

Bette sat at the table, wine glass in hand, watching Julia move about the kitchen in her socks, hips swaying slightly to a jazz station humming low in the background. She was humming, too. Half-tuned and unapologetic. Bette smiled — unforced.

There was something about Julia that invited ease. She never rushed. Never filled silence to avoid it. She wasn’t afraid of the parts of Bette that went quiet sometimes, didn’t mistake calm for distance or complexity for cold.

“Do you like the wine?” Julia asked as she sat across from her.

Bette lifted her glass. “It’s good.”

Julia’s hand brushed Bette’s as she passed the bread. It wasn’t a grand gesture — just presence. Consistent and warm. The kind of touch that said, I see you, even when you don’t ask to be seen. They ate in that quiet rhythm, Julia narrating a story about her coworker who mistook a manuscript full of typos for a postmodern experiment, Bette chuckling between bites. Her laughter came easier tonight.

And when Julia leaned in across the table and kissed her — slow, certain, not trying to impress — Bette didn’t pull away. She let herself close her eyes. Let herself be kissed.

It wasn’t fireworks. But it was calm. It was soft. Familiar. The beginning of something that didn’t ask to be dramatic to be real.

Julia rested her forehead against hers for a beat. “Where are you tonight?”

Bette opened her eyes. Looked at her. “Here,” she said. Quiet. Measured. True enough.

Julia nodded, like she trusted that answer. Like she trusted her. And Bette thought — maybe, just maybe, this could be enough. Maybe something gentle could last longer than something that burned.

Later, while they cleared the plates together, hands bumping and shoulders brushing in the small kitchen, Julia asked, quiet but clear, “Will you stay?”

She didn’t say it with expectation. There was no edge in it. Just warmth. An offering.

Bette paused, her hand wrapped around a damp dish towel. She met Julia’s eyes. And then nodded. “Yes,” she said. Simple. Steady.

Julia smiled, something soft flickering across her face — not victory, not relief, just appreciation. She reached for Bette’s hand as they turned out the lights.

They curled into each other under the linen sheets, the hum of the city just outside the window, the scent of rosemary still clinging faintly to the air. Julia’s breathing was even and close.

And for the first time in weeks, Bette didn’t feel like she had to pretend to be asleep — didn’t feel the need to mimic rest or trick her body into stillness. She simply let her eyes fall shut, allowed herself to be held without flinching or overthinking, and gave herself permission to stay. And for the first time in a long while, the thought of staying — of being seen and softened in someone else’s arms — didn’t scare her.

Everything moved so quickly, another meeting held in a glass-walled office in Century City, the kind of place where light bounced off every surface and the water bottles were suspiciously artisanal. Bette sat across from two producers, a creative director and a lawyer with a name that sounded like old money and a posture that hadn’t slouched in thirty years.

They were polite. Thorough. The tone was collaborative but brisk — the way meetings always were when real money entered the room.

Bette was in her element.

They walked her through the timelines — pilot shoot by next month, a full documentary series after the pilot approval. The plan is to have global production schedule that would begin in São Paulo and end somewhere in Venice, with spotlights in Cape Town and Montreal. The producers talked about narrative framing, continuity style, pacing. They offered her a co-producer credit, full creative license over artist selection, and a say in editorial sign-off.

Bette took notes. Asked questions. She wanted clauses clarified. Budget allocations explained. Ownership over archival materials, percentage points on streaming backend—details. She lived for the details.

The lawyer handed her a full packet. Thick, neatly clipped. A printed version of the creative treatment they had discussed. She flipped to the back page for the boilerplate, then circled back to the early pages — the narrative vision, the scope, the “ideological spine” of the documentary.

She almost missed it.

It was small. Nestled in the corner of the “Creative Development Contributors” section in fine print.

Tina Kennard — Initial Proposal Layout and Narrative Vision

Her eyes stopped there. The room went hushed, though no one else had fallen silent.

For a second, she thought she misread it. That it was a fluke. A cruel coincidence. But it was her. Tina.

The name stared back at her like it had every right to be on the page. Like it belonged there.

Bette blinked. Once.

She felt her breath go shallow. Her spine stiffened — not dramatically, just enough to correct for the sudden rush of heat in her chest. Her hands, perfectly manicured, didn’t tremble, but her grip on the paper shifted. Tightened.

The producer—Miriam, the calm one with the blazers—must’ve noticed.

“Oh,” she said gently, “I should’ve mentioned. Tina Kennard was the one who originally pitched the project 7 months ago.”

Bette looked up slowly.

“She worked with us on the early framework,” Miriam continued. “Brilliant eye. The layout, the thesis, the narrative tone—that was all her. It was greenlit last week.”

She paused.

“But… she passed.”

Bette’s brow lifted slightly. “She passed.”

Miriam nodded, her voice softening, maybe sensing something underneath. “Said it was personal. She wanted the project to move forward but felt it wasn’t the right time for her to stay involved. We were disappointed, of course. But—she was clear. And she gave us her blessing to keep building it out with someone else.”

Someone else.

Bette swallowed, the taste in her mouth suddenly strange. Metallic. She looked back down at the name. Still there. Clear as day.

Tina had pitched this. Had dreamed it up. Her fingerprints were all over it—its shape, its language, even its voice. And now, here it was, handed to Bette like fate was trying out stand-up comedy.

She cleared her throat.

“Well,” Bette said, evenly, “it’s a solid structure.”

Miriam smiled, oblivious. “Right? It’s going to be beautiful. And we’re so glad you’re the one to carry it forward. I think Tina would be glad, too.”

Bette didn’t respond.

That night, Bette sat alone in her kitchen with the packet open in front of her. Her wine sat untouched. There it was again, on the opening page. Tina’s name. It felt like reading the first line of a letter you never received.

Seven months ago — that was exactly how long they knew each other.

She tried to imagine Tina at her desk in New York. Maybe late at night, coffee going cold, hair tied up, sketching out these ideas. Passionate. Focused. Bette could still picture her in L.A. Tina, curled up on the couch in Bette’s living room, laptop balanced on her thighs, hair damp from the pool, barely glancing up as she typed with that furrowed brow she got when something lit her up from the inside. She never said what she was working on. Bette never pried.

Now, it made sense. The questions Tina had asked back in New York. The quiet afternoons she spent writing while Bette came and went from the gallery. She was gathering the whole time. Building something.

And then, like a betrayal, her thoughts drifted — uninvited, unwelcome — to dinner they had one night, Tina asking her questions about her dreams, inspiration and grit.

They were sharing dessert straight from the box, sitting on the floor, legs brushing, too much wine in their blood to care. Bette had tried to sneak a bite of Tina’s cake and missed entirely, smearing it on her own cheek. Tina hadn’t missed a beat. She just looked at her, grinned, and without thinking wiped the frosting off Bette’s skin with her finger — then brought it to her mouth.

Like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything.

That same woman had imagined this. A world-spanning project about women in art. Their legacies. Their ghosts. Their power.

And then she thought about the conversation she had with Miriam on their way out.

“Oh,” she said gently, “but… you’ve met Tina, right?”

Bette looked up, neutral mask in place. “Yes.”

“She actually pitched your name, you know. Specifically. Said if there was one person who could hold the center of this project—it was you.”

The words landed like a dropped glass. No shatter. Just the knowledge of what it once held.

Miriam smiled faintly, unaware of the storm she’d just unleashed. “She wrote this line—‘She doesn’t just curate art, she curates silence into space.’ That line made one of the execs stop the meeting. Everyone was instantly like—who is that?”

Bette stayed quiet. She had no idea Tina had pitched her name. No idea she had written about her. Not just academically. Not just as a colleague. But in a way that read like admiration dipped in longing.

“She was brilliant,” Miriam went on. “Really. The whole scaffolding of this show, it came from her mind. She passed on it, unfortunately. Said it was personal. But she made it clear she wanted it to go forward. We assumed she’d circle back eventually, but…” Miriam trailed off, then looked back at Bette warmly. “We’re just lucky to have you on it now.” Bette smiled politely, as if her chest wasn’t tightening.

She closed the folder. Pressed her hand to its cover. And let herself admit, quietly, that something inside her had tilted.

Just a degree. Just enough to feel the imbalance. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t even hurt, not exactly. But Tina’s presence on that page—it was intimate in a way Tina hadn’t meant it to be. Unavoidable. Like a fingerprint on a glass you didn’t realize you kept.

Bette leaned back in her chair and stared out the window. The city stretched out below her, sprawling and lit.

She was moving forward. The armor still held. But now she carried this, too. A name in the fine print. And everything that it meant.

Shane’s place smelled like weed, lavender, and a candle Alice insisted was called “Emotional Intelligence.”

Bette had barely stepped through the front door when Alice, stretched out on Shane’s worn leather couch with one sock halfway off, tilted her head and squinted.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Bette Porter—known recluse and patron saint of Avoiding Group Texts.”

Bette dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the door and gave a tired half-smile. “I’ve been busy.”

“You have a face,” Alice said. “Like… an actual face with emotion. Did Tina call?”

Bette gave her a look.

“What? That’s a Tina face,” Alice continued, pointing at Bette’s furrowed brow and not-subtle-enough exhale. “You do this thing with your jaw. It’s like your cheekbones are prepping for impact.”

“No one called,” Bette said, tugging off her blazer and tossing it over a chair. “I came for wine and fewer questions.”

“Good luck,” Shane said, emerging from the kitchen with three glasses and a bottle of something red and possibly expensive. She handed Bette a glass and gave her a once-over. “You okay?”

Bette sat. Sank, really. She let her head fall back against the cushion with a groan. “I had a meeting.”

Alice grinned. “Oooh. Does this have to do with you being all over that Women in Art press memo?”

Shane raised a brow. “You didn’t tell us you’re going to be on some global docu-series, Porter. That’s kind of huge.”

Bette hesitated for half a beat. Then, “It’s more than that. I met with the producers again. They’re offering editorial control. They want to build it around me.”

Alice blinked. “Wait, you as the anchor?”

Shane smiled. “Of course they do.”

Bette nodded slowly, swirling her wine. “It’s a big deal. It could push the gallery to the next tier. Real exposure, new artists, international network. James is thrilled.”

“So what’s the problem?” Alice asked, not unkindly.

Bette looked at them both. Then quietly, “Tina pitched it.”

Alice’s eyes widened. “What?”

“She built the initial framework. Wrote my name into the proposal. Even wrote this… line.” Bette paused. “She curates silence into space.”

Shane made a soft sound of recognition, like she understood something about Bette in that moment that words didn’t have to touch.

Alice winced. “Okay, but for the record, when I mentioned Lauren to Tina—I did not know Tina had already written your name down for that thing. Like, zero foresight. Not even a smidge. I’m innocent. Mostly.”

Bette shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. She passed on the project. They said she called it personal.”

Shane leaned forward. “So… what are you gonna do, Bette?”

Bette stared at her glass. “Take it, I think.”

“You think?”

“I’m not going to blow up my career because Tina’s name is on page four of a pitch packet.”

“But you feel something,” Alice said gently. “I mean—your face is doing the thing again.”

Bette gave a quiet, bitter laugh. “It’s a face. It’s not a referendum.”

Shane passed her the rest of the bottle. “We’re not judging. But you haven’t been this still in weeks. So yeah… something’s shifting.”

Bette tilted her head. “It’s just ironic. I thought the door was closed. Guest room, New York, whole chapter. And then it turns out she was the one who built the next page.”

Alice paused, her teasing expression softening. She stared at Bette for a long moment, then said, quieter than usual, “She believed in what came next for you… even when she wasn’t in it.”

That landed harder than Bette expected.

Alice took a sip of wine, then added with a dry little shrug, “I mean, Jesus, who does that? That’s not just love — that’s, like, Nicholas Sparks with a PhD.”

Bette huffed out something between a breath and a laugh, but she looked away, jaw tightening just slightly.

Alice didn’t press. Shane stayed quiet. 

Bette didn’t say anything. Not right away.

The gallery had been humming for weeks. Ever since the pitch meeting, energy moved like static through the walls. Artists stopped by without appointments. Collectors lingered. One of the docents cried when Bette quietly suggested featuring an overlooked queer sculptor from Brazil. James started buying nicer shoes.

And the board?

The board wanted a decision.

They sent documents, requests for confirmation, a list of international venues already expressing interest. Bette had reviewed every inch of the contract, annotated margins, flagged clauses. She could recite the timeline in her sleep.

She also couldn’t stop hearing Miriam’s voice from the original pitch meeting, “We want you at the center. We want you to tell the story.”

It was a Tuesday when Bette met Miriam again. Not at the gallery, but at a tucked-away garden café a few blocks from the Broad.

Miriam was already seated, skimming her phone and scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. She looked up as Bette approached and gave a warm, expectant smile. “Here she is. I have espresso, legal paper, and an army of producers waiting for your signature.”

Bette sat down, quiet.

She didn’t reach for the coffee.

She folded her hands instead, thumb gently tracing the edge of the napkin like it might tell her what to say.

Miriam blinked at her. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Bette said, and then, “I’m not doing it.”

Miriam stilled. “I’m sorry—what?”

“I’m not doing it,” Bette repeated, steady this time. “Unless Tina Kennard is attached.”

Silence. The wind rustled through the low hedges nearby. A sparrow hopped from chair to chair behind them. Somewhere in the kitchen, someone dropped a tray and cursed softly.

“You want Tina on board,” Miriam said slowly, trying to catch up.

“Yes.”

“She already passed.”

“I know.”

“She left the project before it started.”

“I know that too.”

Miriam set her pen down. Studied Bette for a long, drawn breath. “What happened between you two?”

“It’s about the project,” Bette replied, and then, more quietly, “and about the way she sees things no one else does. That pitch—the one that started all this—she wrote a single sentence and it stopped a room full of decision-makers cold. She saw something in this before I did.”

Miriam leaned back in her chair. “You met her. You felt it.”

“I did.”

“And you’d turn down global press, international exposure, and the creative license to build the story yourself… for the possibility that she might say yes?”

Bette’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. “No. I’m turning it down because it wouldn’t be the same without her. Not the version I’d want to be proud of.”

Miriam shook her head, half-stunned. “You’re serious.”

“I am.”

Another pause. Then Miriam let out a short breath—half-laugh, half-acceptance. “Well, fuck.”

Bette chuckled softly, eyes meeting hers. “You can put that in the minutes.”

Miriam grinned. “I’ll make the call. Don’t hold your breath, but… I’ll make it happen.”

Bette’s smile deepened, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks, Miriam.”

The house was quiet again. Not the kind of quiet that brings peace — but the kind that makes every sound feel louder.

Bette stood in the hallway for a long minute, fingers trailing lightly along the edge of the guest room door. She hadn’t stepped into that room since Tina left. Not really. Sometimes she’d pass by it, glance in, tell herself she’d open the windows, maybe change the sheets.

But she never did.

Tonight, though, something shifted. Maybe it was the way the silence felt more like a hum. Maybe it was how the dusk lingered, soft and unsure, like it didn’t want to end.

She opened the door. Turned the knob with no hesitation. No deep breath. Just… a quiet decision.

The room was as it had been — neat, still, waiting.

The bed, still made.
The folded Yale shirt at the foot — sleeves a little slouched, like they remembered her arms.
And beside it, tucked just beneath the edge of the fabric, was a note.

Her chest tightened the second she saw the familiar handwriting. The lowercase letters that dipped just so. Tina’s unmistakable curve in her T’s. It felt like a time capsule. A breath left behind.

She picked it up gently. Unfolded it like something sacred.

It read, “I heard you when you said it was shitty to be so close and not kiss my lips.
But it’s not all true, Bette — because even if the kiss didn’t land exactly where you meant it to, it still felt like it did. Take care.”

Bette stood there for a long time, the note warm in her hand from how tightly she was holding it. 

She read it four times, and each time it struck her in a different way.

The first time, it was longing — sharp and aching, like reaching for something already gone.

The second, it was anger — for all the words they hadn’t said when they had the chance, for the silence that grew where courage should have lived.

The third time, it was grief — quiet, relentless, the kind that lingered in the hollow of her chest.

And the fourth, it was something softer — possibility, tentative and fragile, but there.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her, the worn-out shirt beside her like an old friend. She reread the words again, the ones Tina had left behind—ink smudged at the edge, like it had been written quickly, maybe nervously. Or maybe with shaking hands.

It wasn’t a goodbye with a slammed door. It was a soft leaving. A truth gently given. 

Bette folded the note slowly, reverently, smoothing the creases like it might still say something new if she touched it just right. She slid it beneath the pillow, like a secret meant to stay close to where dreams happened. Then she reached for the shirt—the one Tina had worn most nights. The faded Yale print. The collar stretched. The one Bette had once said she wore only when she was hungover or depressed. 

Bette lifted it to her face first. It didn’t smell like Tina anymore. Just like detergent and maybe dust. Still, her eyes closed.

She stood there for a moment longer, holding it in both hands like it meant more than it should’ve. Then, quietly, she undid the buttons of her blouse, slipping it off her shoulders and letting it fall soundlessly to the floor. Her slacks followed, folded over the back of a chair out of some unconscious instinct—still methodical, even in moments like this.

She was left in just her underwear, the air in the house cool against her bare skin. Vulnerable. Not dramatic, just... exposed.

Then she pulled the shirt over her head—an old shirt, soft from so many washes it no longer held its shape. The fabric clung slightly to her arms as it settled into place, hanging oversized and low on her thighs. It wasn’t warm, but it was familiar. Or at least it had been once.

She smoothed the hem absently, then let her hands fall to her sides.

She padded out of the room in bare feet, the shirt brushing her thighs as she moved through the house like a ghost retracing a map only she could see.

The shirt hung loose against her skin, brushing her thighs as she moved through the house. She let herself drift—through the quiet spaces Tina used to fill. The end of the sofa where she always curled up, half-listening to whatever music Bette had on. The stool by the island, where she’d sit with tea at midnight, cross-legged, always cold. The double French doors she’d lean against barefoot in the mornings, cup in hand, watching the light change over the trees.

Then she walked into the kitchen and picked up the wine glass that had been sitting on the counter for hours. The red had gone warm, slightly sour at the edges. She drank it anyway. One long sip. Then another. 

And then—without ceremony—she walked to the laundry room, pulled open the washer, and tossed the shirt in. She stood there for a second before pressing start. It wasn’t a gesture of letting go. It wasn’t closure. It was a beginning, maybe. Of sitting with the ache and doing the next right thing.

And when the machine hummed to life, Bette leaned her head against the doorframe and let herself breathe.

Not lighter. But maybe—just maybe—less alone in the quiet.

Chapter Text

Tina walked in with her headphones still in, a soft swell of music trailing behind her. Her tote bag hung off one shoulder, the strap twisted from a long day of cabs, elevators, and meetings. Her hair was a little messy, like she’d run her hands through it more than once without thinking.

She didn’t pause at the threshold. Instead, she nudged the door shut behind her with her hip, already pulling the headphones free. The left bud clattered against her chest as she tucked it into her pocket.

Eric stood at the kitchen island, the soft halo of under-cabinet light making the red wine in the decanter glow like something ceremonial. He watched her drop her bag by the door — not gently, but not carelessly either, just with the exhausted precision of someone who had been holding it together all day. She kicked off her boots without looking, one heel catching slightly on the mat before tumbling free.

She glanced up, her expression a mixture of apology and residual adrenaline. There was still a faint crease between her brows from whatever last email she’d read in the elevator.

“Rough day?” Eric asked, his voice light, a small invitation back to the softness of evening.

Tina sighed, tugging her scarf loose. “Three meetings, two ego collisions, and one producer who thought I’d be impressed he worked with Nolan in 2013.”

Eric handed her a glass. “Were you?”

“He was an intern.”

Eric laughed and pulled her into a hug. She let herself sink against him for a second — just a second — before pulling back and glancing around the loft.

It smelled like her favorite candle. A jazz playlist was humming through the speakers. There were fresh flowers on the counter.

And there, on the dining table, was a box. Slim, rectangular, navy and gold. It looked expensive just sitting there.

Tina’s steps slowed. “Eric…”

He lifted both hands in surrender, his grin easy. “I didn’t go crazy.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the box. “What is it?”

“A pen,” he said, sounding almost boyish. “Vintage Montblanc. Mid-century. You said you like writing things down longhand.”

Her throat tightened. She reached out and lifted the lid carefully. Inside, the pen gleamed under the overhead light—sleek, impossibly polished, as if it had never been touched.

Slowly, she ran her fingertips along the gold clip. It was heavier than she expected. Solid. Permanent.

“I mentioned that once,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter. “In passing.”

“I remember the things that matter,” he replied, gentle but certain.

Her eyes lifted to his. He was watching her with that unguarded fondness she’d first fallen for. The kind that never seemed to flicker, no matter how much she pulled back.

She felt something in her chest twist, an ache she couldn’t name.

She tried to smile. “You’re impossible.”

Eric stepped closer, resting his hand lightly over hers where it hovered on the box. His thumb brushed her knuckles. “I’m thoughtful.”

She looked down, then up again, searching his face for something she couldn’t quite find.

“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered.

His smile softened. “And you love me.”

Her breath snagged, her heart thudding in that hollow, uncertain way it always did in moments like this.

She let out a quiet laugh that sounded almost like a sigh. “Yeah,” she said, nodding because he needed her to. “I do.”

But even as she closed the box, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he’d always be more certain than she was.

He kissed her forehead, then turned back to the stove. “Dinner’s almost done. I got that roasted squash risotto you like.”

Tina leaned against the counter, glass in hand, watching him.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, “but sometimes it’s like you’re trying to make my life perfect before I even know what I want.”

Eric didn’t look up from the pan. “Is that bad?”

“No,” she said slowly. “It’s just… I think I’m still figuring some of it out.”

“You should. You’re allowed to.”

He turned off the burner and looked at her, serious now.

“Tina, you’re one of the smartest people I know. If you want to write, direct, launch a documentary branch of the studio — hell, if you want to run away and open a bookstore in Lisbon — I’d support it.”

She blinked. “Lisbon?”

He shrugged. “You’re always reading novels where someone finds themselves in Europe. I get the hint.”

She laughed. “That’s fiction.”

Eric stepped closer. “You don’t need to have it all mapped out. You’re allowed to want more. Just let me be part of it.”

She softened, then. This was why she had fallen for him in the first place — this unwavering belief in her. The easy way he made space, handed her permission when she forgot she had it already.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“Besides,” he added, smirking, “if you ever do open that bookstore, I want a discount.”

Tina rolled her eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

But her smile was real.

They ate on the balcony, wrapped in blankets, legs tangled. The city buzzed quietly below them. She told him about a new idea she had for a indie short series — women in the center. He said it sounded brilliant. Told her she should pitch it. That he’d help her find the right partners.

And then, halfway through her second glass of wine, his phone rang with a sharp, familiar trill that sliced clean through the soft hum of their evening. She didn’t even have to glance at the screen; the tone alone told her everything. It was that distinct ringtone he’d chosen just for his father — deeper, more formal somehow, as if even his phone recognized the weight of family expectation.
Tina felt her breath catch, the warmth of the wine faltering on her tongue.

She set her glass down gently, already knowing what would follow, the small shift in his shoulders, the apology in his eyes before he even spoke, the quiet pivot of attention away from her and back to duty — to the life she had agreed to be part of, yet never fully fit inside.

Eric glanced at the screen. “It’ll just be a minute.”

Tina looked at her plate. “Sure.”

He stepped inside, voice low, already pacing. Already switched on.

The blanket slipped off her shoulder, but she didn’t fix it. Just sat there, letting the breeze chill her arms.

He kissed the top of her head as he came back into the room, the scent of his cologne mixed faintly with outside air. Unaware — or pretending not to know — that his absence had stretched to twenty minutes, not just a quick call.

That she’d watched the numbers on the microwave clock slip by: 8:13, 8:17, 8:24. That she’d lifted her glass and set it down again, the wine warming untouched in her hand.

And she’d wondered not for the first time — if this was how it would always be, the pause in laughter, the slight dimming of her own thoughts, the small spaces between them that he didn’t even feel. Little moments, quietly interrupted by something larger, older, and unspoken.

She loved him, she did. The ease, the steadiness, the way he made the ordinary days feel gently held rather than urgent.
But love, she realized, didn’t stop her from noticing the quiet ache of waiting.

She told herself, gently, that these were small things. That the beautiful parts were real enough to carry them.
And maybe they were. Because it was easier, in that quiet, to hold onto what was right in front of her, rather than name the thing she was afraid to look at too closely.

For now, it was enough.

After dinner, they lingered a while — plates pushed to the side, Tina curled sideways on the couch, her feet tucked under her. Eric talked about an upcoming project at work, something about projections and timelines. She listened, or tried to. But her attention kept slipping — to the way the condensation rolled down her water glass, to the hum of the AC, to the small chip on Eric’s coffee table she’d never noticed before.

A few hours in, Eric checked his watch. His face softened with quiet apology. “I’m sorry, Honey — I need to head back to the office. Just for a bit,” he said, already reaching for his phone.

Tina shook her head, a practiced smile ready. “It’s okay. I should head home anyway. I will just take a cab. I might try to catch a thought before it slips.”

He kissed her on the cheek, distracted, half-typing a message. “Text me when you get back?”

“I will,” she promised, grabbing her bag.

Outside, the evening air felt softer, cooler than she expected. The city smelled faintly of asphalt and night flowers. When she got home, she dropped her keys in the bowl by the door, kicked off her shoes, and sat at the edge of her bed for a long minute. The apartment felt like it always did at night, a part shelter, part echo chamber.

She told herself it was a good thing — the quiet. Space to think.

She pulled out her notebook, sat at the small table near the window, and tried to catch the thread of something that had been tugging at her all day. A word, a scene, anything that felt honest.

Then her phone lit up on the table - Miriam.

Bette in her house alone. The call came just after 5 p.m. Bette had just poured herself a drink—just one, she told herself—when her phone lit up with Miriam. She let it ring once. Twice. Then she answered.

“Hello?” Bette said.

“Hi, Bette. Just wanted to let you know… we got her. I was in a call with her the whole day.”
 

A silence stretched between them.
 

Miriam filled it. “So are we doing this or not?”
 

Bette’s heart thudded once, then again—harder. She stepped toward the kitchen counter without answering, bracing a hand there like the granite might ground her.
 

“She’s flying in the next two weeks,” Miriam continued, a little breathless, like even she couldn’t believe she was saying it. “We’re still sorting her contract. She asked for some revisions, of course. Smart ones. But she’s in. She said yes.”
 

Bette stared at the wall. She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then finally—“Okay.”
 

“Okay?” asked Miriam.
 

“Yes,” Bette said again. “We’re doing this.”
 

Miriam laughed. “Good. I’ll loop you in with details and when the schedule’s finalized.”
 

“Thank you.” Bette said without a smile on her face.
 

“No need to thank me. You lit the match, Bette. She just walked back toward the fire.”
 

The line went dead.

10 years and 4 months ago.

The studio meeting room was tucked in the far end of the production lot—glass-walled, overly air-conditioned, and flooded with the kind of fluorescent light that made everything feel like it mattered too much. The table was a stretch of gleaming mahogany, polished to a near mirror shine, like it had never seen conflict. Like it didn’t know what it was about to hold.

Tina was already seated when Bette entered.

She wore black slacks and a white shirt so crisp it looked starched by nerves alone. Her sleeves were rolled once, deliberately. Her hair was pulled back into something loose but intentional, a pen tucked behind her ear as if it belonged there more than her thoughts did. One legal pad sat open in front of her, lines half-filled. A takeaway coffee beside it. No phone. No laptop. No armor—except the posture. Except her face.

Bette paused just inside the doorway, long enough for Tina to feel it, though neither acknowledged it aloud. Her stillness lasted maybe two seconds too long before she moved forward with practiced poise, that trademark glide she'd perfected for decades being composed, efficient, unreadable—unless you knew where to look.

Miriam stood when Bette entered, extending a hand with executive warmth and polished detachment. “Good to see you Bette. Glad I have you both today. I figured we’d run through some initial beats today—calibrate tone, outline timelines, and start carving out the series skeleton.”

Bette nodded once. “Sounds good. Let's get to it.”

Tina’s “Sure” came quickly, like she wanted to beat something else to the surface.

The first ten minutes were textbook. Structure. Concept. Cities. Curators. Bette’s voice was even, her suggestions sharp. Tina mirrored her—measured, composed, but fully there. She proposed two artists. Bette offered a third without pause. Their rhythm clicked in subtly, not forced, just familiar. Like muscle memory between strangers who used to be something else.

Then Miriam’s phone buzzed against the table like a bullet casing. She glanced at it, muttered “Shit,” and stood.

“Berlin,” she said, almost apologetic. “Give me five.”

The conference room door shut behind them with a dull click, and it was like the air itself thickened.

Tina shifted back slightly in her chair, the leather sighing beneath her. She brought a knuckle under her chin, as if thinking, but mostly it gave her something to hold.

“You could’ve done this without me,” she said finally, her voice tight but even.

Bette didn’t pretend to misunderstand. Her eyes lifted slowly from the contract she’d been skimming, meeting Tina’s gaze with a steadiness that felt almost punishing.

“You didn’t have to ask for me,” Tina continued, eyes not on her. “You could’ve made it work alone.”

“I didn’t want to,” Bette answered, simple as that.

Tina huffed a breath—almost a laugh, but not amused. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth and closed her eyes for a second, willing her pulse to settle.

“You didn’t have to pull me back into this,” she said. “You knew it would get messy.”

Bette sat back in her chair, crossing her arms loosely over her chest—like she was holding herself in place. “You pitched the story. You built half the vision board before you left. This project started with you. It should end with you.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

A beat. Neither of them moved.

Bette’s jaw flexed, the only sign she wasn’t as composed as she looked. “I wanted you here.”

Tina felt her throat go tight. “That’s not—” She broke off, forced herself to look away, out the glass walls at the hall. “That’s not a reason that makes this okay.”

“I don’t care if it’s okay,” Bette said quietly. 

Tina looked back at her—really looked—and felt the old ache bloom in her ribs. “God,” she whispered, her voice gone raw, “you make everything so hard.”

Bette’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “And you don’t?”

That startled a tiny laugh out of her, but it died as soon as it left her lips. She shook her head. “I didn’t think I’d be here again. With you. Not this soon.”

“You’re here, and you couldn’t even say hi,” Bette said, her voice quiet but weighted.

Tina swallowed. Her palms felt damp. She laid them flat against the table, as though grounding herself to something real.

“I thought I could do it,” she said, her voice softer now. “I thought I could walk in here and just…be your colleague.”

“And you can’t?”

Tina’s eyes lifted to hers—shining, unsteady. “I don’t know.”

Neither did Bette. It was there in the way her gaze softened, in the way her shoulders dropped a fraction. In the way her hand twitched like she might reach across the polished table and touch her, just to prove she still could.

A silence settled over them, tight and glimmering with everything they didn’t say.

“Why did you really leave?” Bette asked finally, her voice low.

Tina drew a shaky breath. “Because I didn’t think I could separate it.”

“It?”

“This.” She gestured at the space between them, as though it was something she could carve out with her hands. “Us. Or… not-us. Whatever we were in that moment.”

Bette held her eyes. “It was more than a moment.”

Tina looked away. Down. At her hands—one of them still bore a faint tan line where a ring used to be. The shadow of a secret.

“I thought if I stayed in the project,” she said carefully, “I would’ve done what I always do. I’d blur it. I’d bend.”

“You didn’t,” Bette said. No judgment. Just fact.

Tina’s eyes flicked up. “No. I didn’t.” Her voice thinned a little. “You don’t know how hard that was for me.”

“I do,” Bette said. “You left and never called.”

Tina’s lips parted. Closed. “That was the dare.”

It landed hard in the room.

Bette nodded slightly, slow. “I didn’t call either.”

“Because you don’t chase,” Tina said, a trace of a smile flickering across her lips, almost ironic. “You told me that.”

“I did,” Bette said, just as softly. “It’s a skill I earned.”

Another silence. But it was different now. Less painful. More like a wound both had decided not to pick at—but couldn’t quite stop feeling under their skin.

Then Tina asked, voice low “Do you really think we can do this? Four months. Just work. Clean lines.”

“I think,” Bette said, leaning forward again, elbows braced on her knees, “we’re both very good at pretending we’re fine when we’re not.”

Tina laughed—small, sharp, resigned. “So we fake it.”

“No,” Bette said, firm now. “We name it. We draw the lines. And we redraw them, if we have to.”

Tina looked at her for a long time. And then, finally, she nodded. Not entirely yes. But not no.

The door opened again. Miriam swept back in like she hadn’t left the air buzzing behind her. “Okay—sorry. We’re good. Let’s jump back in.”

Bette straightened in her seat. Tina picked up her pen.

And just like that, the work began—on paper, anyway. But beneath the surface, something else had already started. Or restarted. A beat, barely audible. A thread, just waiting for tension.

The rental was beautiful in that curated, impersonal way—white walls, chrome fixtures, a too-soft couch meant for staged listings and temporary lives. Tina stood barefoot in the small kitchen, a mug of tea growing cold between her palms. It was her third cup. She hadn’t taken more than two sips from any of them.

Her laptop was open on the dining table, script notes glowing on the screen. Untouched. For an hour now, she’d stared at a blinking cursor, telling herself it was fatigue. But it wasn’t fatigue. It was L.A. It was her being here again. It was Bette—here, and so very real again. The air in the house was still. Her suitcase was half-unpacked on the edge of the bed. On the corner of the dresser sat a small velvet box. Closed. Clean. Undisturbed.

She hadn’t worn the ring today. Couldn’t.

Not the first time seeing Bette again—not after everything.

Her fingers curled around the mug more tightly. She knew what people said, you don’t say yes to a man if you’re still thinking about someone else. But she had. She had said yes to Eric. Sweet, steady Eric, who’d surprised her after dinner, two months ago with candlelight and that sheepish smile he got when he was nervous.

He had asked. She had paused. And then she had nodded. And cried, with a simple tear that sllipped down her cheek as he held her. If Eric had been paying better attention, he would’ve seen it for what it was.

Not a tear of joy but a leak in the dam.

She walked to the dresser now and sat down on the edge of the bed. The box stayed closed. She didn’t open it. She hadn’t since she packed it. Tina rested her elbows on her knees and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. She was back in L.A. again, back in the gravitational pull of something she had spent the last four months trying to logic herself out of. That quiet kind of haunting that didn’t rattle chains—but waited, patient and still, behind every detour of thought.

And it didn’t help that Bette looked—oh god. She looked incredible.

Not just physically—though yes, that too. The tailored blazer, the neat line of her hair tucked behind one ear, the way she sat with her hands folded in perfect composure while everyone else shuffled papers and checked their notes.

Tina had rehearsed this in her head, imagined something warmer. A hello that wouldn’t feel brittle, a way to step back into this room without feeling like she was unraveling. But the second she opened her mouth, everything came out all wrong—sharp-edged, defensive, like she was mad at Bette for pulling her back into this project when the truth was she’d said yes. She’d wanted to say yes.

And Bette—god. Bette just sat there, taking it in without flinching, her expression so infuriatingly steady. Like it was nothing. Like it was easy.

“You could have done this without me,” Tina had said, and it sounded so much harsher than she meant.

“I didn’t want to,” Bette replied, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

And somehow that—more than any argument, more than any old wound—was what left Tina sitting there in silence, heat rising behind her eyes. Because Bette could just say it. Because Bette could want something and not apologize for it. Because all the careful preparation Tina had done to be neutral, to be professional, was already crumbling, and Bette hadn’t even raised her voice.

God.

She questions herself again — what the hell is she even doing here.

Two weeks back,

Tina was in her apartment when the call came. Her phone buzzed quietly on the counter, buried under a script she’d half-read and a grocery list she’d never follow. She almost didn’t answer. The light had gone soft in the apartment, just enough to blur the lines of everything. She was in that kind of mood—the one where you linger too long in your own head and try not to scroll through old photos.

But it was Miriam’s name on the screen. So she picked up.

“Hey,” Tina said, tucking the phone between her shoulder and cheek, wiping her hands on a towel. “Is everything okay?”

There was a pause—too long to be just static.

Then Miriam, gently “Bette won’t do the project without you.”

Tina froze. 

She didn’t ask what project. She didn’t have to. She knew. The documentary. The one she had written the first pitch for in a fit of heartache and longing, then walked away from when it got too real.

Miriam continued, her voice a strange mix of firm and reverent. “She said if you’re not attached, she’s out. I told her I’d try to make it happen. So… Tina. I’m calling.”

Tina leaned against the edge of the counter. The towel slipped from her fingers and dropped to the floor.

It had been four months. Four months of not calling. Of not showing up. Of choosing Eric or or her own demons. Four months of convincing herself she had made the adult choice.

And now Bette—who hadn’t chased, who had let her go with dignity, with that impossibly tender note left behind—was asking for her. Not to talk. Not to fight. But to make something. Together.

Tina pressed the heel of her hand against her chest.

“Did she really say that?” she asked, softer than she meant.

“She did,” Miriam said. “And, Tina… she didn’t say it like it was leverage. She said it like a fact.”

Tina didn’t speak.

“She said,” Miriam added, “that you saw the thing clearly from the beginning. That it was your vision. And that she didn’t want to rewrite it without you.”

Tina closed her eyes.

There it was. The ache she had folded and packed away like summer clothes. Back again. Unmistakable. She thought of Bette in that gallery. Of her voice low and dry, of how she moved through space with such certainty—except, maybe, when it came to Tina. She thought of the mornings. The easy silence. The way Bette had looked at her like she wasn’t afraid of what Tina might do to her heart. She hadn’t expected this. Not from Bette. Not now.

But maybe, part of her had always hoped.

“Tina?” Miriam asked. “Do you want me to tell her no?”

Tina didn’t answer right away. She reached for the window, cracked it open. Let the city hum fill the space.

“No,” she said finally, her voice steady.

“I’ll do it.”

They drop the call only to resume the call in a conference call with other producers. Miriam moved fast probably before she can change her mind. A draft of the contract probably same as Bette's was sitting open on her laptop. Still unsigned. She’d gone through it line by line with Miriam—twice. Expectations, credits, timeline, creative control. All clear. All fair. The production team was thrilled. Legal was aligned. 

Tina was the one dragging. “I’ll fly in two weeks,” she told Miriam on their last call. “I need time to prep.”

What she didn’t say was... emotionally.

What she really didn’t say was, I need time to get a grip before I walk into a room with her again and pretend I’m fine.

Now, the apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Her glass of water had gone untouched. The cursor blinked beside the signature line. She stared at it like it had teeth.

“Shit,” she whispered into the silence, rubbing her forehead with both hands. “Shit, shit, shit.”

This—this—wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

She’d pitched the project seven months ago, on a hunch and a high from a single conversation with a woman she didn’t even know the name of at the time. A woman with fire in her eyes and something magnetic in her restraint. It was supposed to be a professional curiosity. A gallery owner with a sharp mind and sharper taste. A woman worth profiling.

She didn’t know, then, what the story would become. How it would root itself in her ribs. It started with a question, Where are the women who shaped art but were never written into the canon? But somewhere along the way, the real question became, Who is Bette Porter when no one’s watching?

Tina had worked on the pitch quietly, privately, almost obsessively. Every word crafted with the precision of someone too afraid to call what she was doing personal. Because it wasn’t supposed to be. It wasn’t.

Then she’d left it behind.

Passed on it.

Because she knew if she stayed, if she said yes, if she got too close again—she wouldn’t be able to stop. Not when she could already feel herself slipping. And she couldn’t risk spinning Bette into her orbit the way she had with others. She couldn’t be reckless with someone like her. Not when Bette had already been wrecked once before.

So she let it go.

Told herself the timing was wrong. That Bette’s gallery needed this more than she did. That Bette would thrive without her. That the clean cut was the kindest one.

But now—now—Bette had asked for her. Not out of nostalgia. Not for another moment in the quiet. But for the project. For the work. For the thing Tina started.

And it gutted her.

Because this—this was hers too. This story. This structure. This delicate balance of legacy and intimacy and art. She had been building it in her mind for months. Even after she walked away. And now she was being handed the chance to return to it. To return to her. A second chance wrapped in a professional context.

A universe with a sick sense of humor.

She closed the laptop. Walked to the window. It was raining lightly in New York, the kind that misted against glass and blurred everything. Her own reflection looked foreign in it. Softer. More afraid. "What am I doing?" she thought.

Two weeks.

She had two weeks to get ready. To put her professional mask back on. To convince herself she could stand in a room with Bette Porter and not feel everything she had buried start to breathe again. To remind herself that this was about work.

Not the way Bette looked at her in the mornings. Not the way she laughed without meaning to. Not the silence they once shared that said more than any word Tina had ever written.

“Shit,” she said again. And this time, it sounded almost like a prayer.

And now, in L.A...

the question still stands, "What am I doing?" She reached for the box in the dresser. The ring still sat inside, silent and polite and untouched. She hadn’t worn it since she got the call. 

When Tina told Eric she’d need to be in LA for work, he just smiled and said, “Work comes first, babe.”
Once, she would’ve welcomed how lightly he held her — how he never questioned, never demanded more than she offered.
But something in her chest caught, a restless, aching part of her that still wanted to feel claimed without being caged, seen without having to ask — the part that wanted to run free yet still be known.

Eric had always been kind, patient in the way that felt almost too easy. And when she began to drift — not leaving, just loosening her grip — he didn’t press. Didn’t demand. Sometimes she wondered if that gentleness was part of the problem, that by never asking, never pushing, he left space for the part of her she tried hardest to quiet. The part that still wanted. The part that still ran. And maybe, without meaning to, Eric kept that part alive — feeding the hunger she couldn’t name, and wouldn’t claim.

Tina exhaled slowly.

Julia’s apartment had always felt like sanctuary—soft corners, open space, a kind of stillness Bette had come to appreciate in a life where she was usually the one holding everything upright. The record player was humming some muted jazz, a low thrum like breathwork in the background.

Dinner had been good. Easy. Julia had made something roasted and beautiful, laid it on the table with mismatched plates and cloth napkins like it mattered. She always made things matter.

But Bette had barely tasted it. The meeting with Tina still sat in her mouth—words unspoken, lines redrawn, old instincts poking through the surface like weeds after rain. And underneath that was something else.

Bette couldn’t tell if she was mad at Tina. Maybe she was. She was the one who’d asked Miriam to bring Tina back—fought for it, even—and now, sitting across from her again, Bette didn’t know what to feel. Four months had stretched out between them like an ocean; she wasn’t sure if she wanted to swim back across it… or let the tide carry her further away.

Now, the plates were cleared, the lights dimmed. Julia moved through the apartment with bare feet and tucked hair, refilling wine glasses, saying something about a friend’s art opening next week. Bette nodded, smiled when she should, but her thoughts kept slipping.

Tina had looked the same and different. Like something memory couldn’t fully hold. And when she’d said, “That was the dare,” it had rung somewhere deep in Bette’s chest, raw and unfinished.

A dare.

Bette stared out the window now, glass in hand, the wine untouched. From Julia’s eleventh floor, the city blurred in golden hush. Life kept moving, whether she wanted it to or not.

“You’ve been quiet,” Julia said gently behind her.

Bette turned, shook her head with a faint smile. “Just tired.”

Julia didn’t press. She never did. That was something Bette respected—this ability to let things breathe. Tina would’ve pressed. Tina would’ve found the sharp edge behind the silence and named it. Julia just waited, steady as ever.

They curled onto the couch. Julia tucked her legs beneath her, her hand brushing Bette’s knee. “I liked hearing about your new project,” she said.

“It’s… complicated.”

“I got that,” Julia said with a knowing grin. “But I also saw your eyes when you spoke about it. You still light up when something’s real to you. That’s not complicated. That’s beautiful.”

Bette looked at her—this woman who wasn’t asking her to bleed or break open, who offered warmth instead of fire, calm instead of collision. Julia was good. She was safety and rhythm. She was kindness without question. And maybe—maybe that was what Bette needed now.

But in her mind, she still saw the faint ring line on Tina’s finger. A mark that had outlasted the promise it held with someone. It felt like proof of how close they’d come… and how far apart they’d ended up.

And under it all, Bette still couldn’t decide what scared her more, closing that distance, or leaving it there to grow wider.

She pushed the thought away. She had to.

“Next weekend,” Bette said quietly. “Let’s take that trip. Just you and me.”

Julia looked surprised for a second—pleasantly. “Yeah?”

Bette nodded. “Yeah.”

Julia’s smile was warm and uncomplicated. She leaned in to kiss her. Bette let it happen, closed her eyes, kissed back.

But there it was again — that phantom ache. Not because Julia wasn’t enough; she was, in the gentle, steady ways Bette had always thought she needed.

But Tina had changed what intimacy meant—without even kissing her. In that restraint, Tina had forced Bette to look deeper, to feel something that went beyond skin, something that made it feel like their souls had moved together, quietly, deliberately.

And no matter how much Bette tried to forget, something in her still remembered the shape of that difference.
And she couldn’t quite decide if that memory felt like a gift… or a wound.

Tina had made a decision. She would not walk past the café where they first met. She could have. It was on the way. It made sense logistically. But her feet, traitorous and overly sentimental, knew the ache too well. That corner. That table. The memory of Bette turning toward her with a cautious kind of curiosity that made her chest tight just thinking about it.

No.

Today was about professionalism. Light meter tests. Location notes. Framing the gallery in ways the world hadn’t yet seen. Not… that.

So she deliberately took the longer route and found herself ducking into a quiet café on a side street she didn’t remember knowing. It had ivy on the awning and chalkboard menus that didn’t try too hard. She had just slipped inside, the bell above the door giving a soft jingle, when a voice rang out—sharp, bright, and unmistakably Alice.

“Tina fucking Kennard?!”

Tina froze for half a second—then turned, already grinning.

Alice was halfway out of her seat, arms flung open like it hadn’t been four months but four minutes. They hugged like old friends—tight and fast and slightly off-balance.

“You’re in L.A.?” Alice asked as if that weren’t obvious.

“For the project,” Tina laughed. “We’re doing the gallery shoot today.”

Alice’s eyes widened theatrically. “You working with Bette? This city isn’t ready.”

“Don’t,” Tina warned with a smile, but Alice had already grabbed her hand and steered her toward a small table near the window.

“Come on. Five minutes. Sit. Coffee. You owe me a catch-up.”

They ordered—Alice got something foamy and complicated, Tina stuck to a cold brew—and settled into chairs that wobbled slightly on uneven tile.

“How are you?” Alice asked with surprising gentleness once the initial buzz had settled.

Tina nodded. “Busy. Good. Tired.”

“Still with…” Alice gestured toward Tina’s hand, where the ring—despite Tina’s attempt to keep it discreet—gleamed dully under the café lights.

Tina hesitated, then answered with a soft “Yeah.”

Alice blew out a breath. “Wow. I mean, I saw it, but still. Does Bette know?”

“She will,” Tina said simply. “Eventually.”

They both fell quiet for a moment. The hum of the espresso machine, the clink of ceramic, the buzz of people who didn’t know the weight of what passed between them.

Alice leaned in slightly, voice lower. “Was it because of what I told you? About Lauren? Is that why you left her with a goddamn dare?”

Tina blinked, startled. “What?”

Alice frowned, still indignant. “When I told you about Lauren and how she wrecked Bette. You looked like I’d handed you a bomb. And then—poof. Exit stage left.”

Tina shook her head. “It wasn’t just that. I mean—it made me think, sure. But it was more…”

She trailed off. Swallowed.

“I realized my own demons,” she said eventually. “And I didn’t want to do that to her.”

Alice studied her. Her usual spark was still there, but behind it—something sharper. Sadder.

“Well,” she said at last, “at least you didn’t summon your own ex into a gallery like it was a scene from The Omen. Jesus, when Lauren showed up that day. I imagined Bette must have looked like someone who dug up a ghost and handed her a match. Also, what a perfect timing that you were there to witness it.”

Tina winced. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m always helping,” Alice said with a grin. Then, softer, “She’s okay, you know. Bette.”

Tina glanced out the window.

“Is she happy?”

Alice considered the question carefully. “Yeah. I think so. You know Bette. Resilient as hell. Rises like a phoenix every time someone tries to bury her in ash.”

Tina nodded. Tried to swallow that, too.

Alice leaned back, her cup nearly empty. “We should get together soon. Grab lunch or something. No drama. No meddling. Unless you need it—then I can absolutely meddle.”

Tina laughed despite herself. “Thanks.”

“And seriously,” Alice added, standing, “if this thing between you and Bette is gonna be… professional, just know we can do that. Shane and I. We’re flexible. We’re classy.”

“You’re many things, Alice.”

Alice smirked, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at Tina like she was a suspect in a true crime documentary. “Flexible’s on the list. Also—exceptional at detecting sexual tension.”

Tina laughed, shaking her head.

“No, really,” Alice pressed, grinning. “Did anything happen? In the pool? One of those nights you two had too much wine and forgot you were pretending to be normal?”

Tina’s smile turned sly. “You should ask Bette.”

“Oh, I did,” Alice said, scandalized. “She just gave me that look—you know, the ‘I will end you’ look—and said, ‘Nothing happened.’ Which means something happened.”

Tina laughed again, softer this time.

Alice crossed her arms, satisfied. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” she vowed. “I always do.”

Tina lifted her brows, amused. “You’re relentless.”

“I’m thorough,” Alice corrected primly. “And invested in the pursuit of truth—and gossip.”

Tina shook her head, warmth lingering in her eyes. “See you around.”

Alice gave her a quick side hug and disappeared into the sunshine.

Tina stayed behind a moment longer, her fingers curling around her now-warm cold brew. Outside, the world moved on. People passed. Tables turned over. But for a second, she let herself feel the weight of it. She was here again. And this time, she didn’t walk past the memory. She walked straight into it.

The gallery was already half-alive when Tina stepped inside.

The faint hum of cameras being calibrated, gaffers trailing cables along the edges of the floor, producers murmuring near the entry, testing light angles. It wasn’t chaotic, but purposeful—the kind of quiet that meant things were happening, gears turning, scenes about to be made real.

James spotted her before she had fully stepped into the space.

“Tina!” he called out, his face breaking into an easy grin — the kind that only comes from familiarity and quiet respect.

She felt her own smile spread, softer and more real than she expected. “James! Hi. It’s really good to see you.”

“Welcome back,” he said, and there was something in his tone — gentle, sincere — that made her chest tighten for a second.

“Thank you,” Tina replied, her voice warm, almost relieved. “You look well.”

They shared a brief moment — something simple and human that steadied her. And before she could ask where Bette was, her eyes found the answer on their own.

Bette stood by the far wing, near the center installation—already in conversation. Confident, poised, head tilted slightly toward a tall woman with glossy black hair, tailored trousers, and a perfect, practiced elegance. The woman leaned in to whisper something, and Bette smiled—small, familiar. The kind of smile Tina hadn’t seen in months, and yet recognized instantly.

Her pulse tripped. Then steadied.

They began walking toward her—Bette and the woman, side by side. The woman’s hand lightly found Bette’s. And just like that, the air shifted.

Tina straightened her shoulders.

Bette’s eyes found hers finally, and for a flicker—just a flicker—her expression softened. A muscle in her jaw ticked, so slightly it could’ve been nothing. She was still Bette, elegant, grounded, unreadable if she wanted to be. And now, apparently, accompanied.

When they reached her, Bette stopped with practiced ease.

“Tina,” she said calmly. “This is Julia Russel. Julia, this is Tina Kennard.”

Julia smiled, hand outstretched. “So nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much.”

Tina took the hand, her own smile measured. “Likewise.”

Bette’s eyes dipped, and Tina followed them—realizing only then that her left hand, out of habit, had shifted forward.

The ring caught the light.

A small glint.

Bette didn’t flinch. Didn’t comment. Didn’t blink.

But Tina noticed the stillness. How her hand briefly folded over the other. A gesture of restraint.

“I bumped into Alice on my way here,” Tina offered casually, her voice as smooth as she could manage — though she felt the faintest tremor beneath it.

Bette glanced at Julia, then back to Tina, something flickering across her face. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Tina added, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “She says hello.”

Julia’s brows lifted, curiosity soft but immediate. “You know Alice?” Then she looked at Bette, her tone light but unmistakably curious. “She met Alice?”

Bette hesitated — just for a breath — before nodding. “She’s… memorable,” she said, the words clipped but not unkind.

There was something else behind Julia’s look, a silent 'How'? that hung in the air. It dawned on Tina, in that pause, that Bette had probably only ever mentioned her in the safest way possible as someone whose work mattered. Nothing from seven months ago. Nothing about why they were both here now.

And maybe sensing the question tightening around them, Bette shifted — that familiar efficiency stepping in like armor. She turned to Tina, her tone brisk but professional. “Should we get started?”

Tina nodded, heart still catching up. Julia watched them both for a second longer than was comfortable — then, graciously, let it go.

Before either of them could say more, a young crew member waved Tina over, clipboard in hand. “Tina! Hey, great to see you again. From the New York shoot, right? Small world.”

Tina smiled, grateful for the distraction. “Yeah, I remember.”

The crew member leaned in with a grin. “Congrats, by the way—I heard you got engaged?”

Tina froze. Only slightly. “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

Her eyes instinctively flicked to Bette. She wasn’t looking directly at her, but her profile had gone still. Something imperceptible tightening at the corners of her eyes.

Julia leaned in to ask a question about the lighting rig, and Bette responded coolly.

It wasn’t until later—maybe an hour in—when the production had thinned out and the two of them were spread across the main floor, pointing out angles and lines for the test shots, that Bette finally brought it up. They were standing side by side, facing the back of the gallery. A quiet moment between shifts.

“So,” Bette said softly, “congratulations.”

Tina didn’t turn to her, but her throat tightened.

“Thanks,” she replied, just as quiet.

There was a pause, heavy enough to press between them. Then—

“I didn’t know,” Bette added, her voice neutral.

Tina glanced at her then, eyes searching.

“I didn’t… want to wear it the first time I saw you,” she said.

Bette’s gaze flicked to the ring now sitting visibly on Tina’s hand, and then back to her face. Her smile was small. Contained.

“Well,” Bette said, “guess it found its way on.”

Tina gave a soft laugh—too soft to be mistaken for amusement. “Yeah.”

They stood there like that for another beat—two people in the space they once didn’t know how to leave, now pretending to fit inside something narrower. Smaller. More professional.

From somewhere near the front, a voice called for Bette. Julia. Bette didn’t move right away. She looked at Tina again, and for a second, she wasn’t composed or unreadable. Just present.

“You look well,” she said finally.

“So do you,” Tina replied, meaning it. And not.

Then the spell broke.

Bette stepped away, back into the orbit of her day, the project, the woman waiting on the other side of the room. And Tina was left standing in the gallery they once promised would be nothing more than work. Her heart ached in the quiet, the way it always did when she realized sometimes, the greatest distance wasn’t space.

It was timing or poor choices.

The second week of filming was supposed to be the hardest, stacked schedules, rotating crews, and a few too many variables even for seasoned producers to juggle.
Lighting rigs had to be swapped last minute, one interview subject rescheduled twice, and someone’s assistant accidentally double-booked the gallery’s east wing for a donor walk-through.

But somehow, it still ran smoother than anyone expected.

Because of them.

Bette and Tina didn’t move like they have never worked with each other —they moved like a practiced call and response. Tina caught things before they slipped; Bette pushed where vision demanded it. Arguments rose, softened, and resolved before the rest of the crew had time to notice.

In the west wing, they were standing over the monitor again. The late morning light streamed in, cold and perfect. Tina traced a finger along the playback screen.
“If we slide the camera left another meter, we can bring the Calder mobile into the shot,” she suggested. “It’ll anchor the negative space.”

Bette folded her arms, head tilted. “And unbalance the sightline to the Rothko?”

“We counter it with the stand light.” Tina didn’t look at her when she added, softer, “Trust me.”

And Bette did. Not blindly—but thoughtfully. The kind of trust you build bone by bone.

Tina had been quieter that week. Professional, yes—always—but measured, like she was setting soft boundaries neither of them had drawn on paper. She didn’t linger after wrap, didn’t meet Bette’s eyes too long when laughter from the crew faded into silence.

Bette noticed.

So when they crossed paths by the catering table—Tina’s head bent over a schedule on her phone—Bette paused. Slowly, deliberately, she peeled a mandarin, careful not to tear the skin, until she held up a perfect crescent.

“You want it?” Bette asked, voice low, almost teasing.

Tina looked up, startled for half a breath. Their eyes met. Something unspoken hovered between them.

“I thought you prefer using a knife?,” Tina said lightly, but her voice had a softness under it. “I make exceptions,” Bette replied. Her hand stayed out, patient, palm open.

Tina hesitated. Just a second. Then took it, her fingers brushing Bette’s. “Thanks,” she murmured, almost too quiet to hear.

Bette watched her chew, watched her smile—small, instinctive—and something in Bette’s chest unclenched, just for a moment. A way back in, or at least a reminder of how easy it used to be to exist in the same space without strategy.

The calm cracked wide mid-week. Tina was halfway down the corridor when she saw James pacing, clipboard in hand, face pale. Two crew members stormed out of Bette’s office—one shaking his head, the other muttering under his breath.

James met Tina’s eyes. His look said everything. It’s bad.

Tina crossed the hall, knocked lightly on the glass.

“Hey,” she said softly, stepping in.

Bette stood behind her desk, breathing sharp and shallow, papers scattered around her. Her eyes were darker, jaw locked so tight it looked painful. “James fucked the schedule,” she snapped, voice brittle as glass. “Donor walkthrough and lighting test stacked at the same fucking time. And the donors won’t wait—of course they fucking won’t.”

She ran a hand through her hair, frustration crackling off her in waves. “Fuck!” Bette hissed, the word ripped out, raw and unfiltered. Her hand slammed against the desk—just once, loud enough to make the pens rattle.

For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.

Tina stepped closer, voice steady even though her own pulse kicked up. “Okay,” she said, quietly but firm. “Okay. We’ll pivot. Move the interview forward, let the crew get B-roll in the sculpture garden until the donors clear. Then reset.”

Bette didn’t move, shoulders still coiled tight, eyes burning with leftover fury.

“Bette,” Tina said again, softer. “Look at me.”

Bette’s gaze lifted, caught—and in that small space between them, something shifted. Tina didn’t touch her. Didn’t have to. The calm in her voice did enough.

“Go. Step outside. Let them reset,” Tina urged, her tone gentle but resolute. “Just breathe.”

For a second, Bette’s mouth twitched like she might argue. Then, shoulders dropped—not completely, but enough. She exhaled, the anger leaving her body like steam.
“Fuck,” she muttered again, quieter this time, almost under her breath.

Tina turned to James outside, voice low and sure. “We’re moving the crew to the sculpture garden. Reset the lights there. Tell the donors we’ll join them in twenty.”

James nodded, relief breaking over his features.

When Tina returned, Bette had moved behind the desk, hand braced against herself, breathing slower.

Tina stepped closer and laid both hands gently on Bette’s shoulders, her touch soft but grounding. Bette kept her gaze down, lashes low, the tension still visible along her jaw.

Tina tilted her head, trying to catch Bette’s eyes—gentle, patient, not pushing but asking. When Bette finally lifted her gaze, it landed on Tina’s face, and for a brief, unguarded moment, something tender passed between them.

“Thanks,” Bette murmured, voice hoarse around the edge.

“It’s nothing,” Tina replied, soft but certain. “We’ve both seen worse.”

Bette looked at her, something unspoken in her gaze. “Not from me,” she confessed, barely above a whisper.

Tina met her eyes. “Everyone cracks. What matters is what you do next.”

Together, they stepped out to the hall. Bette’s walk still carried tension, but it was contained now—like a fuse finally put out before it could burn too far.
By the time they rejoined the crew, Bette’s voice was clear, clipped, back in control.

The set kept moving forward—not because it was perfect, but because they had each other. And even if no one else could see it, Tina was still, quietly, the only one who could pull Bette back from the edge when it really counted.

That Friday, the crew wrapped early. Miriam, clipboard in hand and half a smile cracking through her usually iron-starched composure, announced, “Shockingly, we’re ahead of schedule. Go home. Or don’t. Just… stop costing me overtime.”

By late afternoon, the gallery’s cavernous halls had thinned out. Lights powered down in sections. Someone rolled a dolly across the marble, the echo ringing sharp and brief before it faded into quiet.

Then Alice and Shane walked in—unannounced, unhurried, and carrying takeout bags like two saints delivering salvation.

“Art kids need carbs,” Alice declared. She was juggling three stacked takeout boxes, and Shane carried a bottle of wine by the neck, casual as ever.

“Pantry takeover,” Alice announced to no one in particular. “This set has craft services, right?”

They made their way to the small pantry by the gallery’s back offices—a narrow space with a scratched table, two mismatched stools, and a window that caught the late sun just right. Alice cleared space for the boxes, Shane unscrewed the wine cap, and Tina, who’d been finishing notes by the monitor, drifted over almost instinctively.

Shane greeted her first, pulling her in for a quick, loose hug. “Hey, Tina. You look good in producer mode.”

“Speak for yourself,” Tina teased, smiling, but something softer, almost relieved, settled behind her eyes.

Then Alice, half-laughing, half-out-of-breath from carrying everything, threw an arm around Tina’s shoulder. “We brought lunch. Well, dinner. Whatever. You looked like you needed it.”

Tina laughed. “I probably do.”

It was a small moment—familiar, easy—and for a beat, she let it feel like home.

That’s when the door opened again. Julia stepped in, a little windblown from the outside heat, cheeks flushed. She clocked the scene immediately, Alice spreading napkins, Shane pouring wine into paper cups, Tina close enough to be part of it all.

Julia crossed to Bette, who’d just set her clipboard down on the counter. “Hi,” she said, a gentle warmth in her voice. She pressed a brief kiss to Bette’s cheek, lingering just enough to feel the soft brush of Bette’s hair against her face.

Alice and Shane exchanged a glance, eyebrows raised, then flicked their eyes to Tina.

Tina caught the look. For half a breath, she didn’t know what to do with it—so she tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and busied herself opening a box of noodles.

Bette cleared her throat, her voice shifting slightly—something more formal, a touch protective. “Julia, this is Alice... and Shane,” she said, gesturing with an open hand. “They’ve both been in my life forever, basically.”

Alice gave Julia a bright, almost mischievous smile. “Finally,” she teased. “We’ve heard about you.”

Shane, quieter but no less genuine, offered a small nod. “Good to meet you.”

Julia’s answering smile was gracious, almost graceful. “Likewise. Thanks for rescuing them with food,” she said, a soft laugh that smoothed the tension for a moment.

Bette reached for a takeout box, the air around her a shade lighter, but her gaze kept flicking—once, twice—to where Tina stood by the counter, her head bowed slightly as she untangled a knot in the plastic cutlery.

Tina felt it, too. That heat at the base of her neck. She lifted her eyes, just enough to catch Bette looking.

Then Alice, as always, rescued the silence before it could turn into something sharp. “Alright,” she declared, peeling open the lids. “Somebody please tell me we have forks, because I am not eating pad thai with my fingers in front of Bette’s very cultured girlfriend.”

Julia laughed, genuinely, and reached into a drawer for the cutlery. “Crisis averted,” she said.

They gathered around the small pantry table, elbows bumping, plastic forks tapping against mismatched bowls of takeout. The gallery had mostly emptied for the weekend; the hum of the overhead lights was softer now, almost companionable. Outside, the late sun dropped behind the buildings, shadows stretching long across the polished floor.

Alice tore open a box of spring rolls like it owed her rent. “Okay,” she declared, mouth already half-full, “everyone has to share the weirdest thing they Googled this month. Go.”

Tina hesitated, her wine glass halfway to her lips. “Mine was… ‘do birds have knees.’”

Julia leaned in, genuinely amused. “Wait—do they?”

“They do!” Tina said, laughter slipping out around the words, a little breathless, a little surprised by her own comfort here.

Alice whooped. “Tina, please, marry me or Shane. I don’t care which.”

Bette’s gaze flicked across the table—just for a second, but enough that Tina felt it. The corner of Tina’s mouth curved, and she nudged Alice’s arm. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Alice slurred slightly, tipsy warmth softening the usual teasing edge. “You’re too cute when you’re nerdy. Just stay in L.A. permanently, okay?”

Tina didn’t answer right away. Her eyes fell to the table, tracing the ring of condensation her glass had left on the wood.

Julia watched this little exchange, brows knitting, curiosity surfacing. “So… how long have you all known each other?” she asked, trying for lightness but landing closer to something genuine.

There was the briefest pause. Shane reached for another dumpling, and Alice looked down at her chopsticks. It was Bette who spoke—steady, practiced. “Well, as you know, Alice and Shane have been stuck to my hip forever. And Tina… we crossed paths a few months back on a project before this one.”

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the full story, either. Not the nights Tina stayed at Bette’s house, wandering quiet halls. Not the mornings with coffee and careful silences.

“Oh,” Julia said, nodding. “I didn’t realize it went back that far.”

Shane chimed in, her grin easy. “We tend to adopt people fast. Especially if they survive Alice.”

“Hey! and Bette...” Alice protested, smacking Shane’s arm lightly.

Tina glanced at Bette, and for half a breath they looked at each other like they were remembering the same untold thing. Bette’s expression softened—something like apology, or longing, or both—before she turned away, picking at the corner of her napkin.

Julia caught that look, too. Her smile flickered, just slightly, before she swallowed it down, returning to the group’s rhythm.

The conversation moved on, Shane’s disastrous attempt to build IKEA furniture, Alice’s rant about a podcast she hated, laughter rising and falling like tide. But underneath the warmth, the air felt gently charged—threads of what wasn’t said humming just beneath what was.

And as they packed up the empty cartons and wiped down the table, Tina felt it, the strange comfort of being part of something old and new at once. A closeness that hadn’t asked to return—but had, quietly, undeniably, found its way back in.

They were headed to Ojai. The crew had chosen it after weeks of location scouts, an open-air studio perched on a terraced hillside, with sun-bleached decking, sprawling olive trees, and a view that felt stolen from a postcard. Afternoon light there turned everything honey-gold. The artist’s dog, Orzo—a barrel-chested mutt with crooked ears—had already developed a reputation for barking at boom mics and camera tripods, but ignoring humans completely.

It was perfect. A logistical headache, but perfect. Far enough to require half a day of loading trucks and packing backup batteries. Close enough that Miriam could still promise the execs it was “just outside the city.”

Tina hadn’t planned to go.

“I don’t have to be there,” she’d said flatly, skimming the call sheet. “You’ve got it covered.”

But Bette, standing in her office doorway with sunglasses perched on her head and a coffee she hadn’t even sipped yet, just grinned. “Come on. Let’s make it a road trip.”

Tina raised a brow. “Bette. We’re not good at road trips.”

“Oh, come on—”

“You take detours.” Tina said. 

“I live detours.”

“That’s the problem!” Tina opened her mouth to argue—then sighed, already feeling herself slipping toward yes. “Bette…”

“We’ll be back by sundown,” Bette promised, that grin just a little too triumphant.

Sunday morning, Bette swung by to pick her up—but she wasn’t alone. Shane was in the back seat, legs folded up, sunglasses on, looking like she’d been up all night but didn’t regret it.

“You kidnapped her?” Tina asked, sliding into the front seat, tote bag dropping to her feet.

“Technically, yes,” Shane deadpanned. “She bribed me with coffee.”

Bette just gave Tina a look that landed somewhere between apology and delight. “She was free. And she’s good company.”

Tina hesitated, hand on her seatbelt like she could still get out—but then Bette pulled into traffic, sealing the decision Tina hadn’t quite made.

The drive began with small talk. Shane complaining about Bette’s taste in playlists, Tina teasing Bette for always picking the canyon roads that wound longer but looked better.

“Do you do this every single time?” Tina murmured, elbow on the door. “You’d rather add twenty minutes just for the view.”

“And you wouldn’t?” Bette shot back, glancing over.

Tina bit her lip, relenting. “Fair.”

From the back, Shane let out a low laugh. “God, it’s like you two have been married for twenty years.”

Tina rolled her eyes. Bette’s mouth twitched, despite herself.

By the time they pulled into the hillside studio just after noon, the light had gone soft and gold, catching on the edge of the rough stone walls. The artist—a sixty-something woman in an apron dusted with clay and charcoal—greeted them at the gate, gesturing them around back where the real magic happened.

The crew had already started unloading the softboxes, sandbags, extension cords curling across the stone patio. Someone wrangled Orzo, the artist’s overexcited sheepdog, who barked ferociously at the tripods but sniffed everyone’s hands like old friends.

Tina dropped her tote on a folding chair, pulling out her notes, scanning the shot list. “Let’s pivot the interview setup,” she suggested to one of the camera operators, pointing at a spot where the light hit the raw plaster wall just right. “North light’s better here, see?”

Bette, a few feet away, stood with her arms folded, half-listening, half-scouting. Her gaze kept drifting to a massive half-finished sculpture by the window. “Can we keep that in the frame?” she asked, voice low but certain.

The crew adjusted. Someone moved a softbox; someone else clipped a black flag to cut glare.

Shane, meanwhile, leaned against a stone pillar, sipping coffee and occasionally offering to hold cables out of the way. “I’m basically moral support,” she quipped when the artist asked if she was part of the crew.

Tina caught Bette’s eye once across the set—just a flicker of shared recognition that despite everything, despite Sunday and history and hesitation, this was indeed awesome.

And slowly, the space transformed into what had been a quiet, sunlit studio became a live, humming set. Light stands tucked behind kilns, camera dolly tracks laid carefully between drying clay works, and the dog eventually settled, head on paws, as if even he understood the moment had arrived.

Bette stepped closer to Tina, speaking low enough only she could hear. “You glad you came?”

Tina didn’t answer at first—just glanced at the view behind them, the valley opening out in soft gold.

Then, softer still “Yeah. I am.”

And with that, the crew rolled the first take.

Later that afternoon, while the sun was sliding lower behind the hills, Bette handed Tina a lemonade and sat beside her under the canopy.

Tina looked at Bette, hesitated, then let the words slip out—quiet, almost breathless. “You look beautiful out here,” she said. “The way your hair catches the light… your eyes, too. You look like you belong in it.”

Bette gave her a mock glare, shaking her head slowly. 

“You still don’t know how dangerous it is to say stuff like that, do you? I might just start expecting compliments every five minutes.”

Tina laughed out loud, the sound bright and easy, filling the space between them.

“So,” Bette said, glancing down at Tina’s left hand. “The proposal.”

Tina blinked, looked at her ring. “Oh. Right.”

Bette reached over, gently held Tina’s hand, turned it slightly in the light. “It’s beautiful.”

Tina made a face. “A little tight.”

“You didn’t get it resized?”

“I’m afraid if I take it off, I’ll lose it. Or forget to put it back on. And then people will assume I’m—”

“Available?”

“Reckless,” Tina grinned.

They both laughed. Loud, unfiltered. Shane looked over from across the patio and gave a look like they’re doing it again.

When the laughter finally died down, Bette exhaled. “I missed you.”

Tina didn’t answer right away. Just looked at her hand still held gently between Bette’s fingers. “Yeah. Me too.”

They sat like that for a while. No agenda. No hints.

Just this—sunlight, old memories, good lemonade, and a road trip that somehow didn’t go off track.

“Looks like we’re both doing good,” Tina finally said.

“Yeah,” Bette agreed.

“And this right here,” Tina added, nodding toward the horizon, “this feels like a breather.”

Bette squeezed her hand. “A detour without the disaster.”

“Don’t get cocky,” Tina smirked. “We haven’t driven back yet.”

Chapter Text

The crew was almost done packing up, coiling cables into black crates, folding up diffusion frames, the last soft hum of a lighting rig winding down. The sun had dipped low, throwing the patio into long amber shadows. Bette was standing by the van, clipboard in hand, but she wasn’t reading it—she was looking at Tina, who was crouched near the kiln, helping the artist wrap a fragile clay piece in butcher paper.

Shane found her there, half-hidden behind a dolly track. She didn’t say anything at first, just watched Tina’s careful hands.

“Hey,” Shane said eventually, her voice warm but too perceptive to be casual.

Tina looked up, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Hey. Almost ready to go?”

“Yeah.” Shane’s gaze drifted over her shoulder to where Bette was still—still—watching. “We’re just waiting on you two.”

Tina nodded, though her throat felt tight. She glanced down, double-knotting the twine around the clay, anything to avoid the fact that she could feel Bette’s eyes like a live current across the patio.

Shane didn’t leave. She rocked back on her boot heels, hands in her pockets. The evening breeze kicked up a soft dust that caught the light between them.

“You know,” Shane began, and Tina knew that tone—knew she wasn’t going to like whatever came next, “sometimes I think about how many people walk around never really getting it.”

Tina frowned a little, not looking up. “Getting what?”

Shane’s voice was low, unhurried. “The thing that happens when you look at someone and everything just…lines up. Even when you wish it wouldn’t.”

Tina swallowed, her hands going still on the twine.

“Do you think,” Shane went on, and now she did look at Tina, her eyes clear and steady in that Yoda way that made you feel both seen and undone, “two people can live their whole lives and never experience that? Never…get cracked open by it?”

Tina’s pulse picked up. Slowly, she turned her head. Across the patio, Bette had lowered her clipboard, but she hadn’t stopped watching. The dying light caught in her hair, silhouetting her in gold.

“Because I’ve been trying to figure out,” Shane continued, softer, “why you’d ever try to pretend it didn’t happen. Like if you don’t say it out loud, it won’t still be the thing that made you who you are.”

Tina looked down, felt her breath catch in her throat. Her hands flexed on the twine.

Shane didn’t say her name. She didn’t need to.

“And you know,” Shane added, almost lightly now, “I’ve known Bette a long time. A long time. I’ve never seen her look at anyone the way she looks at you when she thinks nobody’s paying attention.”

Tina exhaled, shaky. “Shane—”

“I’m not judging you,” Shane said gently. “Or her. You’re both doing your best to be…civilized.” She gave a crooked little smile. “It’s actually kind of cute. In a tragic, slow-motion-car-crash sort of way. Both casualties of casual.”

Tina let out a helpless laugh, even as her eyes stung. Tina then said, "Casually wrecked. Poetic."

Shane took a step closer and dropped her voice. “But I’m telling you now, if you think there’s any version of this where you two walk away and it doesn’t matter anymore…you’re wrong.”

Tina blinked fast, trying not to let it all show. She couldn’t—she didn’t even know what she’d say if she tried.

Shane squeezed her shoulder, once. Not pushing. Just…acknowledging.

Then she straightened, nodding toward the van. “I’ll ride with the crew,” she said, more lightly now. “Give you and Bette some room to…not talk about it.”

Tina laughed under her breath. “Thanks.”

 
“Anytime,” Shane said, already stepping back. “Try not to explode each other’s hearts on the drive.”

Tina turned to watch Shane walk away, feeling her heart hammering unevenly.

When she finally looked back across the patio, Bette had set the clipboard down completely. She stood there, her hands empty, her expression open in a way Tina wasn’t ready for.

And she knew Shane was right.  Some truths didn’t need naming to be the thing you were always circling.

The sun had already slid behind the hills by the time they packed up the last case of lighting gear. Shane stretched, checked her phone, and looked over at them with a mischievous little smile.

“I’m hitching a ride with the second unit,” she tells Bette, voice casual but eyes far too knowing. “You two can have the car. You know—so you can debrief .”

Bette shot her a look that could have burned a hole through drywall. “Shane—”

“Bye!” Shane sang, already disappearing behind the van with a wave.

Tina watched her go, eyebrows lifted, then glanced at Bette.

“There goes Shane.” Bette muttered, rubbing a hand over her face.

And suddenly the idea of the drive back—forty uninterrupted minutes, no crew, no polite distractions—felt like something Bette needed to brace herself for.

They walked in silence to the car, the gravel crunching underfoot. The air was cooling fast, the last streaks of gold bleeding into blue. Bette unlocked the doors and stood there a moment, her hand on the frame, feeling her pulse beat faster for no logical reason.

Tina settled into the passenger seat, her tote at her feet, and looked over with an unreadable expression—half soft, half uncertain.

“I didn’t ask Shane to leave,” Bette said, as if clarifying something important.

“I know,” Tina replied, voice quiet. “She’s just… Shane.”

Bette huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite settle her nerves. She started the engine. The headlights swept over the low stone wall, catching motes of dust in the air.

They pulled out onto the winding road in silence, the valley slipping away behind them.

Five minutes passed like that—just the engine and the occasional hiss of gravel. Bette kept her eyes on the darkening road ahead, hands steady on the wheel.

“You know,” Tina finally said, voice soft but steady, “it’s weird how quickly this feels normal again.”

Bette’s throat tightened. “Driving with me?”

“Everything,” Tina said. “The project. You. This.”

Bette risked a glance over. Tina was staring out the window, her profile etched in the last of the twilight, her hand resting loose against her knee.

“It doesn’t feel normal to me,” Bette admitted, low. “I don’t think it ever really did.”

That earned a small, rueful smile. Tina didn’t look over, but her shoulders relaxed, just a little.

They drove on, winding past old ranch fences and patches of sagebrush. The air inside the car felt too close, too full of everything unsaid.

“You ever think,” Tina murmured, almost like she was talking to herself, “about how none of it ever really goes away? Even when you try to pretend?”

Bette’s hands tightened around the wheel. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I think about that a lot.”

They fell silent again. But this time it felt less like avoidance and more like… an acknowledgment.

They didn’t need to look at each other to feel it, the pull, the ache, the quiet relief that neither of them had said goodbye yet.

And as the city lights finally came into view, neither was quite ready to break the moment.

They fell quiet again as the road curved downhill, the city spreading out in the distance like a necklace of lights. The hush was thick, almost comfortable, but Bette could feel it pressing at the edges of her composure. She reached for something—anything—to keep it from swallowing them whole.

“Is your rental okay?” she asked, her voice a little too casual. “The place Miriam found you.”

Tina blinked, then glanced over, her mouth twitching. “It’s…fine. A little too beige. Like someone decorated it to offend absolutely no one.”

Bette huffed a laugh she hadn’t meant to let out. “That sounds about right.”

“And the water pressure is—” Tina lifted her hand, palm flat, wobbled it. “—acceptable. But barely.”

“Important criteria.”

“Extremely.”

The quiet settled again, and Bette felt it trying to thicken. She shifted her grip on the wheel, opened her mouth, closed it, then finally tried again.

“Did you…find the note?” Tina asked, voice careful but a little raw.

Bette swallowed. “Yeah.”

Tina waited, her gaze fixed on Bette’s profile.

“I wore the Yale shirt,” Bette added, softer. “After you left.  It's so weird.”

“It’s not weird,” Tina said, glancing over, her eyes steady. “You know it isn’t.”

Bette didn’t argue. She just watched the dark road ahead, the side of her mouth curling.  They drove on. The headlights caught a flash of coyote eyes in the brush before the animal disappeared into the dark.

“When did you start working on this?” Bette asked quietly.

Tina’s thumb traced the seam of her jeans. She didn’t look over. “When we first met in the café.”

Bette’s chest went tight.

“I had a whole different story in mind to pitch,” Tina went on, her voice steady but threaded with something vulnerable. “And then I met you and…I got curious. So I pitched you. And the art. And they wanted me to develop it, do research. So I did.”

Her eyes flicked over, uncertain. “I wanted to involve you from the start. But I didn’t know you well enough to know what you’d like. Or…what you’d allow.”

Bette felt something in her loosen, then pull taut again.  “We said,” she murmured, “we’d name this. Whatever this is.”

Tina tilted her head, her mouth turning rueful. “What if we try not naming it?”

Bette let out a startled laugh. “Tina—”

“No, really,” Tina said, her smile wry, her eyes bright. “What if we name it, and neither of us likes the name?”

“It’s not a baby,” Bette retorted, her voice breaking into something helpless and warm.

Tina laughed, a small sound that felt like it cost her something to let out. But then it faded, and what replaced it was quieter, heavier.

“I think I made a mistake,” Tina said, her voice catching.

Bette’s breath stalled. “With Eric?”

Tina nodded, gaze drifting past Bette to the horizon, as though the words were easier to say if she wasn’t looking directly at her. “It felt right to say yes in that moment. It felt safe. Like I could keep the chaos contained inside me instead of spilling it out onto everyone else. That maybe loving the ‘right’ way meant not hurting anyone.”

Bette swallowed, throat tight, hands gripping the steering wheel before she let them fall uselessly to her lap. “And now?”

Tina let out a shaky breath. “Now it feels like I’m just choosing the quietest kind of heartbreak. Because you…” Her voice caught again. “knowing you makes me think of that kid inside me who never really knew what it felt like to be loved back. And I hate the thought of laying that at your feet. I don’t want it to become your burden to carry.”

Bette couldn’t help it—she pulled the car over, gravel crunching under the tires. Her pulse thudded so loud she was sure Tina could hear it.

She turned toward her, really turned, and reached out—slow, careful. Her fingertips traced the soft line of Tina’s jaw, then slipped to the back of her neck. Tina leaned in, just a fraction, like it hurt to be touched but hurt more not to be.

“T,” Bette whispered, voice hoarse, “you’re not a burden. You’re not broken for wanting to keep people safe—even if it means you don’t choose yourself. But you don’t have to keep doing that.”

Tina closed her eyes, lashes trembling. Her hand came up, holding Bette’s wrist like it was the only steady thing in a world that kept shifting under her feet.

“And that kid inside you,” Bette went on, words raw and careful, “deserves to know what it feels like to be loved. You don’t have to hide her from me.”

Tina’s breath hitched, a single tear escaping before she caught it with the back of her hand, embarrassed. But Bette just brushed her thumb over the trail it left, as though it was something precious.

Tina’s fingers clung tighter to Bette’s arm, like the moment might break if she let go. Her pulse thrummed in her throat, her chest aching with how much it terrified her to need this.

And Bette—God, every part of her ached to close the inches between them, to kiss her, to let it all spill over. But she didn’t. Because she realized, it wasn’t about claiming. Sometimes it was about staying right where you are—being the place that could hold all the messy, unspoken parts of the person you deeply cared about.

So Bette stayed, forehead nearly touching Tina’s, the heat of their breath mingling. “You’ll figure it out,” Bette whispered, voice breaking a little. “And I’ll be right here. Don’t punish yourself. You don’t owe anyone a perfect heart.”

And for a heartbeat—just one—Tina let herself believe it could be that simple.

They didn’t say anything else on the drive back. Windows down, hair tugged by the wind, the road unfolding ahead in quiet, forgiving miles. Every so often, Bette’s hand drifted close on the console, and Tina’s fingers twitched like they might reach. They didn’t. But the almost felt as real as touch.

The following week, the studio felt different. Not to anyone else—but to them.

They had driven back from Ojai in near silence, but it wasn’t avoidance; it was something quieter, more careful. Like they were each holding a fragile thing between them, afraid to speak too loudly and break it. When they returned, it was back to schedules, call sheets, and emails stacked like dominoes. But something had settled between them after that car ride—a closeness that felt less like temptation and more like recognition.

Bette would catch Tina’s eye across the set, and there was no flinch this time, no polite turning away. Instead, Tina held her gaze, letting it linger a breath too long. Small things carried new weight, the way Tina’s hand rested lightly on Bette’s shoulder when she leaned in to check a monitor, or how Bette stood closer than she had any right to during setups, her presence steady, wordless.

At one point, James asked about a scheduling change, and they answered almost at the same time—Tina’s words threading right through Bette’s. They both paused, caught by it, and then smiled—an unguarded, soft thing that made James look between them, puzzled but wisely silent.

During a lunch break, they shared a table in the corner of the gallery’s back room. It wasn’t planned; they just ended up there, knees nearly touching. Tina broke off a piece of bread and passed it to Bette without thinking. Bette accepted it, their fingers grazing, and for a moment the hum of the crew around them faded.

Neither spoke about what had happened on that roadside. About Tina’s confession, about Bette’s quiet promise that she’d figure it out. But the memory of it hung in the air—like a note sustained long after the piano key is released.

It felt, to both of them, like the beginning of something neither of them dared to name.
A slow landslide—quiet, patient, and impossible to stop.
And for now, neither of them tried.

The afternoon sun was sliding behind the towers, softening the glare on the edit suite’s long windows. Tina sat at the worktable, laptop open, a yellow legal pad crowded with notes and circled timestamps. She’d been there most of the day, toggling between budget spreadsheets and rough cuts, and making sure the work still felt like something worth fighting for.

Bette was leaning against the counter behind her, arms folded, watching the monitor in thoughtful silence. Across the room, Nora—the director—sat on a low stool, scribbling revisions. The DP, Luis, hovered near the color monitor, gently tweaking exposure on the paused frame.

“Hold it,” Bette said, her voice low and steady.

Luis tapped a key, freezing the dancer mid-spin. The shot was magic—rooftop in Echo Park, late afternoon light in her hair.

“You want the full rotation?” Luis asked, glancing over. “Or trim before she pivots out?”

“Keep it,” Bette replied. “You can see the moment she decides not to stop.”

Tina looked up from her notes. “It’s honest.”

Luis nodded, making a quick mark. Nora glanced between them. “Honest sells. And it’s a hell of a moment.”

The intercom buzzed, and Miriam’s voice crackled through. “Quick update on the budget.”

Tina braced. Bette just watched the screen, impassive.

“Board wants a tighter regional focus,” Miriam continued. “Northern California, LA, and any artist with a documented connection here. Anything out of state—harder to justify.”

“So Detroit’s off the table,” Tina said quietly.

“For now,” Miriam confirmed. “But—silver lining—we’re moving ahead with the Amsterdam festival submission. The board signed off this morning.”

Bette finally turned to look at Tina. “Good,” she said simply. “Then we lead with what we have.”

Nora let out a slow breath. “I’ll rework the treatment. There’s plenty of material here.”

Luis gestured at the monitor. “The ceramicist in Pasadena. The textile artist in Boyle Heights.”

“All LA,” Tina said, crossing her arms. “And all strong.”

When Miriam signed off, the room settled into a tense, thoughtful quiet.

Bette was the first to speak. “Do you still believe in it?” Her voice was softer now, the words meant just for Tina.

“I do,” Tina said. And she meant it, even if it complicated everything else.

They spent the next hour cross-referencing cuts and reworking the sequence list. Nora paced behind them, editing notes in her hand, occasionally offering ideas in her precise, calm way. Luis color-corrected the Echo Park rooftop footage, humming quietly to himself.

Every so often, Tina and Bette’s hands brushed when they reached for the same note. Neither of them pulled away.

“You know,” Bette said after a long lull, eyes on the screen, “when we talked about this, you said you wanted something that didn’t look like every other art doc.”

Tina swallowed. “And you said you wanted to make something no one could ignore.”

Bette’s mouth curved, just barely. “Still true.”

A few feet away, Nora smiled faintly without looking up from her notes—she’d learned to read the temperature in the room, knew when to leave space.

Luis tapped the monitor. “Locking this color pass,” he announced, breaking the moment. “You two sure about that last shot? It’s… a little raw.”

Tina met Bette’s eyes, feeling that steady heat she never could quite name. “That’s why it works,” she said quietly.

Luis lifted a brow, then nodded. “Fair enough.”

Bette looked over, voice softer. “You staying?”

“I’ll stay,” Tina said. “We can get through the rooftop sequence together.”

The four of them settled back in after the crew left—the producers, the director, the DP—quietly threading edits and notes through the soft fall of evening. Outside, the lot was emptying by slow degrees, the glow of taillights disappearing into the hush. Inside, the suite felt smaller in the half-light, screens humming softly. Finally, someone yawned, stretch cracking a shoulder, and mumbled, “Alright, I’m calling it.” Chairs shifted, laptops clicked shut, and the room dissolved into gentle goodnights.

Tina gathered her tote, looping the strap over one shoulder, her hair falling forward as she stooped to pick up her water bottle. By the door, Bette waited, hands in the pockets of her jacket, the collar turned up against the breeze that had picked up outside.

“You need a ride?” Bette asked, voice calm, casual—but softer than it had any right to be.

Tina shook her head, lips curling in a tired but real smile. “Nah. Got the rental.”

They stepped out together into the lot, shoes scuffing over concrete. The air smelled faintly of warm asphalt and eucalyptus from the trees lining the fence. They didn’t speak at first, but their steps matched almost unconsciously, like a memory their bodies hadn’t forgotten.

“It was a good day,” Bette said finally, her gaze trailing over the row of parked cars, catching on the security lights blinking overhead. “The project’s… working.”

“Yeah,” Tina murmured, the word slipping out on an exhale. “It really is.”

A tickle crawled up her throat then, catching her by surprise. She coughed lightly into her fist.

Bette’s brow creased in an instant. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Tina said, waving it off. “Probably just tired. Or dust.”

Without a word, Bette fished out a little silver pill tin from her bag, flipped it open with practiced ease, and held out an Advil on her palm.

“Take it anyway,” she said, a touch of that dry command in her tone—but underneath it, something careful, almost tender.

Tina laughed, short and surprised, as she took it. “Thanks. What would I do without you?”

“You’d get sick,” Bette shot back, mouth twitching into something between a smirk and a smile. Then, quieter, almost teasing, “And I’d end up at your place making you soup, which neither of us wants.”

Tina tilted her head, lips parting with a small grin. “Bette.”

Bette let out a breath of a laugh, her eyes dropping, then lifted them again, meeting Tina’s gaze fully.

Then Tina leaned in, arms circling Bette’s shoulders in a hug that felt instinctive, overdue. Bette’s arms came up to meet her waist, the contact soft but sure. Tina felt the warmth seep in, the press of Bette’s hand against her back, her cheek brushing the edge of Bette’s collar. She didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did Bette. It wasn’t quite long enough to be called lingering, but it was far from brief.

When Tina finally stepped back, there was a flush on her cheeks she couldn’t blame on the cool night air.

“You know what would really cure this,” Tina blurted, nodding toward her throat.

“What?” Bette asked, the word slipping out before she could school the softness in her voice.

“A vanilla milkshake. It's quite comforting.” Tina said, too serious to be joking, then let the edges of a grin break through.

Bette barked out a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling. “Yeah? Never heard that before. Well, you better take care of yourself,” she said, voice playful but weighted with something gentler.

Then she wrapped her arms around her once more, quick and warm, before pulling away and stepping back toward the driver’s side door.

“Drive safe,” Bette murmured, her voice low, lingering.

“You too,” Tina returned, softer still.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Tina whispered, the word catching faintly in her chest.

She got in, shut the door, and watched through the windshield as Bette turned toward her own car, hands sinking back into her pockets.

The week slipped past almost without warning.

Most days, Tina was buried in the studio, reviewing shot lists and production notes with Miriam and the director, answering back-to-back calls about licensing music and confirming artists’ availability. Sometimes she forgot to eat lunch until her stomach reminded her with a sharp twist around four.

Bette, meanwhile, was in her gallery nearly every day, finishing the arrangements for an upcoming show. They didn’t see each other much—just traded emails, short and efficient, full of polite sign-offs

Best, T

—B

Even that was more contact than she’d had with Julia all week.  On Friday, Julia had finally called while Bette was locking up the gallery.

“Don’t forget,” Julia said, her voice warm but pointed, “we’re actually going this weekend.”

“I know,” Bette said, balancing the phone between her shoulder and cheek as she set the alarm code.

“You promised. No last-minute cancellations.”

“I remember,” Bette said, softer. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Julia was right. The weekend away had been rescheduled twice already—first for a crisis at the gallery, then again when an artist pulled out of the project at the last second. Now, finally, they had two days carved out in Ventura. Julia had booked the room herself, gently insisting Bette couldn’t wriggle out of it this time.

Just us, Julia had said. No work. Bette had smiled, kissed her on the temple, and promised, Just us.

And she meant it—at least, she wanted to.

The drive up had been quiet but easy. Julia’s hand resting lightly on Bette’s thigh, the Pacific flashing silver through the passenger window. Bette told herself to be present, to match Julia’s warmth with her own. Commitment had always felt like a trap door under her feet, but she wasn’t cruel enough to let Julia feel the weight of her guilt.

She talked about the coastline, pointed out a cluster of pelicans skimming low over the waves, listened to Julia laugh at some half-remembered story. Every now and then, Julia would glance over with that open, patient smile that made Bette feel both grateful and impossibly small.

Inside, though, another part of her kept tugging at the hem of her thoughts. Kept drifting back to Tina—the conversation in the car, the weight of Tina’s hand on her arm, the way it had felt to hold her for just a breath longer than necessary. The guilt prickled under her skin, sharp and persistent.

By the time they arrived late Friday night, the place smelled of lavender and old wood, the hush of a coastal inn where everything felt gently worn. Julia had chosen it because it felt like them, she’d said—soft corners, warm lamps, nothing flashy.

Bette left her laptop at home as she told herself she wouldn’t touch it anyway. Forty-eight hours. Just them.

She tried. Over dinner, she listened, even teased Julia about her choice of wine. Afterward, she pressed a slow kiss to the hollow of Julia’s throat, let herself sink into the sweetness of being wanted, of being with someone who asked nothing more than what she could give.

But by Saturday afternoon, the illusion cracked. Bette found herself pacing the back patio, the terracotta tiles warm under bare feet, the sun flaring gold behind the citrus trees.

Her phone buzzed, screen lighting up with 1 missed call — James (Gallery).

A voicemail.

She hesitated—torn between the promise she’d made and the familiar pull of responsibility—and then pressed play, listening as James’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker.

Even as she stood there, phone pressed to her ear, part of her felt the weight of Julia’s presence inside. And part of her, unclaimed and unasked for, was somewhere else entirely—holding onto a memory of Tina that she shouldn’t have kept, but couldn’t let go.

“Hey, Bette. Sorry to bug you. I’ve tried everything—opened the artist list three times, and the file’s corrupted. It won’t load, and we need the version with the budget figures. Can you re-upload from your backup? Call me.”

Bette muttered a curse.

Julia appeared in the doorway, arms folded over her sweater. “Everything okay?”

“I hate spreadsheets,” Bette said, not looking up. “I hate them.”

Julia just sighed. “Can it wait?”

Bette shook her head once, distracted. “Probably not.”

She called James back. “Can you just… wait until Monday?” she tried. “Or maybe use the last version I sent?”

“It’s incomplete,” James said, apologetic. “We have to submit to the board Monday morning.”

Bette closed her eyes. Pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. Let me think.”

She hung up without another word, then stepped out into the yard, away from Julia’s gaze. The grass was cool against her bare feet. She scrolled to her contacts, pressed Call .

Inside, Julia stood by the window, watching her.

A minute later, Bette’s voice drifted in through the screen door—low, edged with tension but even

“You know where the spare key is, right?”

(Pause.)

“Yes. Yes, the hard drive would be in the study, in the top drawer by the window.”

(Pause.)

“Please make sure to lock up after. Yes. I know. Thank you.”

A softer note slipped in, almost tender despite her frustration.

“I will. You too. Bye.”

When Bette came back inside, Julia was leaning against the kitchen counter, her arms folded.

“So,” Julia said, tilting her head, “crisis over?”

“I hope,” Bette said, exhaling. “James should be able to send the file now.”

“You didn’t have to deal with it.” Julia said in a serious tone.

“I did,” Bette said, a little too quickly.

Julia nodded once, her face neutral. She didn’t ask who Bette had called to get the file—though when Bette set her phone down, Julia’s eyes flicked to the screen.

Recent call—TINA Kennard.

Neither of them mentioned it.

Tina pulled into the driveway just as twilight settled over the hills, soft and drowsy, like a curtain being drawn. The porch light had flickered on automatically, casting a warm glow across the familiar curve of the steps and the faint outline of the potted plants Bette always insisted on keeping alive.

She killed the engine and sat there for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the front door. It was strange how muscle memory worked—how easily her body remembered this place, how to be here, even when her mind felt like it was treading water.

She got out, walked quietly up the steps, and reached beneath the old river stone, few inches beside the porch rail. Her fingers found the cool metal of the spare key instantly, like it had been waiting.

Inside, the air was still, undisturbed. The house smelled faintly of lemon wood polish and whatever laundry detergent Bette favored—clean, crisp, distant. She dropped her keys in the ceramic bowl near the door out of habit, paused, then picked them back up and slipped them into her pocket. She wasn’t staying.

Her footsteps echoed softly on the hardwood. The kitchen lights were off, but there was enough dusk glow filtering through the French doors to see. And that’s when she noticed the vase—low and round—perched on the corner of the breakfast table, near the edge closest to the glass.

A clutch of flowers bent lazily in it, some already starting to droop. They were beautiful, carelessly arranged but clearly chosen with intent. For a second, Tina stopped in her tracks. Her heart beat louder than it should have.

They must’ve been for Julia.  She didn’t know why the thought stung, but it did.

She crossed the kitchen quietly, lifted the vase and carried it to the sink. The water was murky. She tipped it out gently, rinsed the stems one by one, her fingers careful and slow, like she was touching something private. Then she filled the vase again, turned it in her hands, and walked it back to the table.

But instead of placing it where she’d found it—by the corner—she set it in the center. Right in the middle. As if she needed it to feel different.

Then she saw it, the note on the fridge. The note she left Bette four months ago. Her handwriting still crisp on the curled paper.

  “ I heard you when you said it was shitty to be so close and not kiss my lips.

   But it's not all true, Bette - because even if the kiss didn't land exactly where you meant it to, it still felt like it did. 

    Take care. “

And beneath it, in Bette’s small, unmistakable handwriting, “I hate you.” The words were struck through—one deliberate, shaky line.

And just below, written clearer, firmer, as if admitting it cost something “But you own me.”

Tina stood there, barely breathing, one hand rising to her nape as if to steady herself. Her fingers pressed lightly against her skin, holding back something that threatened to spill. Her eyes traced the words again, searching for another meaning—anything softer. But they didn’t change.

Her phone buzzed in her coat pocket, jolting her. She let out a quiet breath and pulled it out.

James.

She answered quickly, voice steadied. “I’m here. I’ll send the file in a minute.”

She moved to the study. The light from the desk lamp pooled softly over the papers, catalogs, and Bette’s old notepads. The chair creaked when she sat. She plugged in the hard drive, opened her laptop, and found the file without issue. She checked the document three times—budget numbers, artist list, dates. Everything was intact.

She attached it to an email, typed a brief note to James, and hesitated just one second before hitting “Send.”

A moment later, his reply came in. All good. Thanks, you saved us.

She closed her laptop slowly, not with relief, exactly—but with care, as if she were packing something delicate back into a box. Her eyes drifted over the bookshelves, the neat arrangement of framed press clippings, old gallery pamphlets, a small sculpture made of glass and wire. She didn’t touch anything.

She just sat there, quiet, absorbing it like a place she wasn’t sure she’d ever be invited back into.

On her way out, she paused again by the fridge.  The note hadn’t moved.  She looked at it longer than she meant to, fingers curling loosely into her palm.

Then she turned, locked up behind her, and stepped back into the night. But this time, she didn’t return the key to its hiding place. She tucked it back into her coat pocket, where it felt warm from her hand.

In the car, heading back to the studio, the roads darkening around her, her thoughts returned to the flowers. To the orderliness of the house. The lack of signs that anyone else had been living in it.

And then—like something gently falling into place—she realized that Julia had never been in Bette's house.

And somehow, that made the note hurt a little more.

That night, Bette tried to relax. They had dinner out on the terrace—fresh pasta and a bottle of white wine. Julia touched her hand across the table, smiled, tried to meet her eyes.  But later, in bed, Bette lay on her side, phone turned face down on the nightstand. She didn’t check her email, though she thought about it.

Julia watched her in the glow of the bedside lamp.  “If they needed anything else,” she said softly, “they would have called.”

Bette didn’t answer. Just nodded, gaze fixed on the dark beyond the window.  Julia turned off the light and lay beside her, close but not touching. She didn’t fall asleep for a long time. And finally, she slid closer and curled an arm around Bette’s waist, holding her tight, as if she were afraid of waking up to find her gone.

The next morning was clear and too bright. Bette sat at the kitchen table quietly drinking her coffee.  Julia moved around the kitchen quietly, pouring coffee, opening the fridge, closing it again without taking anything out. Finally, she turned and leaned against the counter, arms folded loosely over her chest.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft but steady.

Bette looked up, wary. “Hey.”

“Can I ask you something?”

Bette’s shoulders rose, then dropped. “Sure.”

Julia hesitated. “Yesterday… when you called Tina about the hard drive.”

Bette lifted her chin a fraction, bracing.

“I’m not upset,” Julia went on quickly. “I just… I’m trying to understand.” She toyed with her coffee mug. “Was she really the only person who could help?”

Bette faced her and said, “She’s the only one who knew where the spare key was. And the files.”

“Okay,” Julia said, nodding slowly. She studied the seam in the wood floor. “I believe you.”

There was a long pause.

“But I guess… it caught me off guard,” Julia admitted. “Hearing you sound so—comfortable. Like it was normal to call her first.”

Bette’s jaw shifted. “It wasn’t about… anything else.”

“I know,” Julia said gently. “I do. I’m just…” She took a breath. “I’m trying to figure out where I fit. And if there’s space for me in the parts of your life that feel… automatic.”

Bette’s eyes softened. She reached across the table, palm up. “There is.”

Julia looked at her hand, then slipped hers into it. “Okay.”

They were quiet for a moment, hands resting together on the table.

“I’m not trying to make this a bigger deal than it is,” Julia said, voice calm. “I just want you to know… it feels a little strange sometimes. That’s all.”

Bette nodded, her thumb brushing Julia’s knuckles. “I get that.”

“I’m not going to keep bringing it up,” Julia added, managing a small smile. “Just… please tell me if there’s something I’m not seeing.”

Bette’s mouth curved, tired but sincere. “I promise.”

Julia gave her hand one more squeeze before letting go. “Okay.”

Bette’s thoughts drifted to Tina — how unknowingly choosing her sometimes felt like chasing a shadow, running after something that never quite stopped. But with Julia, there was a stillness, a quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, she could finally rest and be loved.

Tina woke late—later than she’d meant to—and lay in bed for a few moments, listening to the hush of the morning. No vibrations of her phone with production updates. No last-minute changes from Bette. Just quiet.  But it was the kind of quiet that felt almost too wide, too hollow around her edges.

By ten, she was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, hair damp from the shower, aimlessly scrolling through her phone for nearby spa appointments. A massage sounded good—something to unknot her shoulders, to remind her body that it belonged to her and not just to the project.

She’d just found a place with a same-day slot when her phone lit up with an incoming call. Eric.

Her stomach contracted in a way she tried to ignore. She thumbed the screen to answer.

“Hey,” she said, careful to keep her voice bright. “Everything okay?”

“Hi honey,” Eric replied, warm as ever. She could hear New York behind him—a siren in the distance, the low swell of traffic. “I was just thinking about you. Wondering how the production’s going.”

“It’s…going,” Tina said, managing a small laugh. “A lot of long days. But the footage is beautiful.”

“I’m glad. I am so proud of you,” he said. There was a pause, a shift in the air. “Listen…I was talking to my dad yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“And, well…he’s getting antsy about the wedding. He thinks we should at least set a date. He’s already decided on half the guest list.”

Tina closed her eyes, pressing her thumb against her eyebrow. “Eric…”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know it feels fast. I know it's only been months since we got engaged. I just think maybe it would help if we started planning. Even something small—just picking a month. A season.”

She rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache gather at her temples. “I haven’t even thought about a guest list,” she admitted. “I’m working twelve-hour days most weeks. I can’t—”

Eric’s voice softened. “It doesn’t have to be complicated. My mom offered to help coordinate venues. And maybe…I could fly out for a few days? We could look at venue proposals together.”

“No,” Tina said, sharper than she intended. She sucked in a breath, tried again. “I mean…it’s not a good time. I don’t have set days off. We’re behind schedule. And when I do get a free hour, I—”

“You don’t want me there,” Eric said quietly.

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

The silence between them went taut, straining.

“I don’t know,” she finally said.

Eric sighed. “Okay.” A beat. “Well…call me when you can. We don’t have to decide everything today.”

“Yeah.”

“Tina—”

“I have to go,” she said, before she could think better of it. “I’ll talk to you later.”

She hung up and set the phone facedown on the couch cushion. Her appetite for any spa appointment had vanished.  The rest of the day slipped by in a haze—emails she didn’t answer, texts she left unread. By evening, she was lying in bed with her laptop open, a blank document blinking accusingly at her.

Monday.  By the time she reached the studio, she’d mostly convinced herself to compartmentalize—box the weekend away, lock it up. She set her coffee on the corner of her desk, booted up her computer.

Five minutes later, the receptionist tapped on her door.  “Delivery for you.”  She turned—and nearly flinched.

Two dozen pink roses crowded the mouth of an enormous glass vase. A crisp envelope rested against the stems.

| I’m sorry. Please call me. —Eric.

The arrangement was…perfect. Expensive. Exactly the sort of apology she’d learned to expect from him.  And it landed with a dull thud somewhere in her chest.

She thanked the receptionist and set the vase on a side table, feeling the weight of it as she eased it down. It was beautiful, she supposed. But it didn’t touch her.

Later that afternoon, she was scrolling through the photos on her phone—looking for a reference shot—when she came across the picture she’d snapped in Bette’s kitchen.

The vase from Bette’s table, the water she’d changed herself.

And she realized, they weren’t roses.  They were carnations.

A memory unspooled itself with no warning from four months ago.

        It was past midnight. Tina was hunched over the dining table, laptop screen glowing blue in the dark. She’d meant to sleep hours ago, but she couldn’t stop revising a budget draft.

        A soft creak startled her—Bette, bleary-eyed, standing in the doorway in her usual white tank top and jammies.

        “Jesus,” Bette mumbled. “Are you trying to kill yourself with work?”

        Tina laughed under her breath. “I’m almost done.”

        “No, you’re not.” Bette crossed the kitchen, leaned over her shoulder, and without hesitation pressed Save. She was about to close the laptop when Tina batted her hand away.

        “Bette!”

        “Fine.” Bette smirked, eyes heavy with sleep. “One question. So I know for future reference.”

        “What?”

        “What’s your flower of choice?”

        “My what?”

        “You know.” Bette shifted her weight against the table, voice dropping a shade lower. “In case I ever need to send you flowers. Like, say… if you work yourself into the ER or something.”

        Tina blinked, caught off guard. “Ha ha ha.”

        “Just answer.”

        She laughed, cheeks flushing. “Carnations,” she said. “Two-toned, if you can. But solid ones are fine too—just keep them in spring colors.”

        “That was specific.”

        “Well, if you’re going to do it…do it right.”

        Bette’s grin was slow, a little mischievous. “Noted.”

        They looked at each other for a beat longer than necessary.  Then Bette straightened, ruffled Tina’s hair, and headed back toward the darkened hall.

Now, sitting alone at her desk, Tina swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She set her phone down, turned toward the window, and let herself close her eyes just for a moment. The roses sat in perfect, sterile splendor across the room. She let the image stay burned in her mind, the vase on Bette’s table. 

And then—slowly, suddenly—it clicked.  The way the vase had been nudged, ever so slightly, to the edge of the table. Just beside the French doors was deliberate.

Her spot.  The one she always drifted to with a cup of coffee or her laptop. Where the light came in soft and full in the mornings. Where she’d sit in borrowed sweaters, barefoot, sometimes forgetting the time.

She blinked. Once. Twice.  Then a sharp breath left her, almost a laugh. Carnations. Of course she remembered the damn flower too.

Of course Bette had asked what she wanted and listened. Eric had guessed.  The difference landed like a punch in the chest.

And it wasn’t fair—how kindness could ache like that. How something so small could knock loose everything she’d been trying to keep orderly inside her.

She felt the pressure building behind her eyes before she even realized what it was. A tremor ran through her chest, then her breath stuttered — and the sob broke loose, raw and unexpected. Not a single tear, but the full weight of it, shoulders shaking, breath catching, her hand pressed hard to her chest like it could keep her heart from spilling out.

A strangled sound escaped her, half laugh, half ache. This was what quiet care could do. What being remembered could do.

Not loud. Not grand. Just a vase, flowers, a reply, a spot by the window where morning light always fell across her lap.

And someone remembering. Something inside her cracked, then opened. Through blurred eyes, she could still see Bette’s words, so small and painfully honest

I hate you.
But you own me.

She swallowed hard, voice low and trembling as she whispered into the empty room, “And I name you…”

A breath, then softer, almost afraid to hear it herself, “…mine.”

Not love, not yet. But still everything. In naming it so, she knew exactly what she needed to do—choose this silent heartbreak once again, because time had never been her friend.

After the weekend with Julia, Bette felt the weight of her own contradictions settling in. She told herself she was a fast learner—that she could unlearn the old hurts, the sharp edges left by past mistakes, and give Julia a real chance to see the woman she once was before all the cracks appeared.

But old patterns die hard. The ache she felt for Tina still lingered beneath the surface, a quiet pulse she wasn’t ready to face head-on. So, with a deliberate breath, Bette chose distance. She decided to pull back, to widen the space between herself and Tina—not out of anger or rejection, but as a necessary step to protect what was fragile inside her.

The timing worked in her favor. The set was on a break for the week following this one—a pause that gave her room to breathe, to reset, and maybe, just maybe, to figure out how to move forward without losing herself.

The week passed quickly. Tina kept herself busy at the studio, throwing every ounce of focus into the shoot, while Bette stayed tied to the gallery, overseeing the artist sessions with sharp, almost punishing attention. They moved around each other like careful dancers, avoiding crossing paths—and this time, it felt deliberate, as if both sensed something different gathering between them, a kind of looming storm neither wanted to name.

They barely saw each other, their connection reduced to brief emails—concise, professional, each ending with a more courteous sign-off than the last

Best,

Tina K.

—Porter

Both of them braced themselves for whatever might come next.

10 years and 3 months ago.

It was Shane’s annual thing—an unofficial tradition with a name no one ever agreed on. Sometimes they called it The Retreat, sometimes Drunk Cabin, sometimes Three Idiots in the Woods. No matter the branding, it was non-negotiable. One weekend, every year, where they disappeared somewhere with no cell service and no obligations except tequila, bad card games, and confessions no one would ever repeat.

It had been on the calendar for almost twelve months. Planned down to the sleeping arrangements—Shane on the couch (by choice), Alice in the guest room, Bette in the loft.

They all crammed into Alice’s SUV Saturday morning. Bette had offered to drive, but Alice insisted, “If I’m forced to be in a car with you control freaks for two hours, at least let me control the playlist.”

It was already late afternoon by the time they wound up the last dirt road to the cabin, a low-slung place tucked into pine trees, with a wraparound porch and a fire pit that still smelled of last year’s bourbon-soaked marshmallows.

Alice hopped out, already narrating. “Shane, you get firewood. Bette, you—” She paused, frowning at Bette’s laptop bag. “Really? You brought work?”

Bette shot her a withering look. “Don’t start.”

Shane snorted and started unloading the cooler. “Let her live. We’re here now. No one’s going anywhere.”

Bette exhaled, still a little tense from the drive. But as she stepped onto the porch, something in her began to loosen. She’d needed this. Even she could admit it.

And then—a crunch of tires on gravel.

All three of them turned.

A rental SUV inched around the bend, the headlights sweeping over the clearing before cutting out. The driver’s door opened.

Bette’s heart lurched.

Tina stepped out, clutching a grocery bag in one arm and a bottle of tequila in the other.

She looked as startled as Bette felt.

“…Hi?” Tina tried, voice pitching up uncertainly.

Bette blinked. “What—what is she—”

Alice turned to Shane, mouth open. “Seriously?”

Shane lifted both hands like she was innocent. “What? It’s not like she’s a stranger. It’s still just us.” She gestured in a loose circle, as if the addition of Tina was the most natural thing in the world. “Us.”

Bette’s voice came out flatter than she meant. “I thought this was three people. Not—” She swallowed, looking at Tina again. “Not four.”

Tina cleared her throat, shifting her hold on the tequila. “I—I didn’t know. Shane just said it was a small thing. I didn’t realize—”

Shane shrugged, unbothered. “It’s not a big deal. We always say no plus-ones, but Tina’s not a plus-one. She’s—Tina.”

Alice looked from Shane to Bette to Tina, eyes wide. “You invited her and didn’t tell anyone?”

“I figured it would be fine,” Shane said simply. “You two have been…working. And it’s been fine.”

Tina’s cheeks were pink. “I can go if—”

Bette opened her mouth—no idea what she was going to say—then closed it again.

A beat of total, stunned silence.

Finally, Alice clapped her hands once, loud enough to break the spell. “Okay. Everybody breathe. We’re all adults. We have booze. This is not complicated.”

Tina looked from Alice to Bette, hesitant.

Bette forced herself to speak. “It’s fine. You’re here now.”

Her voice was softer than she intended.

Tina looked like she might say something—then didn’t. She just nodded, her grip on the tequila bottle tightening.

Shane, looking entirely too pleased with herself, shouldered her duffel and headed for the door. “Great. Let’s get drunk.”

And just like that, the weekend began.

With Bette’s pulse thumping in her throat.

And Tina, standing in the gravel drive, wondering if this was a terrible idea or the best accident they’d ever have.

Chapter Text

Alice shattered the careful distance by roping Bette into helping Tina carry her things up to the cabin porch, her voice a little too bright, like she knew exactly what she was stirring. Side by side, under the cool, pine-scented air, Bette and Tina exchanged small words heavy with old weight. Tina’s quiet apology for showing up, Bette’s soft “Don’t be,” that didn’t fool either of them. At the porch, Tina offered up a bottle of tequila as her peace offering and Bette almost smiled. Almost. Just enough to remember what it felt like to want what she couldn’t keep.

Inside, Alice was already unpacking chips and playing cards on the kitchen table, narrating her process like they were on a cooking show.  Shane was bent over the fireplace, coaxing flames to life.

“Okay,” Alice called, as if she’d been waiting for them. “House rules!”

Bette set Tina’s bag just inside the door, brushing her hands off. “House rules?”

“Yeah.” Alice perched on the back of the couch, looking insufferably pleased with herself. “Since we have a…special guest.” She did air quotes around the words.

Tina sighed. “Alice—”

“No, wait, hold up,” Alice said, waving a hand like she was presiding over a very important brunch court. “House rules. I printed them in my head, so listen up.”

Everyone groaned. She beamed and said, “Rule One: phones go away unless you’re calling your therapist or ordering more booze.”

Shane raised her drink. “Fair.”

“Rule Two,” Alice continued, “no talking about work. Not even fake work. If I hear the word ‘set’ or ‘to do,’ I will throw you in the lake. With love.”

Bette smirked. “Threat noted.”

Alice grinned. “Rule Three,” Alice said, wagging a finger. “You puke, you clean. Or you sleep next to it. No negotiations.”

Tina laughed, actually laughed.

“I know,” Alice said with mock sadness. Then she looked at Tina, the teasing melting into something quieter. “And Rule Four—no apologizing for existing. You’re here. That’s enough. You’re enough.”

Tina blinked, caught off guard.

“And if anyone argues with that,” Alice added, shrugging, “they’ll have to deal with me. And I pack snacks and grudges.”

There was a beat of silence, the good kind. Then Tina smiled, soft and a little wrecked. “Okay.”

“Good,” Alice said brightly, “because I will make you a welcome margarita. It’s called the Kennard—sweet, complicated, and likely to ruin you for all others.”

And for the first time since Tina stepped out of the SUV, she almost believed it would be okay. They hadn’t been inside five minutes before Alice clapped her hands again, as if she were running a game show.

“Okay—room assignments.”

Bette closed her eyes. “God.”

Shane dusted her palms together, clearly relishing the chance to stir the pot. “Well, I always get the couch.”

“Right,” Alice said briskly. “Bette gets the loft, because she’s a snob.”  Bette opened her mouth to protest.

“and I take the guest room.” Alice ignored her. “Which leaves…”

Three sets of eyes swung to Tina. Tina said, “I can be anywhere.”

Alice tapped her finger against her chin. “Well…since you two already lived together for a week” Alice paused then “maybe you share the loft?”

Bette exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose.  Tina’s voice rose an octave. “I’ll just take any floor.”

“Fine,” Alice relented, raising both palms. “Fine! Take my room. I’ll sleep…wherever I end up.” She shrugged dramatically. “On the porch. In a tree. It’s fine.”

Shane gave her a look. “You’re such a martyr.”

“You’re welcome,” Alice said sweetly.

Tina looked at Bette, mortified. “I didn’t mean...”

“It’s okay,” Bette said quickly, though her face was warm. “Really.”

Alice waved her off.  Shane clapped her hands once. “Great. Now, food prep. No one will have the energy to cook after tonight.”

“Why?” Tina asked warily.

Shane looked at her with the steady, mischievous calm of someone planning trouble. “Because we’re going to drink enough to forget every bad decision we’ve ever made. Trust me, your energy will be depleted.”

Alice raised her water bottle like a toast. “To questionable choices.”

Dinner came together in a flurry of noise and spilled tequila.  Shane grilled the steaks to perfect, pink-centered precision. Bette, determined to prove she could be productive and not brood, had a pot of pasta done in twenty minutes flat—garlic, olive oil, and just enough chili flake to make Alice’s eyes water.  Tina cooked her hangover soup already cooling in the pot for the following day.

Alice topped off everyone’s drinks before they could protest.  They ate with the doors thrown open to the pine-scented night, the last edge of golden sunset slanting across the floorboards. 

Halfway through her steak, Alice cleared her throat dramatically. “So, listen!” Alice insisted. “It’s important. Friday night is warm-up. A couple cocktails, some games, maybe mild humiliation” paused “Saturday,” Alice went on, ignoring her, “we get wasted. Try not to die." Alice gestured at her with her fork. “And then Sunday morning, Shane emerges from the couch like the ghost of regret.”

“Fuck off,” Shane mumbled, mouth full of steak.

“and I make everyone coffee,” Alice continued. “And we all swear we’re never doing it again, and then put it on the calendar for next year.”

Tina looked genuinely alarmed. “Is this…normal?”

“No,” Bette said flatly.

“Seriously, Tina,” Alice said, leaning back with her drink. “If you want to survive, hydrate early and don’t trust any of us after midnight.”

Tina groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “Oh God.”

They all laughed, the kind of easy, helpless laughter that made the whole cabin feel warmer.

Alice sipped her drink, clearly building up to a finale.  “Oh! and one last thing,” she said, waving her glass in a lazy circle.

Tina looked up warily, like she was bracing for impact.

Alice beamed. “Nudity is normal.”

Tina made a strangled noise. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Yeah.” Shane leaned back in her chair, smirking. “Anything is possible in the woods.”

Tina turned to Bette, eyes wide. “Is she serious?”

Bette sighed, rubbing her temple.

“Don’t worry,” Alice said, patting Tina’s arm. “Consent is sacred, but modesty is optional.”

Tina let out a helpless laugh, burying her face in her hands.

Shane lifted her glass in salute. “Welcome to the retreat.”

And the rest of them laughed so hard it felt, briefly, like nothing else existed but the four of them—this messy, ridiculous, chosen family.

After dinner, the cabin looked like a crime scene of carbs and tequila. The fire still glowed. Shane was already horizontal on the rug, moaning about how full she was, while Alice prowled around with the giddy energy of a woman about to ruin everyone’s night.

Bette stepped over a tortilla chip casualty and looked at Tina, curled into one corner of the couch. “Throw blanket or pillow?” she asked, already reaching for both.

“Pillow, please, thank you.” Tina murmured, eyes glassy and dazed, cheeks flushed with wine. She looked tipsy and warm, her body softening into the cushions like gravity had finally won. Bette handed her the pillow, then leaned forward to grab a bottle of water from the middle of the coffee table, placing it within easy reach.

“Alright, listen up, degenerates,” she declared. “Since this is our first official cabin weekend together—” her eyes flicked to Tina—“I’ve decided we need a little tradition.”

Shane groaned from the floor. “Why do your traditions always end with me questioning my life choices?”

“Because you have poor boundaries,” Alice said cheerfully. “Tonight, we inaugurate… Truth Roulette.”

Bette sighed. “That sounds ominous.”

“It is,” Alice agreed. She snagged the empty wine bottle, held it aloft. “Rules are simple. Spin the bottle, ask the victim any question. No skipping, no lying. If you chicken out—” she held up a fresh bottle of tequila—“two shots.”

Tina laughed, half nervous. “You have this all planned out, don’t you?”

Alice smirked. “Obviously. Also, tonight’s theme is…sex.”

Shane groaned again. “You couldn’t have started with hobbies?”

“Boring,” Alice said. She sat cross-legged, bottle between her knees. “Everyone ready?”

Bette rubbed her forehead. “No.”

“Good enough,” Alice chirped, and spun.

The bottle ticked around and landed on Shane.

“Alright,” Alice said. “Most ridiculous place you’ve ever hooked up.”

Shane didn’t even blink. “Changing room at a charity gala.”

Tina’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

“Benefit for literacy,” Shane added, deadpan.

Alice cackled. “You’re going to hell.”

Shane stretched, looking smug. “Worth it.” She spun. 

Landed on Bette. Shane tilted her head. “What’s one thing in bed you secretly love but pretend you don’t?”

Bette pressed her lips together. “…Talking.”

Alice gasped theatrically. “Dirty talking?”

“Yes,” Bette said flatly, already reaching for her wine.

Tina hid her smile behind her hand.

Bette spun next. Now to Tina.

Tina made a face. “This feels rigged.”

Bette tried to sound casual. “Is there anything you’ve always been curious to try… but haven’t?”

Tina shifted, the flush creeping up her neck. “I—” She hesitated. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like…with a woman.”

Silence. Then Alice let out a strangled little squeal. “Oh my God.”

Shane lifted both hands. “There it is.”

Tina groaned, covering her face. “I didn’t say I was planning anything!”

“You don’t have to,” Alice sang. “We’re just happy you’re curious.”

Bette stared very hard at her glass. She could feel Shane and Alice watching but no one said a word.

Tina peeked through her fingers. “Can I spin now?”

“Please,” Bette murmured.

She spun, cheeks still pink. Now to Alice.

Tina’s voice was shaky. “Describe your first time.”

Alice looked delighted. “With a woman or a man?”

Tina blinked. “Either?”

Alice sighed dramatically. “Alright. First time ever—disappointing. First time with a woman—glorious. Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.”

Shane started clapping slowly. Alice took a bow, then spun.

Landed on Bette again.

Alice grinned wickedly. “Three words to describe yourself in bed.”

Bette grinned back. “Efficient. Intense. Generous.”

Shane choked on her drink.

Tina’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

Alice lifted her glass. “Cheers to self-awareness and orgasms.”

They all toasted. And for one long, humming moment, no one said anything else. The fire popped, warm against their faces. The distance between them all seemed to shrink just a little—enough to feel it, but not enough to call it out. After the last round of Truth Roulette, everything got quiet in that way it sometimes does when the booze starts to settle in—like the laughter had burned off just enough to leave a little rawness behind.

Shane lay spread-eagle on the rug, one sock half off her foot, eyes closed. “Hydrate now,” she mumbled, voice scratchy. “Or tomorrow’s Last Lesbian Standing is gonna be a bloodbath.”

Alice threw her head back against the couch cushion. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Practical,” Shane countered, not moving.

Tina pulled her knees up and hugged them, still sitting cross-legged on the couch. She looked flushed and pleasantly dazed, her hair falling over one eye. “What is Last Lesbian Standing?”

Shane lifted a single finger without opening her eyes. “You’ll find out when you regret all your life choices.” 

Tina blinked, clearly having no idea what that meant. She just took a sip of water like she’d accepted her fate. Alice watched her with undisguised fondness, then flicked a look at Bette who was perched on the opposite arm of the couch, hands wrapped around her glass like it might keep her steady. Bette felt it too, the way Tina’s cluelessness was almost endearing. The way she could say the most incendiary things and then just…sit there, smiling softly, oblivious to the effect she had.

Shane cracked one eye open and met Bette’s gaze, then Alice’s. For a second, all three of them seemed to arrive at the same unspoken conclusion. They were so, so screwed. 

Tina missed it entirely, still watching the fire, her expression soft and unguarded.

Alice let out a little huff of laughter and nudged Bette’s ankle with her foot. “You okay over there?”

Bette didn’t answer. She couldn’t quite find words for the way her chest felt.

The room drifted into a gentler quiet, the fire crackling. No one seemed in a rush to end the night.

Tina finally blinked back to awareness and glanced around. “What?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “Did I miss something?”

Alice grinned wide, teeth flashing. “Nope.”

Shane sat up just long enough to swipe a throw pillow. “I just love how you didn’t even flinch when I said Last Lesbian Standing,” she announced, voice warm with admiration.

Tina looked confused again. “Should I have?”

Bette exhaled a quiet laugh she didn’t mean to let out. Shane dropped back onto the floor, smiling up at the ceiling like she’d just won something.

“No,” she said. “Don’t change a thing.”

Saturday dawned soft and gray, the sky over the pines already brightening by the time Tina padded out to the kitchen. She was in a loose oatmeal-colored sweater and black leggings, hair pulled up in a messy bun that looked, infuriatingly, as pretty as if she’d planned it. The cabin was hushed—only the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional groan of old floorboards under her bare feet. On her way through the living room, she saw Shane and Alice sprawled on opposite couches, tangled in blankets and still dead to the world. Tina paused, looking at them fondly. She planned to be quiet, not out of necessity, but because the peace was rare—and she wanted to protect it for a few more hours.

Tina set about breakfast with the quiet focus of someone trying not to think too hard. Eggs cracked into a bowl. A little salt, a splash of cream. Sourdough slices lined up beside the stove.  She hadn’t slept much. She’d woken just after dawn, curled in the guest room, heart thumping for no reason she could name. Some combination of the night before—of Bette’s proximity in the dark and the quiet clench in her chest every time their eyes caught.

She didn’t want to be alone in that. She also didn’t want to talk about it. So, eggs on toast. A perfectly safe distraction.

She’d just finished plating them when Bette’s door creaked open.  Bette stepped into the hallway in a black long-sleeve tee and charcoal joggers, hair pulled back, looking somehow both sleep-rumpled and composed. She paused when she saw Tina at the stove.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

Tina swallowed. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Bette echoed, softer.

Their eyes held, warm and uncertain, like they were both about to say something they shouldn’t.  Then Bette glanced toward the window—like she’d decided something—and rubbed a hand over her mouth. “I think I’ll take a walk before everyone’s up.”

Tina nodded too quickly. “Yeah, sure. Enjoy.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and Tina pressed her palm lightly to the counter, exhaling.  Alone again. Easier, maybe. But also—somehow worse.  About an hour later, Alice stumbled in wearing a tie-dye hoodie and shorts, her hair sticking up in all directions. She sniffed the air, eyes still half-closed.

“Oh, bless you,” she croaked, making a beeline for the plate of toast.  Shane followed a few minutes later,  looking suspiciously awake, in old jeans and a white thermal.

“Morning, chef,” Shane greeted, stealing a slice of toast straight off Alice’s plate.

Alice glared. “I hate everyone here.”

“You say that every year,” Shane pointed out serenely.

Tina smiled and poured them both coffee. “Bette’s out walking,” she said when Shane looked around, as if she were scanning for her.

Alice took a huge bite of toast and mumbled through it, “Oh my God, are we all gonna get weird today?”

Shane grinned. “We’ve already been weird.”

Tina raised her eyebrows. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Alice said, her voice rising like she was trying not to laugh. “And I’m a virgin.”

A few minutes later, the front door creaked again. Bette stepped back inside, her cheeks pink from the cold air. She paused when she saw them all staring at her.

“Hi,” Bette said warily.

Alice pointed her butter knife at her. “We’re discussing whether today is going to be normal or…you know.” She did an elaborate little jazz-hands motion. “Weird.”

Bette looked at Tina for a second. Tina looked at the counter.  Shane cleared her throat and decided to intervene. “I have reinforcements.” She disappeared into her overnight bag by the couch and came back holding a battered tin box. She flipped it open like a magician.

“Your drug of choice,” Shane declared. Inside were little baggies, labeled in Sharpie organic weed , microdose edibles , gummies , and something Alice immediately picked up and squinted at.

“What are all these?” Alice asked, horrified.

“Options,” Shane said with a shrug.

Tina cracked up so hard she had to cover her mouth. Even Bette was smiling as she hung up her jacket on a hook by the door.

“Only organic,” Tina said when she caught her breath, pointing at Shane’s stash.

“Same,” Bette added, raising a hand in surrender.

Alice threw her arms in the air. “Party on the porch starts at two. You degenerates better show up.”

As the day stretched out, the four of them drifted in and out of conversations. Tina spent most of the morning helping Alice reorganize the bar cart (“We’re civilized, we need mixers”), while Bette and Shane took the porch and watched the trees sway in the breeze.

Sometimes Bette and Tina would catch each other’s eyes across the room—just a second too long—and then look away, pretending nothing had sparked.

By noon, the house smelled like coffee, leftover pasta and grilled cheese sandwiches. A playlist meandered from the Bluetooth speaker. Shane, ever the peacekeeper, started prepping a giant cheese board on the counter.

And every so often, Alice would announce to no one in particular, “It’s not weird unless you make it weird!”  Bette would roll her eyes. Tina would laugh. 

The porch was warm with the noon sun, the light stretched out in pale streaks across the worn planks. Bette had claimed one of the Adirondack chairs in the corner, her knees pulled up and a tumbler of something amber balanced on her thigh. Shane sat on the railing, one leg propped, a bottle of cider in her hand.  Alice was inside with Tina, doing God knew what—organizing, probably, or gossiping—and for a minute it was quiet. Just the hush of trees swaying and the occasional click of Shane’s lighter.

Bette tilted her glass, watching the liquid catch the light. She felt raw today, though she couldn’t quite say why. Maybe it was being here again. Maybe it was Tina. Maybe it was the relentless familiarity of it all—the way her body knew this porch, this view, even this complicated ache behind her ribs.

“You okay?” Shane asked finally, in that voice she used when she was trying not to push but always did anyway.

Bette sighed. “Yeah. I don’t know.”

Shane flicked ash off the end of her cigarette, studying her. “You’ve been…weird. Since Ojai.”

Bette’s lips curved faintly. “That’s specific.”

“You know what I mean.” Shane glanced over her shoulder, making sure Alice wasn’t about to burst out the door. “Ojai was good. You two were good. Then you went back to L.A. and…”

“And what?”

“And you kind of disappeared. Not literally,” Shane amended. “Just…you shut down a little.”

Bette watched a pine cone fall from the nearest tree and roll to the steps. “I was trying not to. I really was.”

“You don’t have to explain it,” Shane said gently. Bette didn’t say much at first. She just sat on with her hands around a sweating glass, watching the breeze tilt the wind chimes slightly off key.

When she did speak, it came out quiet. “Tina and I haven’t crossed any lines.”

Shane didn’t respond right away. Just let the sentence stretch out, breathe. “But you’ve come close.”

Bette gave a soft huff of air. Not quite a laugh. “There’s this line between us. It’s invisible, but we both know where it is. We orbit it. We ache over it. But neither of us steps across.”

“Why not?”

“She has her reasons,” Bette said. “And I... I respect them. I think I do. I don’t even know what they are, exactly. Just that whatever they are, they’re real. I feel them every time she pulls back.”

Shane tilted her head. “And you?”

“I used to think I was waiting for her,” Bette said. “But maybe I’m just addicted to the almost and well it doesn't help that she is so fucking beautiful.” She stared out at the trees. The ache in her chest was quiet now, dull and familiar.

“She doesn’t need to touch me to wreck me,” Bette said finally. “And she’s not cruel about it. That’s the worst part. She’s... gentle and honest. She doesn’t try to own anything, and somehow still owns me.”

Shane raised an eyebrow. “Sounds exhausting.”

Bette let out a dry laugh. “It is.” Another silence. Then “I think I need to stop standing at the edge of something that won’t begin,” Bette added. “Julia’s… real. She’s open. She shows up. And maybe it’s time I do the same.”

“Do you want that?” Shane asked.

“I want peace,” Bette said. “And if Tina isn’t ready—or willing—to cross that line, I can’t keep standing on my side waiting for her to change her mind. That’s not love. That’s longing.”

Shane shook her head, voice low and real. “Pain’s a hell of a drug, Bette. Sometimes we don’t just get drawn to it — we choose it, because it feels like the only thing that’s real. Being close to Tina, even with all that chaos, that ache—that’s alive.”

She gave a wry smile, half teasing, half serious. “But here’s the thing you’re not just some ghost chasing shadows. You’re human. And humans? We mess up by chasing pain like it’s love. But you gotta ask—how long you wanna keep dancing with it before you let yourself want something better? Something that doesn’t break you?”

And Bette, quiet and worn, didn’t disagree and just let the words settle.

Shane deadpanned and tipped her bottle toward Bette’s glass. “You wanna get drunk?”

“Yes and high,” Bette said, without hesitation.

Shane clinked her cider against Bette’s glass. “Then let’s do it. And try to forget for five fucking minutes that we’re adults.”

Outside, the wind whispered through the pines. From the porch, Bette and Shane’s voices floated in and out—low and rhythmic, like a background song you didn’t have to hear clearly to feel.  Inside, Tina sat cross-legged on the old leather sofa, a half-full glass of wine balanced on her knee, her fingers playing idly with the hem of the sweatshirt she’d borrowed from Alice earlier. It smelled like vanilla and linen. She hadn’t even realized she’d been quiet for so long until Alice flopped down beside her, one foot tucked beneath the other.

Alice looked at her with that exact brand of mischief-softened-by-care that only Alice could pull off. “Okay,” she said, nudging Tina’s shoulder, “I’m not trying to play therapist—but I’m also nosy, so.”

Tina smiled faintly. “That’s new.”

Alice grinned. “I don’t know what you’ve got in your head right now, T, but whatever it is… it’s not selfish to go after what you want.”

Tina didn’t look at her right away. She stared at the embers, letting them blur into soft red shapes. Her voice was quiet when it came. “I know what I want. I’m just not built to reach for it.”

Alice leaned her head back against the couch, waiting.

“I used to want all of it,” Tina said, her fingers twisting the fabric in her lap. “The version I thought I was supposed to chase—a partner, a wedding, the stable days and curated furniture, the tidy life with someone’s last name at the end of mine.” She paused, her voice quieter. “And then…”

“You’re here,” Alice finished gently. “In a cabin. On a couch. Looking like your heart got unplugged.”

Tina let out a hollow laugh. “Exactly.”

Alice turned her head slowly, studying her face. “You’ve got love. That much is obvious. It’s—” she gestured vaguely toward the porch, “it’s all over you. I mean, I’ve known Bette for years. She doesn’t soften like that unless she’s already all the way in.”

Tina exhaled. “That’s the other thing. I ruin things. Everything I try to hold onto, I burn it. Even the good stuff.”

Alice was quiet for a moment, then nodded, surprisingly serious. “Yeah. I get that.”

Tina turned to look at her, brow furrowed.

“I do,” Alice said. “Because I’ve done it too. I used to think anything I touched would get smaller, or colder, or somehow less itself. So I stopped touching things. Or worse, I touched them only halfway, just enough to say I tried.” She took a long sip of her drink, then set it down. “But then I learned… sometimes you don’t need someone to fix you. You just need someone who sees you trying.”

Tina swallowed. Her voice was almost a whisper. “I don’t want Bette to fix me.”

Alice gave her a look that was half gentle, half proud. “Good. Because that’s not love, that’s emotional hostage-taking.”

That made Tina laugh, a quiet, grateful sound that faded into the hush between them. Alice shifted closer and wrapped an arm around her. Not in a dramatic, oversized way. Just one arm, one weighty gesture of I’m here and I’ve got you. Tina leaned into it. Closed her eyes. Let her head rest on Alice’s shoulder.

“I wish it didn’t feel so complicated,” Tina murmured.

Alice looked at the fire, then kissed the top of Tina’s hair. “Yeah. But maybe it only feels complicated because it matters.”

They stayed like that for a long time. The silence wasn’t heavy now—it was soft. Shared. Forgiving.  And from the porch came laughter—low, sincere, familiar.  But inside, on that old couch, was a different kind of love, it was steady, quiet, waiting.

The sun dipped low, casting a golden glow over the porch where they all reassembled—decked out in swimsuits, drinks in hand, laughter bubbling beneath the heat. They’d been at it for hours—snacking on appetizers, sipping wine, tequila shots, passing a joint, dancing with careless grins—and it looked like everyone had finally decided to drop their guards, shed the day’s weight, and lose themselves fully in the night.

It started innocent.  Shane, in a fit of mischief, launched a lazy splash across the hot tub, hitting Alice square in the chest. Alice shrieked and retaliated, sending a wave that caught Tina mid-sip.

“Oh my god,” Tina sputtered, blinking water off her lashes, her hair clinging to her cheek. “Really?”

“Consider it a baptism,” Alice announced, grinning manically as she sloshed more water over Shane’s head.

Bette just shook her head, mouth twitching. “Children.”

Tina reached for the bottle of champagne teetering on the ledge, trying to rescue it before it tipped over. But Shane and Alice were now locked in an escalating war, and the tub roiled with every splash.  The next seconds blurred—a burst of movement, Bette’s hand catching Tina’s elbow to steady her, Tina losing her balance and then Bette was behind her.

Tina landed back against Bette’s chest, Bette’s arms braced instinctively around her waist to keep them both from going under. For a stunned heartbeat, no one moved.

“Well,” Alice said, voice high with mischief, “that’s one way to keep warm.”

“Shut up,” Bette muttered, but her voice was low, strained.

Tina’s breath came short, her heart thudding wildly. She could feel everything, the press of Bette’s torso against her back, the shape of Bette’s thighs bracketing her hips underwater, the subtle tremor in Bette’s arms where she held her.  She didn’t dare look at Alice or Shane.

“Um,” she said, voice embarrassingly thin, “I—”

“You okay?” Bette asked, and it was too close, the words brushing the shell of her ear.

Tina felt her whole body break out in goosebumps despite the steaming water. “Yeah. Fine.” She tried to shift forward, but Bette’s hands reflexively tightened, keeping her anchored.

“Told you, body heat saves lives,” Shane called cheerfully.

Bette’s breath was warm against her damp skin. “Do you—want to move?” she asked carefully, as if she genuinely wasn’t sure.

Tina swallowed, pulse skittering. For a beat she thought about staying right there, letting herself lean back, letting Bette’s chin rest on her shoulder. Pretending—just for a minute—that they didn’t have other people, other lives, other promises.  But the thought itself was too dangerous.

“Yeah,” she managed. “I think—yeah.”

Bette’s hands loosened, but before Tina could fully pull away, the tub pitched again—Shane’s fault, she was sure—and Tina found herself plastered to Bette one last time, her back curved into Bette’s front in a soft, almost-perfect fit.

“Jesus,” Bette muttered, her voice frayed.

Tina pressed her lips together, resisting the urge to laugh or cry—she wasn’t sure which. She finally maneuvered forward, putting inches between them, but the damage was done. Her skin was lit up like a live wire, her heart still kicking against her ribs.

Alice cleared her throat, far too pleased. “So. Everyone good? Everyone decent?”

“Barely,” Bette said under her breath, and Tina pretended she didn’t hear the way it cracked on the end.

For the next hour, they floated in that charged, ridiculous quiet—every splash and laugh from Shane and Alice feeling distant and surreal—because all Tina could feel was the phantom heat of Bette’s body pressed to hers, still burning long after they’d pulled apart.  Later—well past the first bottle of champagne and half of Shane’s stash of edibles—the hot tub had become something else entirely.

Not just a tub. A slow, buoyant confession booth.  Steam drifted in fat curls around them, and the night air was crisp enough to make every submerged inch feel deliciously hot. The music from inside the cabin was muffled—some sultry playlist Alice had insisted on—and the whole thing felt suspended out of time.

Tina had drifted closer to Bette again. She didn’t remember moving, not exactly. One minute she was stretched along the far wall of the tub, her head tipped back, feeling her heart trip lazily along. The next—she was here.  Their knees bumped under the water. Bette’s thigh brushed hers, then stayed. Neither of them shifted away.

Alice was reclined against Shane’s shoulder, giggling at something neither Tina nor Bette had caught. It felt like there were only the two of them, like the rest of the world had receded behind a thick fog.

Tina exhaled a slow, dreamy sigh. “I don’t know if I can feel my legs.”

“That’s…concerning,” Bette murmured, her voice husky. She reached under the water—warm fingertips grazing Tina’s knee, a featherlight check-in. “Still attached?”

Tina shivered at the contact. “Yeah. Still there.” Bette didn’t move her hand away.  Tina let herself look—really look—at Bette’s face, the way the steam curled around her hair, the way her lashes stuck together. She looked impossibly soft in this light. Unarmored.

“You okay?” Tina asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.” Bette’s thumb brushed an inch higher on Tina’s leg, unthinking. “Just… fucking high.”

Tina laughed—breathy and warm. “Me too.”  Another quiet settled over them, heavier this time.

Tina’s hand drifted to Bette’s wrist. She didn’t think about it—just followed the magnetic pull. Their skin slipped easily together under the water. She curled her fingers around Bette’s, then brought their joined hands to rest against her thigh.  Bette looked down at their hands, then back up. Her eyes were dark, glassy with the same shared ache.

Neither of them said a word.  Minutes passed like that—slow, soaking minutes. Bette’s thumb traced small, senseless circles on Tina’s skin. Tina shifted closer, until their knees were flush, thighs pressed in a line.  Tina thought she might never be able to pull away again.

“You’re…dangerous like this,” she mumbled, so quiet it was almost just a thought.

Bette’s smile was crooked, sad, and fond all at once. “So are you.”

Shane cracked an eye open from the other side of the tub. “Are you two…like…making out or something?”

“No,” Bette said firmly, but her thumb never stopped stroking slow heat into Tina’s leg.

“Not yet,” Alice muttered, her voice thick with weed and sleep.

Tina pressed her face to Bette’s shoulder, laughing so softly it barely rippled the water. She didn’t pull back right away.  When she finally lifted her head, Bette’s hand was still wrapped in hers.

Neither of them let go.  Time stopped mattering.

Someone refilled their drinks—maybe Alice, maybe Shane—and the bubbles in Tina’s glass felt like they were fizzing directly in her bloodstream. She tipped her head back against the tub edge and closed her eyes, trying to ground herself, but all she could feel was Bette’s palm against her knee, the brush of Bette’s thigh, the heat rolling off her skin.

And under that—something deeper. A low thrum that had been waiting to wake up for months.  She didn’t open her eyes until she felt Bette shift closer. Just enough that her shoulder brushed Tina’s bare arm, slick with steam.

Bette’s voice was softer than she’d ever heard it. “You okay?”

Tina blinked her heavy eyes open. Bette’s face was inches away—hair damp and curling around her cheekbones, mouth parted. Tina felt something in her chest flutter and then sink, slow and inevitable. 

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Just…warm.”

“Yeah,” Bette echoed, her eyes dropping to Tina’s lips for one long beat before she dragged them back up.

Shane and Alice were deep in some absurd conversation about whether ghosts could get high, their voices slurring in and out like a radio station losing signal.

“Bette,” Tina murmured, half a warning, half a plea.

Tina’s heart was thudding so loud she was sure Alice could hear it. “This is…”

“I know,” Bette said again, voice catching.

Tina finally lifted her head. Bette was still looking at her, eyes bright, lips parted.

“You should move,” Tina whispered, but she didn’t sound convinced.

“You should,” Bette countered.

Neither of them moved.  It was Shane who finally saved them, hauling herself upright and announcing she was starving. The spell broke as Alice followed her out, water dripping onto the deck.

Tina and Bette were the last two in the tub.  For one suspended breath, Tina thought she’d lean in and press her mouth to Bette’s collarbone, or her jaw, or anywhere she could taste her.  Instead, she pushed herself upright, water sluicing down her shoulders, and stepped out without looking back.

Inside, she wrapped herself in a towel and tried to remember how to breathe.

Bette stayed behind a moment longer, her arms propped on the tub edge, eyes on the spot where Tina had been.

They’d all drifted back in at some point—grabbing snacks, raiding the fridge, tossing towels over chairs. Someone found chips. Someone else found music. The kind of night where no one said let’s go in—they just moved together like they always did, orbiting back toward the porch and the warmth.

Inside, the cabin glowed golden from the fire and the string lights draped along the beams. The music pulsed low—something with a thick, slow beat—and Alice and Shane were already half-submerged back in the hot tub outside, their laughter filtering through the glass doors.

Tina stood barefoot by the couch, hair damp, towel abandoned on the armrest. She’d pulled on a thin black camisole on top of her wet bikini, her skin still pink from the heat.

Bette was by the old stereo, cycling through tracks until she found the one she wanted—something smoky, a little bluesy, with a rhythm that pooled low in the belly. She turned, met Tina’s eyes across the room.

“Come here,” Bette said, voice low.

The moment the song came on, something shifted in the room—like the air itself went thick and sticky. The bass pulsed low, and Tina turned, her damp hair sliding over her shoulders, water droplets clinging to her collarbones.

Bette couldn’t move. She watched Tina stand there, bare feet on the wet floorboards, a small tremor in her chest every time she exhaled.

“Dance with me,” Bette said.

It wasn’t a question.  She stepped close, so close Tina felt the heat of her skin before she even touched her. Their bodies were slick from the hot tub, beads of water glinting on their arms and stomachs. Bette’s pulse beat so loud she couldn’t hear the music.

Tina rested her hands on Bette’s shoulders—just fingertips, delicate as spider silk. She looked up, her eyes huge and dark.

“I can’t” she whispered, her gaze dropping to Bette’s mouth. She didn’t finish.

“I know,” Bette breathed. She lifted her hands, palms hovering just shy of Tina’s waist. Not touching— almost . Close enough to feel warmth radiating between them, close enough her own hands started to tremble.

Tina’s breath hitched. “You’re not touching me,” she murmured.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Bette swallowed, slow and clumsy, the collar of her bikini tugging weirdly against her throat. Her head felt like it was floating half a beat behind her body, thoughts fuzzy, limbs warm and useless. “Because I know it still won’t make you stay,” she said, her voice soft but heavy, like it had taken everything to push the words out.

A shiver rippled down Tina’s spine. She swayed closer, until their hips almost brushed. Her breath came faster, lips parting.  “Try,” she whispered.

Bette closed her eyes for a heartbeat, gathering the scraps of her self-control. Then she let her hands drift closer, millimeter by millimeter, until she could feel the heat off Tina’s skin but not quite touch her.  Tina let out a sound that was almost a whimper.

The music pulsed in time with Bette’s heartbeat.  She lowered one hand, stopping just before her palm met the bare skin of Tina’s stomach. Hovering. Not quite grazing. She felt Tina’s muscles quiver in anticipation.

Tina looked down between them, her voice thin as silk. “Bette…”

“Shhh.” Bette exhaled, her breath skimming Tina’s temple. “Just…feel this.”

She moved her hand lower, tracing the air above Tina’s bikini bottoms. She didn’t touch, she just let her fingers drift, close enough Tina could sense the promise in every inch of empty space.

Tina’s hips rolled forward, slow and uncoordinated, chasing a closeness that stayed just out of reach. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, lips parted, breath catching like she’d forgotten how to ask for anything clearly. “Please,” she murmured, the word loose and frayed, like it had slipped out without her permission.

Bette didn’t answer. She let her other hand hover at Tina’s lower back, her fingertips tracing invisible shapes. Every time Tina shifted forward, Bette moved back a fraction—denying her, just to watch her tremble. It felt wicked. It felt holy.  Tina’s hands flexed on Bette’s shoulders. Her forehead dropped to Bette’s collarbone, breath warm and damp.

“You’re driving me insane,” Tina whispered.

Bette bent her head, pressing her lips to Tina’s temple—not her mouth, never her mouth. She felt Tina’s body shudder against her, her hips making slow, unconscious circles that brought her so close Bette could feel the damp heat of her through that last thin layer of fabric.

Her hand hovered over Tina’s stomach, tracing lower, until her fingertips were poised just above the place that ached most. The space between them was no more than a breath.  Tina whimpered, her hips lifting, desperate for friction.

Bette didn’t give it. She kept her hand there, her own breath ragged.  “You feel it?” she rasped.

Tina nodded, a broken sound escaping her throat.  “Closer, ” Tina pleaded, her voice splintering.

Bette inched her hand closer. Her knuckles grazed the soaked fabric of Tina’s bikini, but not her skin. Not quite.

Tina pressed her mouth to Bette’s neck, teeth just barely grazing. Her hands slid up to cradle Bette’s jaw, her thumbs stroking her cheekbones.

Bette let her free hand drift to the inside of Tina’s thigh. She didn’t touch. She hovered. She felt the heat and the trembling and knew exactly what she was doing to her.

Tina’s hips rolled again, trying to catch contact. Bette moved her hand back the tiniest bit, just enough to keep her aching.

Tina let out a broken laugh, half sob. “I hate you,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

“No you don’t.” Bette’s thumb traced the air above her skin, close enough that Tina’s thighs trembled. “You love this.”

Tina’s breath came faster, her chest pressed to Bette’s. She lifted her head, eyes blazing. “I do.”

Outside, the wind moved the trees. Inside, the world was reduced to a space between two bodies, the impossible gravity of almost touching.

Tina’s lips grazed Bette’s cheek, her jaw, her throat. Everyplace but her mouth.

Bette let her fingers hover again over that spot—so close Tina could feel the heat of her palm, every nerve screaming.

Tina’s head fell back, a strangled sound tearing out of her.

“God,” she whispered, “just— something .”

Bette didn’t give it. She held her hand there, her other arm sliding around Tina’s waist, keeping her close enough to feel every helpless tremor.

“I can feel you,” Tina choked out.

“Good,” Bette murmured. “That’s enough.”

Tina’s hands slipped into her hair, tugging lightly. Her mouth hovered over Bette’s—so close she could taste her breath—but never touching.  It was more intimate than any kiss.

They stayed like that—hovering, trembling, their bodies locked in a dance of denial. No contact. No relief. Just the exquisite agony of wanting.

And when Bette finally pulled back, she traced her knuckles along Tina’s hipbone— still not touching where it would end them.

Tina’s eyes were wet. Her lips were swollen from biting back the kiss she wouldn’t allow.

“Bette,” she whispered, voice ruined.

Bette swallowed. “Yeah.”

Tina pressed her forehead to Bette’s, her body vibrating with need.

“I want you.”

The glass door flew open. Alice stumbled in, one hand clapped over her mouth.

“Move—MOVE—oh god—”

Bette leapt sideways so hard she banged her hip on the table. Tina yelped and fell backward onto the couch, hair in her face, gasping with helpless laughter.

Alice made a strangled noise and bolted for the bathroom, door slamming behind her.

Silence.

Then Tina dissolved into giggles. “Oh my god—”

Bette pressed a hand to her chest. “I think I’m dying.”

And from the doorway, Shane’s voice, amused and bone-dry “Well,” she announced, flicking ash off her joint, “I’m glad you two decided to have a full-on tantric staring contest while the rest of us were out here committing to tequila-related crimes.”

Bette lifted her head, her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t say a word. Tina tried to sit up and only managed to flop sideways, wiping tears off her face.

Shane cocked her head, eyeing them both like she was studying a rare exhibit. “Genuinely impressive,” she went on. “You realize you were basically one molecule away from making out with the air between you, right?”

Tina groaned and covered her eyes with her arm. Bette rubbed her face, voice muffled. “Shane.”

Shane ignored them, stepping further inside and giving them a long, pointed look. “Listen,” she said lightly, “tomorrow, when you’re sober—and hopefully clothed—one of you is gonna have to explain why you’re treating your feelings like a live grenade.”

She started to turn away, then paused, her grin wicked.

“And FYI,” Shane added, voice dropping to a conspiratorial drawl, “if we’re voting? Pretty sure the grenade already went off.”

She slipped out the door, leaving a wake of pine-scented night air and the faint smell of weed. Tina buried her face in a cushion, still laughing.

Bette blinked hard, squinting like her brain was buffering, trying to stitch together what just happened. Somewhere in the background, Alice was retching dramatically, and Bette’s brows furrowed, confused. She sat frozen, her pulse thundering like she'd just sprinted through a wall.

Outside, the wind rattled the porch. Inside, every nerve was still buzzing, charged as a live wire.

Shane woke up first. Not because she was particularly well-rested—her spine felt like it had been twisted into a coat hanger—but because some damn bird wouldn’t shut up. Chirping, flapping, possibly doing the samba right outside the cabin window.

She blinked one eye open, then the other, and sat up with the grace of someone in their eighties. Her neck cracked. Her breath was tragic. She stretched and scanned the scene like a detective in a very hungover crime novel.

Bottles. Everywhere. A flip-flop on the kitchen counter. Someone’s jacket draped dramatically over the speaker like it fainted mid-song. A trail of popcorn that told the story of chaos.

And then her gaze landed on Bette. Asleep on the couch, on her side, hair slightly mussed, lips parted, one hand tucked under her cheek like a pillow princess in exile. She looked way too peaceful for someone who, if Shane remembered right, had gotten dangerously close to Tina last night.

And that’s when it hit her.

Right.

The dancing.

The laughing.

The fact that Bette and Tina were clearly circling each other like planets about to collide and everyone pretended not to notice—but Shane did. She saw it all.

She groaned, stood, stretched again, and padded into the kitchen just in time to hear “WHO DRANK ALL THE COCONUT WATER?!”

Alice stumbled out of the guest bedroom like a raccoon in a tiara. Hair in a bun that had fought bravely and lost. One sock. A blanket over her shoulders like a cape. She rifled through the fridge, loud and offended. “You guys are monsters. I’m shriveled. My body is a husk.”

“Lower your voice,” Shane hissed, peering over the rim of her coffee mug. “Bette’s down.”

“Oh my God, did she cry last night?”

“No, but if you keep screaming, she might.”

Alice slammed the fridge door, defeated. “Okay, Plan B: ice and lies.” She began foraging through drawers. “Why does this cabin have seventeen forks and no Advil?”

The loft stairs creaked. Tina descended like a hungover goddess in slow motion, one hand on the railing, squinting at the daylight like it had personally offended her. Same cotton shorts and top from last night, hair scraped into a bun, face suspiciously fresh—like she hadn’t just gone twelve rounds with tequila and poor decisions.

Shane noticed it immediately. So did Alice. The tiny intake of breath when Tina spotted Bette sleeping on the couch. The quick look away.

“Morning,” Tina said, cautiously, stepping into the kitchen.

Alice’s eyes narrowed like a sitcom detective. “Wait. Wait, wait. Waaaaait a minute. How did you end up in the loft?”

Tina blinked. “That’s where I crashed. I think.”

“Right,” Alice said, voice dripping with suspicion and electrolytes. “And no one guided you there?”

“I don’t know,” Tina said. “Everything after the gummy is kind of a watercolor blur.”

Shane bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

“Did anything… happen?” Alice asked, eyes darting between the couch and Tina like she was doing math. “With you and Bette?”

Before Tina could answer—or combust—Bette stirred on the couch. She stretched, grunted, and mumbled, “Alice, it’s too early to be yourself.”

Alice huffed, defeated. “Fine. I’ll ask again after soup.”

Tina, in a desperate bid to change the subject, turned toward the stove. “I’ll heat it up. I’m useful now, I think.”

They slowly gathered at the table. Bette sat down last, looking suspiciously unbothered for someone who’d slept in jeans. Her eyes flicked briefly toward Tina, but said nothing.

Alice, slumped in her chair, groaned. “My mouth is dry but also somehow damp. Is that a medical condition?”

Shane stirred her coffee. She let the silence stretch long enough to get uncomfortable, then said “Okay. So no one remembers anything?”

Tina looked up from her soup. 

Bette blinked once.

Alice slowly turned her head like a malfunctioning doll.

“I remember some chaos in the tub,” Alice said. “And I remember saying something about my college girlfriend and a strap-on.”

“You did,” Shane confirmed. “It was the highlight of act two.”

Alice winced. “Did I say anything about the Chicago girl? The one who was into taxidermy?”

“You cried a little,” Shane said.

“Oh God.”

Bette rubbed her temples. “Can we not relive every moment? My whole body hurts.”

Shane tilted her head, then looked between Bette and Tina, casual as hell. “No one remembers anything else?”

Tina blinked. Bette sipped her tea like it held state secrets.

Alice perked up. “Wait. Is this about the dancing? Because you two were dancing. Like slow-dancing. Like prom slow.”

“We weren’t. Aren't we all dancing at some point.” Bette started.

Tina cleared her throat. “I don’t… I mean, I remember music. But not specifics. Just happy to be alive.”

Shane leaned back in her chair, smiling to herself. “You know what I love?”

“No one asked,” Bette muttered.

Shane ignored her. “I love how the two people who should definitely remember, remember the least.”

Alice narrowed her eyes. “What are you saying?”

Shane turned to her, grinning. “Just that I love how we’re all playing a big stoned game of hide-and-seek with our real feelings. And some people.” she looked at Tina and Bette in turn “are very bad at hiding.”

Alice gasped. “Oh my God. Shane just tell me!”

Shane just took another sip of coffee and muttered under her breath, “Talk to me if you remember anything. Which you won’t.”

The kitchen smelled like broth and coffee and the sweet ozone of pine coming through the cracked window. The four of them moved around each other like they’d been doing this for a decade—bumping hips, reaching past each other, trading soft curses and hoarse laughter.

Then Alice belched loudly, breaking the spell.

“God,” Bette muttered.

Tina laughed so hard she had to set the soup down.

And just like that, the day began.

They’d intended to get moving by ten. By the time the coffee pot was drained a third time, it was nearly noon.

Shane was the first to peel herself off the bench and start collecting beer bottles and plastic cups from every conceivable surface. Alice shuffled around behind her, rolling up sleeping bags with all the enthusiasm of a sullen teenager.

“Why is this always so depressing?” Alice whined, trying to wedge her duffel shut with a knee. “We should have a send-off ritual. Like, group therapy. Or a pyre for all our shame.”

“I vote pyre,” Shane said, balancing two garbage bags in one hand. “More cinematic.”

Bette was quiet as she moved around the loft, folding her sweater neatly and slipping her laptop into her tote. Tina hovered near the kitchen counter, sorting through a stack of mugs—some with lipstick smudges, some with little dribbles of whiskey and coffee at the bottom.  Every so often, they’d glance at each other—just enough to register that shared echo of last night. But neither said a word.

Bette came down the stairs, her bag slung over one shoulder. Her voice was soft, almost shy. “Tina… can I ride with you?”

Tina paused. For a second, she looked like she might say no. Then she exhaled and nodded. “Sure.”

Alice turned, brows raised. “Shane are we going to allow this?”

Shane clapped her hands, startling them all. “Alright, Last sweep—trash, dishes, incriminating evidence.” She winked at Tina. “You’re officially one of us now.”

Tina gave a small, weary smile. “God help me.”

The final fifteen minutes were a blur of motion—Bette double-checking drawers, Alice sniffing a questionable Tupperware in the fridge and immediately regretting it, Shane carrying bags out to the cars.

Outside, the air was bright and clean, the trees waving like they were wishing them luck.

Alice stood by her car, sunglasses on, surveying the group like a benevolent dictator. “Same time next year?”

“Unless we’ve all run off to join cults,” Shane deadpanned.

“Or married someone we barely like,” Alice shot back, eyeing Tina in a way that was both teasing and sympathetic.

Tina didn’t flinch, just tugged her cardigan a little tighter around herself.

Shane grinned. “You’re always welcome next year, Tina. Honestly, we grow more unhinged annually. You’ll want front-row seats.”

“Duly noted,” Tina said. Her voice was light, but there was a catch to it.

Alice hopped into the passenger seat, already rummaging for her phone. Shane closed her door and leaned on it, watching Bette and Tina for a moment.

Bette adjusted the strap of her bag, met Tina’s eyes. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Tina hesitated, then added, soft as a secret, “Thank you for this weekend.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Bette said.

“I know.”

They stood like that—just long enough for Shane to clear her throat and look pointedly at the road.

Bette nodded to Tina’s car.  Tina looked at her, eyes soft. “Let's go,” she said quietly. “Take me home.” Tina handed over they keys.

And just like that, the goodbye turned into something else.  Shane watched them climb into Tina’s car and pull away, her expression complicated. She glanced over at Alice.

“You think they’ll figure it out?”

Alice was already digging through a bag of pretzels. “Not this year,” she said around a mouthful. “But maybe someday.”

The car was quiet except for the low hum of tires against the winding road. Tina hadn’t said much since they left the cabin. She buckled in, pulled her sleeves down over her hands, and stared out the window like she was watching a different movie than the one Bette was living.

Bette didn’t press. She just drove her hands steady on the wheel, pulse nowhere near it. They had done this before, shared space without words. But not like this.

This silence had teeth.

They were twenty minutes out when Bette finally spoke. Casual, careful, like tossing a rock onto a frozen lake. “I can drop you at your apartment, then head home from there.”

Tina didn’t look at her. “No.”

Bette blinked. “No?”

“I said—take me home.”

Bette’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Tina…”

Tina turned to her, face unreadable, voice even. “You heard me.”

Chapter Text

The drive back to the city was so quiet it felt loud. Bette’s hand rested on the gearshift the whole way, close enough that Tina could feel the heat of her fingers without touching them. Neither spoke much. Every so often, Tina would glance over, and Bette would look away first, afraid that if she met her eyes for too long, she’d forget all the reasons she wasn’t supposed to.

Now Tina stood at the threshold of Bette’s house like someone returning to a place she never quite lived in but always ached for. Her bag stayed slung over one shoulder, her other hand gripping the strap too tightly. She didn’t move, didn’t sit, didn’t speak. She just breathed—shallow and fast like her body didn’t trust her heart to stay quiet.

Behind her, Bette leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, watching. She didn’t step forward, not yet. She could already feel how fragile the moment was, how close it sat to crumbling under the weight of everything unspoken between them.

“I know why you’re here,” Bette said finally, and the words fell between them like soft glass, fragile and sharp.

Tina turned to her slowly, eyes wide, already tired from carrying the weight of a decision she hadn’t yet made.

“I know your fiancée coming,” Bette said gently. “Shane told me. That’s why she invited you to the cabin. She thought you needed… space. To see clearly.”

Tina didn’t answer. Her gaze dropped, then swept across the room like she was looking for something to tether herself to. She walked forward with a kind of aimlessness, brushing her fingers against the edge of the breakfast table as she passed. Bette turned to fill the kettle. Then, without a word, Tina went straight for the French doors and opened them. The cool night air rolled in like a truth she’d been avoiding, and Bette watched her step into it barefoot.

When the water was ready, Bette poured it carefully into two mismatched mugs and carried them out onto the patio. Tina was by the pool now, arms crossed, her back turned, shoulders drawn tight. She looked like she’d been arguing with the water. Bette set the tea on the small table and didn’t speak until she was standing beside her.

“It’s too cold,” Tina said quietly, eyes fixed on the pool like it might answer something for her.

Bette followed her gaze, then nodded. “Join me for tea.”

Tina didn’t move. For a beat, she didn’t even blink. But eventually, she exhaled—slow and heavy like it cost her something—and turned. They sat beside each other, barely brushing knees, the silence stretching taut between sips. The tea warmed their hands but did nothing to ease the ache lodged between them.

“I didn’t plan to come here,” Tina said at last, her voice scratchy and unsure. “I thought the cabin would give me space to breathe. But it just made everything louder.”

Bette looked down at her mug. “And now?”

Tina’s eyes glistened. “Now I feel like I can’t breathe at all.”

That silence again, deeper this time, more loaded. Bette reached for something in the distance, something calmer, safer—but it didn’t exist here. Not with Tina sitting beside her, breaking apart so quietly. They sat still, side by side on the edge of the pool. Tina’s heels were tucked under her, one hand clutching the mug Bette had handed her, the other absentmindedly tracing the tile border with her fingertips. Bette’s legs dangled over the edge, toes skimming the surface of the water, as if daring herself to jump into something she had no map for.

The night had turned colder, but neither moved to go inside. The silence between them had gravity—dense and unsparing.

“I can’t seem to get enough of the water,” Bette said, her voice low, threading the silence gently.

Tina turned her face to her, and when their eyes met, something in Tina’s expression shifted—like surrender wearing the mask of a smile. “I’m in over my head,” she whispered, both hands lifting to clasp behind her neck, like she was physically trying to hold herself together.

Bette’s hand found the small of her back, palm open and warm, gently stroking. Tina closed her eyes at the contact.

“You’re just like water,” Tina said, voice catching. “You’re calm on the surface, but you’ll pull me under before I even realize I’m drowning. And the worst part is that I want to stay under. I want to stay with you.”

“But you’re afraid,” Bette murmured. Not a question. Just truth.

Tina nodded.

“It’s a choice,” Bette said. “You either swim out or grow gills.” 

Tina laughed, but there was no lightness to it. Just exhaustion and a low, distant ache. “I’ll talk to Eric,” she said quietly. “I can’t marry him.”

Bette inhaled sharply. “Tina...”

"I'm not doing it for you," Tina said, her voice low. "I am not marrying Eric because some part of me still bolts when things get too real. And I don’t want to keep choosing things just because they’re easy to explain to other people. I need to know I’m not running—from him, or from you or from myself." She glanced down, twisting the hem of her sleeve. "When you grow up trying not to make noise, you start mistaking stillness for love. I need to figure out the difference."

Bette didn’t look away. Her voice was quiet, steady. “That kind of healing… it’s not linear. You don’t wake up one day suddenly ready to stay. Sometimes it starts with walking away—just to see if you can finally hear your own voice without all the noise.” She paused, then added, “If what you need right now is to choose yourself, that’s not running, Tina. That’s returning—to something that maybe no one ever taught you was yours to begin with.”

A pause. A beat that changed everything.

“I finally have something scary,” Bette whispered, her voice raw, unguarded.

Tina swallowed. “What?”

Bette turned to her fully, and Tina mirrored the motion, knees brushing, eyes locking like magnets too long pulled apart. There was something final in the way they held each other’s gaze—like a cliff before the fall. Like a dare wrapped in silence.

“Will it be scary to ask you,” Bette said, breath shaky, “while you figure out you, can you unwrap this string you’ve tied around me since that day in the café?”

Tina didn’t speak, didn’t blink.

Bette’s voice trembled. “It’s getting tighter. I can’t breathe, T. I feel it winding through my chest, around my heart, pulling until it threatens to tear. I need you to undo it. Carefully. Completely.”

Tina looked like she might fall apart. Bette leaned in, their foreheads just a breath away, her hand still pressed against Tina’s spine. “And someday, somewhere, maybe… we’ll find each other again. But until then, I want to be free. I need to be. Free to move. Free to heal. Free to speak without silence echoing in every word I don’t say.”

Her voice broke. “Free to be owned… when we’re both ready to belong.”

The ache settled between them like a third body. They moved closer, they're shoulder to shoulder, arms folding around each other in a tight, aching hold. Their foreheads rested together now, and their breaths synced—slow, shuddering. Their embrace didn’t move, didn’t escalate. It just held. Like a prayer. Like a storm holding its breath.

Bette pulled back slightly, just enough to see her. “This feels like the last drawing of the line.”

Tina nodded, her chin trembling. “I know.”

They didn’t say goodbye. They didn’t have to. Their silence said it all.

Then—  Ding-dong.

The doorbell cut through the room like a blade, sharp and sudden, slicing the moment clean in half.

They both froze. The stillness that followed was louder than the chime itself—like the air had been sucked out of the room.
Bette’s jaw clenched. Her eyes fluttered shut, just for a heartbeat, like she could rewind time if she didn’t look. But she couldn't. She exhaled through her nose, then stood, every movement heavy with something unsaid.

Tina didn’t move. She stayed rooted to the pool side, shoulders rigid, hands curled into the fabric beside her. Her eyes were wide, blinking slowly, but her face gave nothing away—not panic, not calm. Just... unreadable. A wall of practiced stillness. And behind it, something fragile trembling.

“That might be Julia,” Bette said, almost to herself.

Tina looked up at her, gaze hollow and sharp all at once. “So… you finally let her into your home.”

Bette froze.

“You’re not mine anymore,” Tina said softly. Not bitter. Not angry. Just truth. Grief softened in resignation.

“You don’t get to claim what you were never strong enough to hold,” Bette replied, her voice a gentle ruin.

Tina froze.

Tina’s breath hitched, the weight in her chest making her whole body ache as if it was slowly fracturing from within. She didn’t respond—didn’t know how. Slowly, as if moving through water, she began to gather herself and reached for her bag, her hands trembling slightly, folding away the fragile pieces of her heart she couldn’t carry anymore. With a final, almost imperceptible glance back, she followed Bette toward the door, each step leaving shards of herself scattered behind like silent footprints on the floor.

Bette opened the door.

Julia stood on the porch, wine bottle in hand, her smile faltering as she took in the scene — first locking eyes with Bette, then shifting her gaze slowly to Tina. It was like watching three hearts break at once, a quiet carnage unfolding in the heavy silence between them. Her smile faltered.

Tina, still in the background, stepped forward slightly.

“I should go,” she said, to no one and everyone.

And just like that, she did.

Ten years and 2 months ago.

The gallery buzzed quietly, like the tail end of a shoot—clipped conversations, the scratch of gaffer tape being pulled from concrete floors, distant laughter in the editing bay. Bette walked the space like she always did—assessing angles, shadows, the tension between subject and light—but something was off. Or maybe it was just her. The echo of Tina’s voice, her absence in every doorway, hung heavier than anything mounted on the wall.

They were almost done. Final reshoots. Last few touch-ups. She should’ve felt proud, relieved even. But more than anything, Bette felt hollow. The kind of hollow that came from watching someone you wanted—no, needed—begin to disappear by inches.

She hadn’t seen much of Tina since that night. That night of tea and tension and breathless heartbreak beside the pool. Since Bette had drawn the line not with anger, but with mercy. Since she’d said the words, she didn’t know how to unsay - Set me free. Until we can be us. Tina hadn’t fought it. She hadn’t promised anything either. And maybe that was the most painful part of all.

James’s voice pulled her back to the present. “Bette. He’s here.”

“Who?”

“The fiancé.” A pause. “With people.”

Bette blinked. “What?”

Before she could form the next question, someone from the crew leaned in with a tight smile. “Tina’s not in the gallery right now. Should I go get her?”

Bette nodded. “Yes. Please.”

By the time Tina arrived, the gallery had transformed. A low, expensive table had been wheeled in, cloaked in linen and ambition—laden with charcuterie, tiny bowls of olives and imported cheese, caviar cake and two waiters pouring Veuve Clicquot like it was water. And in the middle of it all stood Eric.

He wore entitlement like cologne—tailored, tanned, and flanked by two silent men in matching smugness. He turned as Tina entered and lifted his champagne flute in her direction.

Tina froze mid-step. Bette saw it—the falter in her breath, the way her shoulders tensed. She said the words without thinking. “There she is. Our woman.”

The room stilled, holding its breath for a moment. Tina’s eyes flicked toward Bette—sharp, searching, filled with a mix of hope and heartbreak—as if pleading for a meaning she couldn’t quite grasp. But all she found was Bette’s tight, unreadable smile, a quiet wall that left her yearning and lost.

Eric stepped forward with a casual confidence, holding a tray of drinks. “I told Bette I wanted to surprise you and congratulate you for all your hard work—that’s why I brought some refreshments for the whole crew.” He crossed the room with ease. “Honey,” he said, placing a firm hand on Tina’s waist and pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, “you didn’t tell me how stunning your co-producer is.”

Tina’s body went stiff beneath the weight of him. She bit her lip and nodded, too polite to flinch.

Eric turned to Bette. “I mean, really, you undersold her. She’s brilliant. And gorgeous. And I hear you’ve all been hanging out? Friends now, is that it? I’m glad to know you’re not all work here in L.A., Tina.”

Tina blinked slowly. “Mm.”

Eric chuckled. “You’re such a workaholic, babe. I’ve been saying this for years. She gets so focused,” he added, addressing Bette now. “That tunnel vision. Between work and this project, I swear she’s forgotten she has a wedding to plan.”

There it was. The word dropped like a hammer between them.

Wedding.

Tina’s hands curled into fists behind her back. She didn’t look at Bette.

“Oh—and of course, Bette,” Eric said, lifting his glass again. “You’re invited. Wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Bette smiled. Or something like it. She’d perfected the art of stillness. Of grace under fire. Of not letting heartbreak leak out through her mascara.

“Of course,” she said, voice even, mouth taut. “Thank you.”

She didn’t look at Tina either. Not really. But Tina was dying. Quietly. Internally. Death by a thousand contradictions.

Bette had drawn the line. Tina had heard it, held it, honored it like a vow. But here they were, standing on opposite sides of a performance neither of them signed up for—one of them pretending to belong to a man, the other pretending to let her go.

Tina stared at the champagne bubbling beside the gallery light. All she could think about was how, after everything, Bette still looked like home.

Eric’s hand stayed on Tina’s waist longer than necessary, anchored like a claim. He wasn’t squeezing, wasn’t overt—he was charming, even. One of the crew laughed at something he said. He played well, looked good in the part. But his touch, that low possessive gravity, it was deliberate. Like a performance just for one audience.

And Bette saw it.

Tina caught the moment—Bette watching Eric’s hand, her gaze flicking once to where he kept Tina tethered close, thumb idly brushing against the silk of her blouse like punctuation. She saw the slight shift in Bette’s mouth, how her jaw locked before she masked it with a practiced smile.

Bette cleared her throat. “Excuse me for a moment,” she said softly, already turning. She didn’t wait for a response. Just walked off, heels quiet against concrete, disappearing down the hallway toward her office like she needed air but refused to be seen needing it.

Tina’s eyes followed her until she vanished.

Eric was still talking to some of the crew, still charming, still oblivious—or pretending to be.

“God, she’s so composed,” Eric said, eyes on the charcuterie spread. “You can tell she runs the show here.”

Tina nodded absently. “Yeah. She does.”

It was strange. Eric wasn’t doing anything wrong. He wasn’t smug or condescending. He was affable, generous with his smiles, relaxed in conversation. The kind of man people liked easily.

And yet, every time his hand moved against her back, every time his arm tightened to guide her, Tina felt something inside her lurch—like her body was betraying her. Like it was screaming across a room only Bette could hear.

Eric was likeable. And Bette was losing her mind. Tina pressed her lips together and glanced once more down the hallway. She imagined Bette in her office, hands braced on the edge of her desk, trying to breathe past the slow burn in her chest. Because what burned wasn’t jealousy. It was loss. And Tina felt it, too. A quiet unraveling beneath champagne and gallery lights. A goodbye no one had said out loud—just performed in small, cruel gestures.

Tina smiled politely at the waiter who offered her a glass of champagne. She took it with a nod, her fingers trembling just enough that she had to use both hands to steady the flute. Eric’s voice buzzed beside her, but the words bled together, muffled by the pounding in her ears.

It wasn’t just the shock of seeing him there—it was the timing. The performance of it. The gall of him showing up like some casually concerned fiancé, flaunting normalcy, dragging normalcy with him like a spotlight.

And Bette. Tina could still see her—jaw set, eyes unreadable but aching. That flicker of pain when Eric touched her like she belonged to someone else.

She didn’t. She belonged nowhere.

Tina stared at the hallway where Bette had disappeared, chest tightening. All she wanted was to go after her. To slip away from Eric’s easy warmth and perfect composure, and find Bette in her office—maybe sitting on the edge of her desk, eyes closed, breathing slow like she was trying to make the ache behave.

All Tina wanted was to say, I’m sorry.

I didn’t know he was coming.

I didn’t invite him. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you to see this.

She wanted to beg for Bette’s forgiveness for allowing this moment to happen—for letting the illusion fracture and spill across the gallery like wine on concrete. But she didn’t move. She stayed rooted beside Eric, his hand now resting against the small of her back again, light, easy, like it had always been his place.

Her throat tightened. Her eyes burned. The weight of the gallery lights, the chatter, the polished surface of her life—it was crushing. All of it. This charcuterie table. The champagne. The laughter. The hum of post-production nearing completion.

She wanted to fold into herself. She pictures herself in Bette’s guest room, beneath the duvet with the curtains drawn, the door locked, the world shut out. She wanted to let herself disappear for a moment, for a day, for however long it would take to stop feeling this… exposed.

The three of them in the same room — Her past. Her lie. Her undoing.

It was too much. Tina swallowed hard and set the glass of champagne down, untouched. The flute clinked softly against the table.

Eric turned to her. “Honey are you okay?”

She smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah. Just a little warm in here.”

But it wasn’t warmth. It was shame. It was grief with no name. And all Tina could think, again and again, as she stared at the hallway where Bette had vanished was, I need to breathe. I need to get out. I need to break free. But instead, she stood still. Because she didn’t know which direction led her home anymore.

Weeks passed in a blur of high-speed cuts, color corrections, and rewrites on segments that never quite landed right. The gallery was almost back to normal, its polished floors clear again, while most of the editing had shifted to the studio where the story was slowly being pieced back together, despite everything unraveling behind the scenes.

Tina saw Bette often enough, passing in hallways, lingering briefly at wrap meetings, or quietly watching her from across the floor when others weren’t looking. They were cordial. Professional. Perfectly distant. Their greetings were brief nods, soft “hey” that carried all the weight of a history neither dared unbox.

They didn’t talk about Eric.  They didn’t talk about that night.

But Bette, ever composed in her cream blouses and black slacks, still gave herself away in flickers. A wince when someone mentioned “Eric’s amazing caviar cake” or the “imported champagne” he sent over for the crew. Once, Miriam had gone on a ten-minute monologue about the charcuterie quality and Bette had smiled so tightly, Tina thought she’d crack a molar.

She kept her distance, tried to work through the wreckage in silence. The guilt was worse than the ache. And the ache was… constant.

To make things worse, the magazine writers had begun arriving—young, sharp, ambitious, and drawn to Bette like moths. They trailed her at press events and gallery walkthroughs, pretending to discuss editorial angles when their eyes barely reached her face.

And Bette gave it. She laughed easily, made sharp comments that earned delighted gasps, offered a smirk that lingered just long enough to pass for flirtation.

And Tina? She watched. From corners of rooms. From doorways she didn’t mean to linger in. From behind monitors as Bette leaned in too closely to someone’s whisper or offered a glass of wine to a visiting contributor who absolutely didn’t need another.

It gutted her in quiet ways. Because Bette had every right.

One Thursday evening—just before the sun dipped behind the city skyline and washed the gallery in that golden-blue hour that made everything look softer than it really was—Tina stood outside Bette’s office door.

The hallway was still, hushed the way galleries become after hours, when the lights dim but the art still breathes. She could hear the distant echo of someone locking up, the faint buzz of the exit sign behind her, the sound of her own heartbeat growing louder than anything else.

Her heart was thudding against her ribs in that desperate, unsteady rhythm that comes right before you choose to hurt someone by telling them the truth. Her palms were damp. In one hand, she clutched her phone like a lifeline, the open screen glowing with her flight details—LaGuardia, Saturday morning, 7:10 AM. It felt like a shield. It felt like surrender.

She knocked.

A soft rustle inside some papers, a chair creaking. Then Bette’s voice said “Yeah?”

Tina opened the door slowly.

Bette was seated behind her desk, glasses low on her nose, the soft wash of her laptop screen casting her in a kind of twilight. Her fingers hovered over color boards, one hand resting near her mug. She didn’t look surprised. She just looked… steady.

“May I come in?” Tina asked. Her voice was softer than she meant. Careful. Like she already knew how fragile this would be.

Bette sat back slightly, eyes lifting. “Of course.”

Tina stepped inside. She closed the door behind her gently, deliberately—as if the small act could preserve something, as if the quiet click of the latch might keep this moment suspended just long enough.

The air in the office was faintly warm, scented with old coffee and fresh ink. The walls, lined with drafts and concepts and stills from the documentary, felt like witnesses to everything they had built—and everything they had unraveled.

“I just wanted to say…” Tina began, fingers twisting the strap of her bag so tightly her knuckles whitened. “I’m going back to New York.”

Bette’s body didn’t flinch, but she stilled all the same. Just enough that Tina saw it—the breath held, the shoulder frozen mid-motion. A quiet bracing.

“I’ll be handling post from there. Remotely,” Tina added, eyes flicking to the floor, then back up again, unsure what hurt more—looking at Bette or looking away. “The infrastructure’s already set up.”

Bette nodded once. Efficient. Professional. As if this were just another production update.

“Okay.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of things unspoken, of nights that didn’t end the way they should have, of mornings that came too fast, of everything they’d put between themselves to keep from falling in again.

Bette watched her. A long beat passed. Tina could feel the heat of it—those steady brown eyes she had memorized in a thousand different lights, now holding back something heavy. Her eyes glinted, glassy. Not crying, but not far from it either. There was something wounded in her restraint.

She didn’t want her to go. But she wouldn’t beg.

Still.

“You won’t be at the premiere?” Bette asked finally. She tried for neutral, but her voice cracked on the edges.

Tina looked up, slowly. Her expression was unreadable for a moment. Then, too honest. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“At least be there,” Bette said, lower now. Her voice dipped, fragile. “You’re in it. This—this is yours too.”

Tina’s lips curved into something that resembled a smile but wasn’t. It was the kind of expression people wear after long storms, when everything is still wet and broken and the cleanup hasn’t begun.

“I can’t promise,” she whispered.

And that—those three words—landed harder than any goodbye.

Something in Bette’s chest gave way. Quietly. Without fuss. But deeply.

Tina reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, the way she always did when she was trying to stop herself from crying. She glanced around Bette’s office, her gaze brushing over old notes pinned to the wall, a photo from the shoot they once laughed over, the empty teacup by the lamp.

Her voice, when it came, was barely audible. “Being here feels like being on the edge of something I can’t undo.”

Bette’s throat went dry. She couldn’t respond—not without unraveling.

Tina bit her lip. “And I’m not—” she faltered, catching the crack in her own voice, “I’m not signing on for the next season. I… this was supposed to be one thing. It turned into something else.”

A beat.

Bette’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t speak. Every word held back was another piece of her breaking quietly inside.

“I just—” Tina exhaled, the air shuddering through her lungs. “I wanted to say thank you. For everything. The… time.”

There was something final in how she said it. Not cruel. Not bitter. Just… honest. Exhausted.

The silence that followed stretched long and raw.

Bette stood slowly. Not suddenly. Not with intent. Just… because staying seated felt too exposed. She crossed her arms—not defensive, not cold. Just something to hold onto.

She looked at Tina with a gentleness that was almost unbearable.

“I know it wasn’t easy,” she said quietly.

Tina blinked fast, swallowing back the ache. “I don’t regret it,” she said. “Not any of it.”

Bette didn’t step closer.

She didn’t touch her.

And that distance—four feet of rug between them—felt infinite. It felt like every mile Tina would travel away from her. It felt like ten years, even if neither of them knew it yet.

They looked at each other. Just breathing. Trying to memorize.

A long, aching goodbye they didn’t dare name out loud.

And just when Tina thought she might hold it together—

A knock came at the front door. Sharp. Real.

They both turned, startled.

A beat passed.

Bette exhaled softly, looking toward the hallway. “That’s probably James.”

And like that, the spell was broken. But the heartbreak remained, threaded in the silence they left behind.

The sky outside was overcast in that very L.A. way—bright, but dulled at the edges, like someone had turned the saturation down. Tina sat by the window already, hands curled around a mug, steam brushing her jaw. She looked like she hadn’t quite slept. Or maybe had cried through most of it.

Shane and Alice arrived together, slightly windblown. Shane gave a small nod as she slid into the booth across from her. Alice hesitated, then sat beside Shane, eyes flicking over Tina like she was trying to read an old book she used to know by heart.

“You look…” Alice started, then stopped. “Actually, I don’t know what to say. You look like the kind of sad that comes with a playlist.”

Tina huffed a laugh. “Thanks.”

“I mean that in a good way,” Alice added quickly. “You look… cinematic. In the tragic, award-worthy kind of way.”

Shane shot her a look, unimpressed. “Jesus, Al.”

“What? I’m being supportive.”

Tina smiled faintly. “It’s okay. I get it. I don’t even know what I look like right now.”

They ordered coffees, something sweet to share, and for a few minutes the conversation hovered in safe territory—Shane’s new studio space, Alice’s podcast rant about parking tickets. But it all felt like air between them, like they were wading through it to get to the inevitable.

Then Alice leaned forward, quieter. “So… no ring?”

Tina looked down. Her hand curled over her thumb instinctively, like it still expected something to be there.

“No ring,” she said softly. “I called it off.”

Shane didn’t move. Alice blinked and looked away, suddenly studying the rim of her cup like it had something important to say.

“Shit,” Alice murmured. “I kinda thought you might. But still. That’s…”

“Big,” Tina supplied, with a half-smile that didn’t quite land. “Yeah. It was a mess. I was a mess. I just don't want to keep hurting Eric—” Her voice cracked. “But I think he knew. I wasn’t… fully in it.”

Shane nodded slowly, eyes steady. “Bette ended it with Julia.”

Tina looked up, stunned. “She did?”

“Or Julia did. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. Julia saw it—whatever it was. She knew from the start—the glances, the pauses, the way Bette’s attention wandered when your name came up. She never said anything, never pressed. But when Bette opened that door with you standing beside her… that was it. In that moment, everything made sense. She finally saw the reason Bette was never fully hers."

Alice exhaled hard. “You two are like a never-ending novel where nobody skips to the last chapter but everyone wants to.”

Tina rubbed her forehead, trying to keep her composure. “I never meant to cause all this.”

“You didn’t cause it,” Shane said. “It just… happened. It’s hard to explain what pulls people back. You think you’ve buried it, but it finds its way up through the cracks.”

Alice rested her chin on her hand. “I mean, honestly, I think what you did? Calling it off? Choosing to draw a line with Bette even when it’s the last thing you want? That’s not weak. That’s probably the most adult thing either of you have ever done.”

Tina’s throat tightened. She nodded.

There was a silence. Weighty, but not heavy. It was what it was.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Tina said. “For… everything. For being there. For making space for me. I know I showed up in your world like a hurricane that didn’t know its category.”

Shane gave her a crooked smile. “It was good having you here.”

Alice stood up first and pulled Tina into a hug that lingered. Her voice was thick, but she still couldn’t help herself.

“I mean yeah, you’re probably gonna ruin this again somehow,” Alice said into her shoulder. “But you’re trying. That counts.”

Tina let out a laugh that was half-breath, half-tears. “You’re the worst.”

“Just honest.”

Shane hugged her next, firmer, steadier. The kind of goodbye that doesn’t assume permanence.

“You’ll figure it out, kid,” Shane said. “Eventually.”

Tina nodded, eyes burning. She reached for her bag. “Call me when you’re in New York. Seriously. We’ll do something.”

“No small talk,” Alice added quickly. “I want drama. Full emotional chaos.”

“No promises,” Tina said, smiling.

She paused at the edge of the table, looked at both of them. “Bette’s lucky to have you.”

Alice crossed her arms. Something flickered behind her eyes—tiredness, affection, frustration, maybe all three.

Then she tilted her head. “Just for the record… are you in love Bette?” she asked.

Tina met her gaze, and for a moment, she didn’t blink. “I don’t know any other definition of love—except for her. Except for Bette.” she said.

And then she walked out into the soft, gray light.

They stood there watching her for a moment. Watching the space she left behind.

"She's gonna be back, isn't she?" Alice asked,

Shane sipped her coffee. "Yeah."

"To him?"

Shane gave a small, crooked smile. "To her."

10 Years ago.

Two months slipped by with the merciless speed that only pain can summon—swift, relentless, and unapologetic.

Meanwhile, the gallery found its rhythm again. The buzz around the documentary grew louder, the press circling like eager vultures, hungry for every detail. And Bette—true to form—rose to the occasion, unwavering and composed.

Tonight was the culmination of all that effort.

The premiere unfolded at the Egyptian Theatre, its marquee glowing like a beacon. Golden lights spilled onto the bustling boulevard, spotlighting the red carpet that stretched across the entrance like a vivid scar. Barricades lined the edges, a sea of cameras flashing relentlessly. Voices called her name, slicing through the electric night air, as Bette stepped into the storm of attention and expectation.

“Bette! Over here—can we get one shot of you solo?”

“Who are you wearing tonight, Ms. Porter?”

“Is it true you’re opening another gallery in Berlin?”

Bette smiled—the public smile, precise and poised—and adjusted the drape of her black dress. It was cut low at the neckline, tailored perfectly at the waist. The silk hugged her frame like memory. Her hair was swept back, pinned just enough to look effortless. Minimal jewelry. Just one gold cuff and confidence sharpened to a blade.

James stood beside her, looking sharp in his suit—here not to work, but to celebrate the show and support his boss. After all, this success was as much his hard work as anyone’s.

“The press is thrilled. Variety’s already posted their pre-review—five stars. And the LA Times called you the ‘curator of emotion,’” he said, eyes flicking over to the next camera setup.

“That’s ridiculous,” Bette muttered under her breath.

“You’re ridiculous,” James countered. “Go enjoy your moment.”

She was surrounded. Producers, execs, influencers who’d never stepped foot in a gallery until now. Everyone wanted a piece of her. Everyone was smiling.

Except her. Her eyes scanned the crowd—not obviously. Not enough for anyone to notice. But enough for her to notice. The absence. The space Tina had once filled, just by existing. Bette hadn’t asked if she’d come.

Alice was already inside with Shane, texting something chaotic in the group thread that Bette refused to check. Shane had said Tina was in New York for a new pitch. Something with the network, something that required her full attention.

“Bette, just one more—”

She turned slightly for the camera, smile back on. The world adored her tonight. They loved the work. They wanted to know how she did it. She gave them soundbites about vision and narrative and the power of image. She said things Tina used to say to her in the dark. Now she said them to a mic.

And still—there was no glow.

Inside the theater, a low hum of anticipation filled the air. Programs embossed with gold foil rested neatly on every polished seat, catching the soft glow of overhead lights. The massive screen loomed ahead, its blank surface taut and expectant—as if holding its breath for what was to come.

Bette moved down the aisle with the calm confidence of someone who had walked this path countless times before. Her heels whispered softly against the plush carpet, barely disturbing the quiet murmur of voices and the occasional calling of her name from the crowd. Heads turned subtly, eyes tracking her with admiration and recognition.

She slid into her assigned seat—stage right, middle row—the vantage point meticulously chosen for the best view. Settling in, she felt the familiar mix of nerves and pride tighten in her chest. The house lights dimmed, folding the audience into shadows.

A ripple of applause rose, warm but distant, as the first letters of the title appeared on the screen—a film they had poured themselves into, crafted piece by piece together. As the last claps faded, the theater fell into a profound silence, heavy and expectant—every heartbeat synchronized with the glow of the opening frame.

Somewhere across the country, maybe Tina was watching the same cut on a laptop. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she felt it too—how it wasn’t just about the art. How it had never just been about the art.

And Bette, dressed like a woman who had everything, sat in the dark with nothing but the ghost of a moment and the knowledge that the world loved her—and Tina had still walked away. Bette had to remind herself to smile.

She’d done this a thousand times before—stood beside a partner, nodded along with celebratory praise, raised a glass without flinching—but tonight the movement felt manual. Her smile came late and didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“…confirmed for the festival in Amsterdam,” Miriam was saying, practically beaming. “We’re in the international category. Only eight films were selected. And Bette here—our resident globe-trotter—will be flying out to represent us.”

Miriam nudged her, expectant. Bette lifted her champagne. “Couldn’t ask for a better launch.”

The photographers were already moving on to some actress from a streaming show. Bette exhaled, her fingers tightening around the delicate stem of the flute. Miriam launched into a story with someone from the studio. Bette let her attention drift—carefully, smoothly—toward the entrance.

And that’s when she saw her.

Tina.

The black dress wasn’t just stunning—it was cruel in the way it revealed everything and promised nothing. Thin straps. Bare back. Skin that caught the light like gold. Her blond curls were down, loose and soft around her shoulders. Unbothered. Beautiful.

Her eyes swept across the room. Found Bette.

And she smiled. It was subtle. Controlled. But real.

Bette’s chest tightened. She smiled back, a beat late, unsure if it read as gracious or gut-punched.

Then Shane appeared behind Tina, followed by Alice, who immediately threw an arm around her waist and whispered something that made her laugh—head tilted back, eyes closed. And just like that, the moment vanished. Eye contact broken. Curtain dropped.

Fuck.

The after-party was in full swing now. Music low but steady. The bar well-stocked and mobbed. Everyone high on adrenaline and alcohol and the warm, flattering glow of success. Bette kept it together. She chatted. Nodded. Answered questions. She even complimented someone’s shoes. But every time she moved, every turn of her head, her eyes looked for person.

She caught glimpses—Tina by the catering table, Tina listening politely to an executive pitch, Tina mid-sip of her second or third drink. Never alone. Always just far enough away.

They were both being careful. Too careful.

The bar helped. Two neat tequilas for Bette. Tina stuck to white wine, the expensive kind no one actually liked but pretended to. Shane and Alice were the buffer—darting between the two, talking shit, distracting, drinking like it was a sport.

When they finally said goodbye—Shane muttering something about splitting a pizza and Alice hugging too long—Bette didn’t hesitate.

She moved fast. A direct line. Straight to Tina.

Caught her just as she was setting her empty glass on a tray. The edge of her hand brushed the stem and nearly knocked it over, but Bette’s fingers wrapped around her wrist before she could recover.

“Detour.” One word. Low. Firm. Not a question.

Tina froze. Her wrist still in Bette’s grasp. Her eyes slowly lifted to meet hers. Tension cracked between them like lightning in the quiet.

Bette didn’t let go. Tina didn’t pull away.

Instead, she blinked—something unreadable passing over her face—and then, softly, like it didn’t mean anything, she said, “…Okay.”

Bette led her toward the hallway. Past the bathrooms. Past the exit sign. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere off-script. Somewhere they didn’t have to pretend.

“Tina,” Bette said softly as they stood just outside her car, the streetlight behind them casting shadows along the path of the car park. “Why don’t I say goodbye to you properly this time?”

Tina’s gaze stayed steady, unreadable. “Just like we did the last time with my dare?”

Bette winced slightly.

Tina tilted her head, then offered the smallest, saddest smile. “One last goodbye?”

The words felt like smoke. Weightless but burning. Bette reached for her hand without answering. Their fingers met and laced together easily, naturally—like the space between them had just been waiting for permission.

The city blurred past them in streaks of gold and navy as Bette drove. The windows were cracked, just enough to let in the night air. The kind of quiet that settled between them wasn’t empty—it was full. Charged. Like every word not said was sitting between them, breathing just as loud.

Tina was the first to speak. Voice soft, like she didn’t want to wake the sleeping version of herself that had tried so hard to move on.

“I heard the next season’s going to be shot in Amsterdam.”

Bette kept her eyes on the road. “Yeah.”

A beat passed. Then she glanced sideways. “Changed your mind yet?”

Tina gave a quiet smile, one she didn’t try to make convincing. “I signed onto a new series. Mostly filming in Toronto and Korea.”

Bette nodded slowly, mouth pulling into something tight. “So we’re really making sure we get all the distance between us.”

The streets curved toward a place so familiar her body responded before her mind caught up. Her hand—still warm from Bette’s—rested on her lap, but Bette reached over and took it again. Fingers threading together like they’d never stopped knowing the shape.

They didn’t speak. The silence was fragile. But not empty.

When they pulled into the driveway, neither of them moved for a moment. The headlights dimmed, the hum of the engine went quiet, and still they sat there—hands clasped like a truce they weren’t ready to break.

Bette turned to her slowly. “This is the last time we’re going to do this.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a warning. It was a soft, solemn contract.

Tina nodded. Her voice barely a whisper. “Okay.”

They walked up the steps side by side, quiet in their steps but loud in everything unspoken. Bette unlocked the door slowly, pushed it open, and stepped inside, holding it gently for Tina as if even the sound of it shutting might unravel them.

She didn’t turn the light on.

Just the soft click of the door closing. The world stayed dim, the shape of the hallway stretching familiar in the dark. Tina stepped forward and nearly bumped into her.

They were suddenly chest to chest.

“Oops—sorry,” Tina whispered, breath catching.

Bette’s hands instinctively found her arms, holding her steady. They stayed that way for a beat too long—close enough to feel the shift in each other’s breath, to memorize the silence between their heartbeats.

“You’re warm,” Tina said, like a confession.

“So are you,” Bette replied, like an echo.

They both stepped back at the same time, toeing off their shoes like old lovers who knew the floor plan of each other’s bodies. Without a word, they slipped out of their coats— sliding from their shoulders in a quiet sweep,  shrugged off with a practiced ease. They set them down side by side on the couch, deliberate and unthinking, like muscle memory. The moment stretched, the air thick with all the things they hadn't said but couldn't help repeating in silence.

“I’m parched,” Tina murmured.

She padded into the kitchen, bare feet brushing against the cool hardwood, her movements quiet but sure—like muscle memory pulling her through a house she no longer lived in but still belonged to. Her hand moved without thinking, tugging open the fridge. The white light spilled out in a hush, flooding the space like a memory caught between sleep and morning.

Tina leaned in, her voice soft, teasing, but edged with something unspoken. “You’ve got orange juice. And strawberries. Is this a curated lesbian starter pack?”

Behind her, Bette laughed—low and genuine—the kind of laugh that curled into the ribs and made something ache. She moved to the cabinet, grabbing two glasses with that same elegance she applied to everything else in life, like she was always just barely containing the mess beneath.

Tina ignored the glasses entirely. She reached for the juice and tilted it straight to her lips, unbothered, deliberate.

“Hey!” Bette protested, crossing the space with playful indignation, her hand brushing against Tina’s. “Share.”

Tina swallowed and passed the bottle to her with a grin that was sharper than it should’ve been. “Relax. I don’t have rabies.”

Bette met her eyes for a second too long before taking a sip, her mouth still shaped like a smile. “No,” she said, lowering the bottle, “but I’m sure you’ve given someone a fever or two.”

Tina rolled her eyes but her cheeks flushed faintly as she slid down to sit on the kitchen floor, back against the lower cabinets. Her body folded easily into the space—legs stretched out, arms draped over her knees. She looked comfortable there. Like she could stay all night, and like she wouldn’t.

Bette followed her lead, crouching beside her with the juice in one hand and a dessert fork in the other. She reached back into the fridge and pulled out a plate, peeling the plastic wrap from a single, perfect slice of cake.

“What is this?” Tina asked, eyeing it.

“Imported hazelnut chocolate mousse cake,” Bette said, taking a bite with exaggerated reverence. “Same kind as the gift from your fiancé.” She paused—then added casually, “Or now, ex-fiancé.”

Tina groaned, her head falling gently back against the cabinet. Her hair brushed the drawer handle. “Don’t remind me.”

“Oh no, I’ve had this memorized.” Bette chewed, swallowed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand—not careless, but unguarded. “Eric wasn’t bad. He was just… Eric. And boy did he make sure everyone knew you were his.”

Tina snorted, eyes still on the ceiling. “Jealous much?”

Bette raised an eyebrow, mock-affronted but not denying it. “You try listening to ten people rave about the caviar tower he brought while you’re trying to focus on art selection. I got actual canker sores from biting the inside of my cheeks.”

That did it—Tina broke into laughter. The sound filled the space and softened everything sharp. She covered her mouth, then dropped her hand and shook her head. “Poor baby.”

And for a moment, the silence that followed was warm. Not empty. Not waiting. Just full of something old, and known, and breaking all over again.

They passed the fork back and forth, eating straight from the plate like kids at a sleepover, the rhythm unspoken but intimate. Every now and then, they’d lift the bottle of juice between them, tipping it to their mouths without ceremony. Their fingers brushed once or twice—neither pulled away. It was strange, how easy it was. How quiet.

But the quiet wasn’t empty.

The storm was there—beneath Tina’s steady exhale, behind Bette’s careful glance, tucked into the places where words used to live. It pulsed gently in the pauses, in the way they didn’t ask each other certain things. It was the kind of storm you carried in your chest, not the kind that made noise.

Not tonight.

Bette turned her head just slightly, her gaze slipping over Tina like a sigh. Tina had her knees pulled in close, a posture that looked part-protective, part-surrender. Her hair spilled loosely over her shoulders, catching the light. Her cheeks held a flush that hadn’t faded, not from the juice, not from the sugar. Something else.

“You look tired,” Bette murmured, her voice barely more than breath. It fell between them like a blanket, soft and warm.

“I am,” Tina said, with a faint, crooked smile. “But this… this is nice.”

The way she said it, the small catch in her voice—it was the kind of nice that held too much meaning.

Bette looked at her for a long moment, her eyes flickering between Tina’s mouth and the space just beside it. “I’m sorry.”

Tina turned, the fork still loosely in her hand.

“For how I behaved when I last saw you,” Bette said. Her voice was steadier now, but still low. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Tina blinked, eyes glossy. “It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing to me,” Bette whispered.

That silence again—heavier now. Thicker. It pressed in around them, filled the corners of the kitchen, made the space between their bodies feel at once small and infinite. Tina looked down at the fork as if she’d forgotten what it was for.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said quietly. “For Julia. For all of it.”

Bette didn’t respond—not in words. She reached over, gently, carefully, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Tina’s ear. Her hand lingered there, her fingers brushing the side of Tina’s face, tracing the edge of memory. She didn’t pull away.

Tina leaned in—slowly, as though drawn by a gravity neither of them had the strength to resist—and rested her forehead against Bette’s temple. The contact was light, reverent. The cake sat forgotten. The juice had gone warm. But none of that mattered.

They sat on the kitchen floor, backs to the cabinets, shoulder to shoulder, forehead to temple. Breathing together.

Tina closed her eyes. “I could stay until morning.”

She didn’t say it like a question. She said it like a truth she wished she were brave enough to hold onto.

“You came tonight,” she said after a long beat. Not a question. Just awe.

Tina’s eyes stayed shut. “I just… couldn’t help it. I came for you.” It was a confession more than anything else. And Bette heard every word Tina didn’t say.

Bette didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, her hand found Tina’s—fingers brushing slowly over the curve of her knuckles, tracing the lines like a page she didn’t want to turn just yet. It wasn’t a grip. It was gentler than that.

The way you might hold a letter you’re not ready to open.

Outside, the night carried on in its indifferent rhythm—cars passing, leaves shifting, a dog barking far off.

Inside, they stayed still. Lit only by the hum of the fridge and the quiet ache of everything they still couldn’t say.

Eventually, Bette moved—slow and quiet, like a prayer. She gathered the used plates, the cake fork, the half-empty bottle of juice. The gestures were second nature, performed with the kind of practiced ease that came from living alone but dreaming—always—of something more.

She rinsed the dishes one by one, her hands steady, her face unreadable. Tina watched from the floor, head tipped back, eyes tracing the line of Bette’s back and shoulders, the graceful economy of her movements.

There was tenderness in the way Bette placed each item down, in the care she gave even to ordinary things. A tenderness Tina still remembered with her body.

When she was done, Bette dried her hands slowly and turned. Her expression was unreadable for a second, then softened into something quiet and open.

She held out her hand and said, “C’mon.”

Tina reached up, letting herself be pulled gently to her feet. There was a subtle intimacy in the way Bette steadied her, thumb brushing along the inside of her wrist like she wasn’t aware she was doing it. They walked quietly to the bedroom, bare feet soft against hardwood. The hallway was still cloaked in that velvety dark, with only the distant wash of moonlight seeping through the blinds. As they stepped inside the room, Tina hesitated, hand curling around the strap of her dress.

Bette noticed.

Without a word, she stepped behind her. Her fingers reached for the zipper, slow and delicate, grazing the nape of Tina’s neck as she pulled it down. Tina’s shoulders rose slightly under the soft slide of fabric, but she didn’t stop her.

When the dress slipped down and Tina caught it at her chest, Bette stepped aside, wordlessly rummaging through her top drawer. She pulled out the old, soft Yale shirt—faded, almost tissue-thin from too many washes. She turned and offered it to Tina like it was something sacred.

Tina smiled, touched. “You still have this?”

“I think I always will.”

She took it, gathering the shirt to her chest like she knew the weight of that statement.

Tina walked to the bathroom, pulling the door halfway closed behind her, and the light spilled into the room with a warm, muted glow. Bette sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbed her eyes, then peeled off her dress and swapped it for a white tank top. She slipped into soft cotton pajama pants and let her head drop for a moment in her hands.

A minute passed.

Then another.

She heard the water running in the bathroom and pushed herself up, padding quietly toward the door. She tapped twice, gently.

“You decent?”

Tina opened the door a little more, steam curling around her like a veil. The shirt hung on her like it used to months ago—far too big, hitting just below her thighs. She was brushing her teeth, barefoot, damp around the collar from washing her face.

Bette stepped inside and grabbed her own toothbrush wordlessly. They stood next to each other at the sink, side by side. There was something strangely sweet about it—like they were stealing a moment from another life, one they never got to live.

In the mirror, their reflections moved in rhythm. Tina nudged her gently with an elbow, toothpaste foamed at the corners of her lips.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

Bette didn’t look up. “Just tired.” Her voice was worn, but not sad.

Tina rinsed her mouth and leaned on the counter, watching Bette as she scrubbed at her face with a damp cloth.

“Please stay up a little longer, you're eyes are giving you away.” Tina said.

Bette paused, then reached for a towel. “I don’t know what it is,” she murmured, voice lowering as if admitting something she rarely said aloud. “When I’m with you… I just want to sleep. And snuggle. And forget the world.”

Tina didn’t respond right away. She was too busy memorizing the curve of Bette’s mouth as she said it.

She reached for her hand again, gently laced their fingers together. They walked back to the bed.

Bette flipped back the covers and let Tina crawl in first. The sheets were cool, but her presence made the bed feel warm immediately. Bette turned off the bedside lamp and slipped in beside her. They faced each other, close but not touching, both lying on their sides in the dark.

Bette tucked one hand under her head. “This feels… unfair.”

“What does?” Tina whispered.

“That this doesn’t feel like a detour or a dare. At least not anymore.”

Tina didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out, found Bette’s fingers, and held them again under the covers.

“It doesn’t feel like one to me, either.”

Their foreheads nearly touched. Both feeling nothing but just warmth. And that delicious, dizzying anticipation of two people who had once said goodbye, now daring the night not to end.

Few moments after, they now lay face to face, the quiet humming low between them. No words for a while. Just hands resting in each other’s space. Bare legs tangled without question. A silence that asked nothing of them but to exist there.

It was Tina who finally whispered, “Do you remember our last night after my dare?”

Her voice barely registered above the hush in the room, like it was afraid to disturb the moment. She didn’t look directly at Bette at first—just let her thumb move in slow, deliberate strokes along the inside of Bette’s wrist. Back and forth. Like she was tracing the memory from under her skin.

Bette looked up at her, her eyes tired but unblinking, the kind of tired that comes not from lack of sleep but from holding too much inside for too long. “Which part?”

“The night you knocked,” Tina said softly, her voice catching in the space between them. “And I let you in.”

The air shifted. Bette smiled—small, lopsided. There was no joy in it, but there was tenderness, and it hurt just as much.

“We didn’t even talk,” she said, almost as if she still couldn’t believe it. “Not really.”

“We didn’t have to.” Tina’s voice dropped, breathy, as though saying it any louder might break something. “We just… laid there. Spooned the night away. Like idiots.”

“Like cowards,” Bette said, but there was a trace of affection in her voice now. She tilted her head, just enough to see Tina’s face better in the low light.

“Like people who weren’t ready to let go,” Tina corrected gently. Her fingers stilled at Bette’s wrist, but she didn’t let go.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was alive with history.

They looked at each other again, and everything between them pulsed in that gaze—the time that had passed, the things left unsaid, the softness that survived despite everything.

The bed was warm now, the sheets tangled around them like a second skin. Bette lay on her back, one arm resting behind her head, the other still tethered to Tina. Tina was curled into her side, her thigh brushing Bette’s, her face half-buried in the slope of Bette’s shoulder.

The window had been left cracked open, letting in the hush of the night—distant traffic, the occasional gust of wind, the echo of someone else’s life. The city outside kept moving, unaware of the two women lying still in the dark, pressed close together like punctuation in a sentence they hadn’t finished writing.

Their bodies fit together the way memories do—not always cleanly, not without friction, but perfectly in their own way.

That restraint had become their language. A shared fluency in hesitation. The quiet ache before every almost. The pause they never seemed to outrun.

Bette shifted, her body inching closer with a kind of reverence, resting her cheek against the soft slope of Tina’s collarbone. Her breath landed warm and tentative on Tina’s skin. Her voice was barely a whisper, as though she were confessing something fragile. “Have you ever heard of the Last Goodbye theory?”

Tina looked down at her, her fingers still gently circling Bette’s wrist, thumb brushing in quiet, steady strokes. The touch was light but tethered. “Tell me.”

“The idea that when you’ve finished your purpose in someone’s life,” Bette said slowly, choosing her words like she was setting them gently on a ledge, “the universe makes sure you don’t find each other again. Not by accident. Not by effort. Not even if you’re in the same room.”

Her breath caught at the end of it, like the truth had cost something to say aloud.

“No explosive ending,” Tina murmured, her voice dipping low, almost reverent. “No big fight. Just… silence.”

“Just timing,” Bette said.

The words landed heavy between them. Not cruel. Not cold. Just quietly devastating.

There was a pause—thin, aching, brittle with everything they hadn’t let themselves ask.

“I think maybe,” Tina said, her voice cracking like the surface of something old and tender, “it’s the kindest thing the universe knows how to do. Letting people walk away without hurting each other more.”

Bette went still. Not just physically. It was a stillness that felt internal—like something inside her had stopped moving, or braced for an old familiar ache.

Tina’s hand stayed on her wrist, but her eyes had turned somewhere inward.

After a long beat, Tina said quietly, not as a plea, but as something sacred and needing to be said, “Let me kiss you.”

Bette didn’t move. She stared up at the ceiling, her eyes unfocused, as though looking past it, through it, to something far away. Then slowly—almost with sorrow—she turned her face toward Tina.

“Save it for the next ever after.”

The silence that followed was thick and trembling. Tina let out a breath, a soft exhale that started as a laugh and collapsed into something else—something layered with grief and love and months of near-misses. She turned then, slowly, deliberately, lying on her side, her back to Bette.

The space between them filled with all the things they couldn’t voice, and all the versions of them that might have existed if life had unfolded a little differently.

Bette moved closer, not with desire, but with care. She folded into the shape Tina left behind, pressing herself gently to it, like trying to remember a home she once lived in. Her arm slipped around Tina’s waist—not to possess, but to memorize.

She let her forehead hover just above the back of Tina’s neck, close enough to feel the heat, the scent, the pulse. Her voice came low, breath threading each word like a thread through the eye of something too delicate to hold.

“You know what’s funny?” she murmured. “I know the curves of your waist. The softness of your hands. The direction your hair grows on the back of your neck…” She pressed a kiss there, barely a whisper of touch. “And I haven’t even kissed your lips. And I don’t feel like I’m missing out because this, right here, is everything.”

Tina reached under the sheets for her hand, finding it instantly, as if no time had ever passed. She brought Bette’s hand to her lips and kissed it softly, sealing something without name or promise.

Bette pulled her in closer, until there was no space left between them—until they weren’t just beside each other, but folded into something unspoken and unbreakable. A stillness that felt, just for that moment, like love without conditions.

Tina’s voice was fading now, blurred at the edges with sleep. Her head was nestled into the crook of Bette’s shoulder, breath warm against her skin. “What do you remember about the cabin?”

Bette hummed softly, her fingers lazily trailing across the cotton of Tina’s sleeve. Her voice curved near a smile. “Not much. Just… one point, I think we were close enough to combust. Shane said it.”

Tina gave a tired, low laugh, muffled by the bedding. “Liar. Well, I just remember being wet.”

Bette froze.

A beat. Then she snorted—actually snorted—before dissolving into a surprised laugh, full and involuntary. “Jesus, Tina.”

They both laughed then, quiet and breathless, muffled under the weight of the covers and the closeness of the dark. The bed shifted beneath them, trembled slightly with their bodies. The sheets tangled at their feet. Fingers clenched without meaning to, anchoring in fabric or skin.

It felt real. Like joy, if it weren’t laced with endings.

Like joy’s ghost.

Tina turned her head, her cheek brushing the hollow of Bette’s shoulder. “Bette?”

“Mm?”

“You don’t have to get up tomorrow to make me coffee. Like last time.”

Bette didn’t answer right away. Her breath hitched quietly, but she masked it by adjusting the blanket, her hand slowing near Tina’s ribs.

“I’ll see myself out,” Tina added.

There was a pause so still it almost hummed. Bette’s voice was low—rough with the effort to stay composed. It barely carried across the few inches between them. “Is that what you want?”

Tina closed her eyes, fighting the sting behind them. Her voice was steady, but it cost her. “It’s what we need.”

Bette didn’t argue.

Didn’t plead.

She just leaned in and kissed Tina’s forehead, slow and reverent, as if memorizing the shape of her skin. She breathed her in, like someone taking in the last scent of a season, or the memory of a home they knew they couldn’t return to.

Tina reached for Bette’s hand beneath the sheets, pulled it to her lips. She kissed it softly, deliberately, the kind of kiss that said thank you and I love you and I wish this wasn’t goodbye—all without a single word.

Neither of them said it.

The room was quiet, but full. Full of things too heavy to name. Full of almosts. Full of never agains. They drifted off in silence, their bodies still pressed together, the warmth between them stubbornly present even as the rest of the world cooled.

Outside, the city exhaled.
Inside, the night held its breath.
And somewhere between holding on and letting go, morning began to rise.

When Bette woke, the sun had already stretched its fingers across the sheets, warm and indifferent. She reached instinctively, the way we do when we’ve forgotten that something is gone. Her hand found nothing but fabric. Cool, undisturbed.

Tina’s side of the bed was empty.

Still made, like she’d never let herself fully settle in. The pillow dipped faintly with the ghost of her head, the sheets barely wrinkled—tidy, careful, like she’d peeled herself away without letting the bed remember her too much.

Bette sat up slowly. No rush. No real shock—just that soft, unbearable awareness that something final had happened in the quiet hours of morning.

The air was still. No music, no movement. The kind of silence that wasn’t just quiet—it was after. After the door closed. After the heart knew. After love, maybe.

She moved barefoot through the apartment, into the kitchen, feeling every step. Her body ached—not from sleep, but from memory. From every moment they’d stretched too thin and every one they’d clung to too hard.

Then she saw it.

The key.

Placed gently in the middle of the table. No note. No flourish. No drama.

Just the key.

Like a gift and a surrender.

Bette stopped. She didn’t cry. She didn’t touch it right away. Just looked at it, like it could speak for her. Like it might explain something neither of them could say the night before, in the dark, when their bodies had spoken in place of their mouths.

When she finally picked it up, it didn’t burn. It didn’t sting. It just rested there in her hand—metal, warm from the sun, solid in a way she no longer was.

There was no trace of Tina’s perfume, no lipstick smudged on a glass, no goodbye scribbled on a piece of paper. Just absence. And something else. A whisper of mercy.

Because this was Tina setting herself free.

And maybe—maybe—that meant setting Bette free, too.

She placed the key back on the table. She didn’t have the strength to hold onto it.

And when she exhaled, really exhaled for the first time in weeks, her chest hurt. But she could breathe.

She didn’t know the shape that distance would take.
Didn’t know how absence could make a home inside her chest.
Didn’t know how loving someone could become a habit you never really break.

But she knew this, Tina was gone. And this time, she hadn’t run. She’d simply left with a steady hand and a full heart and in her absence, she left both a hollow ache and something almost holy.

A wound with edges smoothed by grace.

Chapter Text

The present, finally.

Tina blinked slowly as the car turned left onto a narrow, tree-lined street. Late afternoon light slanted low through the branches, throwing golden shadows across the windshield like fingers pulling them toward something. She shifted in her seat, eyes narrowing at the unfamiliar scenery.

“Wait,” she said, voice soft, almost wary. “I don’t know this area.”

Bette kept her eyes on the road, her grip on the wheel calm but deliberate. Her jaw was set—too still—the kind of restraint Tina had seen before, the kind that meant something deeper was tucked just beneath it.

“I let it go,” she said finally, voice even. “The West Hollywood house. Once I left for Amsterdam and the series took off… holding onto it didn’t make sense anymore.”

Tina’s brow furrowed slightly. That house had held so many versions of them—some bruised, some blisteringly alive. The idea of it being gone made something in her chest tilt. She glanced out the window again, but her attention wasn’t on the houses. The sun hit the roofs in a warm glaze, and everything looked just a little too still. Like the calm before something.

The road narrowed further before widening into a short, secluded drive. A wooden gate revealed itself behind a trimmed hedge—nearly invisible unless you knew where to look. As the car rolled forward, the gate buzzed to life, revealing the house.

It was all glass and warm wood, lines clean and intentional. Not cold—never cold—but quiet in the way museums were. Every detail curated, restrained. A private life disguised as an architectural love letter.

Tina leaned forward slightly. “Wow.”

Tina shifted again, almost to sit up straighter, as if that would slow the thoughts. “This is yours?”

Bette nodded once. “Since I got back.”

The car pulled into the drive, tires crunching softly against the pavement. Bette cut the engine. The air stilled. Outside, the light was dipping toward that golden hour that makes everything look more honest than you’re ready for. Tina stayed still in her seat, her hand resting just near the handle, not opening the door yet.

“It’s different,” she said, more to herself.

“It needed to be,” Bette answered.

Tina turned to look at her. There was something about the quiet in Bette’s face—something both careful and hopeful, like she'd been rehearsing the stillness for weeks. The engine ticked as it cooled. Birds chirped somewhere nearby. A sprinkler switched on faintly in a neighbor’s yard. But between them, it was the same old hum, the same crackling pause before every line crossed.

Tina didn’t open the door yet. She sat there, heart thudding—not just because she was about to enter a new house, but because this felt like arriving at a moment she hadn’t let herself want. And it was late enough in the day to admit that maybe she still did.

Inside the car, silence thickened like fog. They sat side by side, not touching, the air between them charged and suspended. Everything unsaid buzzed at the edges. Not just years, but versions of themselves they’d each become apart.

Tina looked down at her lap, then out the windshield. A memory pressed its weight onto her chest.

She had driven through the old neighborhood once, 4 years ago. Late. Couldn’t sleep, she was in town for a couple of days. She didn’t know Bette had moved. She just drove by the old house in West Hollywood—once, twice—eyes straining for light. But it was dark. A shell. A goodbye she never got to give.

Now here they were, parked outside something new. As if the universe had finally stopped playing its cruel game of hide-and-seek.

Bette exhaled quietly. Then again. She opened her mouth, hesitant. “If you’re not ready—”

“I am,” Tina said, cutting her off gently.

Her hand reached for the door handle, pausing only to glance at Bette, a slant of her mouth curving up. “How about a house tour?”

Relief flickered across Bette’s shoulders, but it didn’t settle. A tentative smile curved at her lips—tender, unsure. She stepped out, circled the car, and paused, waiting. Tina met her there. Closer now. Their arms brushed as they walked side by side up the clean, quiet path. Neither stepped away.

At the door, Bette’s fingers hovered for a beat too long before she punched in the code. The soft beep felt louder than it should’ve. The lock gave with a muted click.

They didn’t move.

For a breathless moment, they stood still—two women at the edge of something unnamed. The weight of everything unsaid hung between them. The air pressed close. Something old and unfinished passed between them, like memory brushing against skin.

Then, slowly, Bette turned the handle.

And Tina followed her inside.

The front door clicked shut behind them.

It wasn’t loud, but it landed in Tina’s chest like a marker—a before and after. The faint sound of the latch settling into place echoed in the hush that followed. She stood just inside, letting her eyes adjust, letting her breath catch up.

Bette moved ahead slowly, her footsteps quiet on the hardwood, and Tina followed. She took in the space, letting herself look but not too obviously. The house surprised her.

It was soft, curated. Warm wood tones glowed under the filtered late-afternoon light. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the waning sun. The furniture didn’t match perfectly, but it belonged together—textured fabrics, low shelves filled with books that had been opened more than once. The walls carried pieces of art Tina didn’t recognize—none of Bette’s usual statements or collectors’ trophies. These felt personal. Almost shy.

It was beautiful, yes—but not in the way she remembered Bette’s old spaces. Not curated to impress. It didn’t posture. It breathed.

There was calm here. Intention. Something lived-in and layered. The kind of quiet grace someone builds when they’ve stopped performing and started choosing.

And something about that made Tina ache.

She had imagined it, of course. Wondered where Bette lived now. Wondered who had been allowed into that space. She had half-expected cold steel and concrete—something beautiful and severe. Something protective. But this… this was intimate. This was a life.

Her heels made no sound as she stepped further in. She didn’t want to disturb anything. The scent in the air was subtle—cedar, maybe, or something deeper and the light moved gently across the floor as if it had been invited.

She watched as Bette walked ahead, her posture controlled, spine straight, like the tension hadn’t left her body yet. Like she didn’t trust herself to turn around. Like this moment, despite its quiet, was sharp-edged.

And Tina felt it too. Every movement stretched thin between the present and all the history behind them.

Her voice came softer than she intended. “I thought… it would be colder.”

Bette stopped then—half-turned, her profile caught in the light—and looked at her. She didn’t answer right away.

Then, low and honest, “It was. For a while.”

The space between them felt suspended—like time hadn’t decided what to do next. Like the past had followed them in and now stood in the corners, waiting. Tina took another slow step forward, her hand brushing the back of a chair as if to ground herself. She didn’t sit. Didn’t know if she should. Instead, she stood there in the quiet, surrounded by the stillness of someone else's peace, and tried to figure out where she belonged in it.

Bette moved toward the kitchen without asking, already reaching for a bottle. “Wine?”

Tina hesitated. Just long enough to feel it. “Sure.”

Bette’s hand didn’t falter as she uncorked it—like she’d done it a hundred times. And maybe she had. Just not with Tina. Not anymore.

Tina watched her closely, though she tried not to make it obvious—the practiced grace in her movements, the quiet confidence in the way her wrist turned, how her fingers curled around the stem of a glass. Those same hands used to graze her spine half-asleep, used to open her fridge like it was theirs. That memory arrived too fast. Too vivid. She tried not to let it show.

The pour was clean. Familiar. Intimate in a way that caught Tina off guard.

“what a nice place,” she offered once Bette handed her the glass, the stem cool against her palm.

Bette gave a single nod. “Thanks.”

They didn’t sit. Neither seemed ready for that. They hovered—two women on opposite ends of a moment that was trying to decide what it would become. The low hum of the refrigerator filled the pause. Outside, the faintest flicker of the patio firelight brushed the windows.

Tina took a sip. The wine was dry, maybe a little sharp.

“How long were you in Amsterdam?” she asked, her voice even, but not light.

Bette looked over, eyes catching on her with more weight than before. She didn’t answer right away.

“Two years,” she said finally. “Season two and start of three.”

Tina gave a small nod, eyes on her glass. “I was there a couple times,” she said. “For meetings. Stayed near the canals.”

A beat.

“I used to wonder which one was yours.”

Bette blinked, her mouth parting slightly. “You did?”

“Yeah,” Tina said, tone calm, almost detached. “Sometimes I’d look up at the windows. Wonder if you were behind one of them. If you’d see me.”

Her voice was still, but the words hung heavy between them—too full of history to be casual.

Bette’s gaze dropped for half a second. Then she turned her glass slowly in her hand, the firelight catching the rim.

“Maybe I was,” she said, quietly. “Maybe it just… wasn’t time yet.”

Tina looked at her. Not glanced—looked.

The air between them stretched thin.

“No,” she murmured. “Maybe not.”

Their eyes held then—not in a standoff, but in something more fragile. Like they were standing on the edge of something neither of them had the map for. Like any move forward might break the spell.

And still, neither looked away.

Bette broke first, if only by a second. She gestured toward the sliding doors that led out to the patio. “Want to sit?”

Tina followed her outside. The evening had cooled, and the air smelled like wood and faint jasmine. The firepit was already lit. They sat across from each other, the flames casting shadows that moved slowly across the deck.

For a while, they didn’t speak.

Tina traced the rim of her glass, the gesture slow, absentminded. “It’s strange, being here. I thought I’d feel... off. Unsteady. But I don’t.”

Bette turned to her, curious now. “So what do you feel?”

Tina paused, her eyes flicking to the window, then back again. “Still,” she said, the word landing softly. Then, after a beat—quieter, almost to herself, “Like something finally stopped chasing me.”

That landed between them like a pebble dropped in water. Bette inhaled, deeply. “I know the feeling.”

Their silence wasn’t awkward—it was taut. Braced. Like they were both trying to remember how not to fall.

Tina watched the fire. “Sometimes I forget how much of you I still recognize.”

“That’s not always a good thing,” Bette said, a little wry.

“It is to me,” Tina said, her voice lower now.

Bette’s eyes moved slowly across Tina’s face. Her breath shortened slightly, but she didn’t speak. The heat wasn’t just from the fire anymore.

Tina set her glass down with care, the sound barely audible against the wood. “I’m not rushing this,” she said. “I wouldn’t survive it if I did.”

Bette’s voice came soft, steady. “I wouldn’t let you.”

Tina looked over. This time, she didn’t look away. The air stretched between them—thick with recognition, hesitation, the weight of almost. Her voice dipped, low and bare. “Is this one of those nights… where everything nearly happens?”

Bette’s jaw moved, just slightly. Her answer caught in her throat before it came. “It could be.”

Under the table, their knees hovered close. A breath apart. Neither daring to close the distance.

Tina leaned back—too warm, too aware. Her fingers moved restlessly in her lap, betraying her nerves. She wasn’t sure where the danger lived more clearly—in Bette’s gaze or her own reflection in it.

“We’re not the same people anymore,” Bette said quietly, as if naming it would make it safer.

Tina gave a soft breath, almost a laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe we’re just better at hiding the parts that never changed.”

They both smiled then—small, reluctant, fragile things. Not joy. Something older. Recognition, maybe. Regret.

The fire cracked. Shadows shifted across the walls. The quiet felt full, not empty.

Then, Tina spoke. Not as a challenge. Not as a plea. Just a truth she couldn’t keep down.

“You still want me.”

Bette didn’t look away. “Of course I do.”

Tina nodded once, the ache in her chest blooming slowly. “I want you too. But we both know… that’s not the part that ever saved us.”

“No,” Bette said. “It never was.”

Just their hands, resting on the table. Close. Unmoving. Breathing in the same quiet ache.

Waiting. Right there, balanced on the edge of maybe. 

The fire crackled between them, but it had nothing on the heat quietly blooming in the inches they hadn’t yet closed. Tina was curled into the armrest, legs tucked beneath her, hair catching the golden glow of the flames. She turned to look at Bette, and the air shifted. There was no clever segue. No witty buildup. Just the question that had been living under every word since the day they met.

“How were you,” Bette asked, voice soft, raw, “for all those years?”

Tina’s lips parted. But no sound came. Her eyes glossed over, not with tears—but with truth.

“I tried not to be,” she finally said. “I tried to be other things. For other people.”

Bette exhaled through her nose, gaze locked. “Me too.”

The silence stretched. Then snapped. Tina shifted, almost imperceptibly, closer. Just a breath.

“I used to wonder,” she murmured, “what would’ve happened if I kissed you that day in the café.”

Bette stilled. Her entire body went tight with restraint.

“I couldn’t stop looking at your mouth,” Tina whispered. “And you kept glancing at mine like you were afraid.”

“I was,” Bette breathed. “You scared the hell out of me.”

A quiet smile curved Tina’s lips. “Still do?”

Bette looked at her then—really looked.

The flicker of firelight caught in her eyes, casting amber shadows across the curve of her cheek. Her gaze moved slowly, searching Tina’s face like it hadn’t in years—taking inventory of what had changed and everything that hadn’t. Her hand reached down, fingers brushing against the cushion between them, curling there like she was grounding herself, bracing for something inevitable.

Her voice was a whisper pulled from someplace deep. “I never stopped wanting to kiss you.”

Tina froze. The words landed like a dropped match.

For a second, neither of them moved. Then Tina leaned in—slow, almost unsure, like crossing into dangerous territory she couldn’t turn back from. Her breath trembled against the few inches that remained. But it was Bette who met her there, bridging the last breath of space between them.

The kiss arrived like a confession—soft, weighted, holy.

Mouths brushing, finding, learning. It was barely a kiss at first—just the meeting of two people who had held back too long. And then it deepened, not in urgency, but in meaning. Tina exhaled through her nose, hand rising with instinct to cradle Bette’s cheek, her thumb brushing just beneath her eye. The intimacy of that one touch nearly undid them both. Bette made a quiet sound—half sigh, half sob—her fingers finding Tina’s waist, curling into the fabric there like she might disappear if she didn’t hold her still.

They kissed like time wasn’t linear—like this had always been happening, in some parallel thread that never got cut.

Lips moving slowly, deliberately. Kisses landing in pauses—on a breath, after a glance, just before one of them might have said something but didn’t need to.

When they finally pulled back, their foreheads touched, eyes half-lidded and blinking against the moment.

Tina gave a soft, shaky laugh—more air than sound. “That wasn’t just eleven years in the making.”

Bette’s mouth curved, dazed and breathless. “No?”

Tina’s eyes searched hers. “That felt… ancient.”

Bette reached across the space between them, gently taking Tina’s hand, lacing their fingers together with quiet intention. “Then let’s not waste another lifetime.”

The second kiss came slower—but burned hotter.

It built like a tide—still patient, still aching, but with a kind of hunger that wasn’t just physical. Tina’s hand slid into Bette’s hair, fingertips threading through dark strands like she needed something to hold onto.

Bette responded to that—the surety of touch, the familiarity of it—like a thread had come loose inside her. Her hand shifted, tracing the curve of Tina’s spine, then up, splaying flat between her shoulder blades. Holding her there. Steady.

Their mouths parted and found again—kisses that weren’t hurried, but knew exactly what they wanted. Bette’s lips brushed Tina’s, then lingered near her jaw, like she wanted to memorize her by taste.

She paused—barely—eyes searching Tina’s face, the smallest hesitation. Are you sure?

Tina didn’t answer with words.

She leaned in, breath catching, chin tilting just slightly. Her hand tugged gently at Bette’s top, eyes dark with wanting. Her voice came as a gasp, low, certain.

“Yes. Please.”

They stood without speaking. The quiet between them buzzed with intent. Bette led her inside, every step weighted with tension. Tina followed, breath shallow, heartbeat a wild drum in her chest.

The house was warm but open, the firelight still flickering behind them, echoing the blaze starting in their bodies.

Bette stopped in the hallway, turned to Tina. Her hands lifted slowly, almost reverently, brushing Tina’s jaw with her knuckles.

Her voice was gravel-soft. “I’ve wanted this… for so long I forgot what wanting anything else feels like.”

Tina leaned in, her lips brushing Bette’s. “Then take your time.”

It was permission and invitation all at once. So Bette reached for her hand.

The bedroom was quiet, awash in warm lamplight and the softest hints of night air slipping through the open window. The curtains billowed slightly. The scent of ocean and something floral—Tina’s perfume, maybe—hung faintly in the air.

Bette turned to her, and this time, there was no hesitation.

She stepped in front of Tina, standing close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off her skin. She guided Tina out of her blazer, her hands found the hem of Tina’s blouse and paused there. Her eyes lifted again, searching Tina’s face for doubt, for fear—finding both, but also something steadier behind it.

And with that silent permission, Bette undressed her slowly.

She didn’t rush—not through the careful pull of fabric over Tina’s head, not through the way her hands slid along her arms after, palms open, absorbing the warmth. Her eyes never left Tina’s—not even when her fingers brushed over bare skin, reverent, learning again.

When she reached for the zipper at Tina’s skirt, she paused again.

“You can stop me,” Bette whispered.

“I won’t,” Tina said, voice catching on the edge of breath.

Piece by piece, she helped Tina step free from the weight of the day, from the tension held in every button, every seam. 

No longer strangers to each other, but not quite the same women they used to be.

Bette took Tina’s hand again and led her to the bed. Bette stood at the foot of the bed, the quiet stretching between them like something sacred.

Tina’s eyes found her in the low light—still, waiting, open. She didn’t speak. Just held Bette’s gaze, breath shallow, lips barely parted.

Bette moved slowly, as if aware of being watched, studied, remembered. She slid off her blazer. She brought her hands to the buttons of her top. Each one opened with a soft flick, the fabric parting down her sternum. Her breath caught on the third. Tina saw it—saw the hesitation, the ache beneath it.

The shirt slid from her shoulders like water, catching briefly at her wrists before falling to the floor. Her skin glowed amber in the faint light.

Tina shifted slightly, her thighs brushing together against the sheet. But her gaze never wavered.

Bette unhooked her bra, quiet fingers against quiet tension. She let it fall—not hurried, not shy. Just present.

The waistband of her pants came next, eased down inch by inch. She stepped out of them with quiet grace, her silhouette sharpening in the warm hallway spill.

Still, Tina said nothing. But her eyes moved—down Bette’s neck, over the curve of her hip, up to her ribs rising with each breath.

She swallowed.

Bette’s hand brushed her own thigh as if to ground herself. Her chest rose. Stilled. 

Tina reached a hand across the sheet. A single gesture. An invitation.

Bette moved forward, knee sinking gently into the mattress, then the other. She crawled toward her—not rushed, not slow. Just sure. 

They met in the middle. Skin to skin, breath to breath, silence folding over them like a second sheet.

No need to speak. They were already answering.

The sheets were cool beneath them, but their bodies were not.

Tina lay on her side, face tilted slightly toward Bette, the shadows softening the angle of her jaw. Her blonde hair was tousled across the pillow, her chest rising in quiet, nervous rhythm. Bette didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Her eyes roamed across Tina’s face with a reverence that said more than language ever could. It wasn’t just desire—it was awe. It was finally.

A single touch, the back of Bette’s fingers against Tina’s collarbone, began it.

Tina inhaled—sharp but quiet. Her lips parted slightly, as though she might say something, but no sound came. She tilted her chin forward instead, closing the space. Not kissing. Just… offering.

A silent, fragile yes.

Bette’s hand trailed from Tina’s collarbone to the slope of her shoulder, her fingers gliding along skin that tensed, then relaxed under her touch. Tina’s breath caught again. Her legs brushed softly against Bette’s beneath the sheets, the friction tentative but electric.

Still, no words. Their eyes locked.

Tina leaned forward just enough for their foreheads to touch. Bette’s hand cupped the side of her neck, her thumb grazing along the jawline she used to memorize in silence. Tina’s hand rose to Bette’s hip, nails dragging lightly over warm skin, making Bette’s stomach flutter and clench.

There was no rushing. No need to name anything yet.

Bette lowered her mouth slowly—not aiming for lips but for the hollow just beneath Tina’s ear, where her breath fanned first before her lips followed. A delicate kiss. A reverent press of mouth to skin. Tina exhaled audibly, her hips twitching slightly toward Bette’s without meaning to. Her fingers gripped tighter, anchoring herself to the only thing that felt real in that moment.

She didn’t ask. Bette didn’t hesitate.

They moved like they had studied each other for years—which, in truth, they had. But this was the first time it wasn’t imagined. This was the first time their fantasies didn’t stop at a doorframe or get buried beneath professional restraint. This was the moment they both never dared believe they’d actually get.

Bette’s mouth moved across Tina’s throat, slow and savoring, tasting the skin just below her jaw. Tina arched slightly in response, her hand slipping to Bette’s lower back, drawing her in. Their bodies aligned perfectly, a mirrored curve, heat pressing against heat. Skin melting into skin.

Tina moaned—soft, aching. Her eyes fluttered closed, and when they opened again, Bette was watching her.

Still, no words. Everything was permission in glances.

Bette moved downward, kissing the curve of Tina’s shoulder, then her sternum, pausing only when Tina’s hand gripped her hair—not to stop her, but to feel. To ground herself. To memorize the sensation. Bette’s tongue flicked gently over one hardened nipple, and Tina’s head dropped back, mouth open in a breathless gasp. Her fingers shook. Her knees bent slightly inward, the vulnerability of first-time unraveling against the comfort of being with her.

When Bette moved lower, Tina parted her legs without hesitation.

That was permission enough.

The first kiss between Tina’s thighs was slow. Worshipful. She tasted like salt and skin and something impossibly soft. Bette didn’t rush. She didn’t chase a rhythm. She let Tina guide her—by the way her back arched, by the way her legs trembled, by the way her fingers pressed into Bette’s shoulders like she needed something to anchor her to this plane of existence.

Tina covered her mouth with the back of her hand, a stifled cry breaking free. Her other hand held tight to the sheets. Her eyes flooded and fluttered. Her chest lifted, heaving with every rise of pleasure she hadn’t known could feel like this.

Bette paused and looked up—asking.

Tina looked down—pleading.

They didn’t need more than that. Bette continued, her tongue moving in slow, deliberate circles, her hand pressing gently at Tina’s thigh to hold her open as her other hand slipped upward, fingers finding their way inside. She moved cautiously, tenderly, sensing hesitation, and guided Tina’s hand to meet her own.

Then Bette hovered between Tina’s thighs, her body warm, steady, eyes locked on the woman beneath her. Tina’s skin flushed pink under the soft lamplight, her breath shallow but open, as if suspended between surrender and wonder.

Bette lowered herself with care, her fingers already inside, coaxing soft, uneven moans from Tina’s parted lips. She moved slowly, intentionally, learning her again—each shift of pressure another question, each response a silent answer.

Tina reached out blindly, fingers finding Bette’s thigh. Her touch was light, almost unsure, as though afraid of interrupting something sacred.

But Bette leaned forward, letting her weight shift until she was straddling Tina’s legs—one knee on either side, grounding them both. Her free hand slid up Tina’s wrist and gently brought it down, guiding Tina’s hand along the inside of her own thigh.

Their eyes met.

No words were needed.

Bette's breath was unsteady, her lips slightly parted, but her gaze stayed sure. She didn’t rush. She brought Tina’s fingers slowly between her legs, over soft heat and slick want, until they reached her.

Bette exhaled shakily when Tina brushed her.

Still, she didn't stop guiding her—she placed her hand over Tina’s and gently pressed, the silent invitation unmistakable.

Tina’s fingers slipped inside.

Bette's whole body jolted—hips arching slightly, a gasp escaping before she caught it between her teeth. Her hands flew to Tina’s shoulders for balance, but her eyes never closed.

She watched Tina.

Watched her feel. Watched her marvel. Watched her realize.

The pace between them slowed again, deepening—less urgency now, more reverence. Tina moved with growing confidence, her other hand still clutching at Bette’s waist.

Bette leaned forward, forehead against Tina’s, breath shared in the small space between them.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t have to.

What passed between their hands—between their bodies—said everything.

And Bette gasped softly—finally.

Tina watched her. Eyes wide. In awe. Her touch growing bolder, more certain.

“Yes,” her body said. “Yes, please don’t stop.”

The tension built slowly—beautifully. Each shift in Bette’s pressure, every inhale and soft sigh from Tina’s lips, spoke of need, of long-buried desire resurfacing like a wave threatening to pull them both under.

When Tina finally shattered, it wasn’t loud. It was breathless. A long-held breath finally let go. Her body tensed, thighs trembling, then relaxed all at once like gravity took over. Bette held her through it, never letting go as  Tina’s breath came back in slow, trembling waves.

Tina pulled her down then. Not roughly. Just… needing her. They kissed again—finally, finally—as Tina pulled Bette fully onto her. Skin against skin, legs intertwined, fingers in hair. It was deeper now, fuller. The kind of kiss that made you forget the world existed outside the bed. Tina kissed Bette’s mouth with hunger, like she was trying to memorize her from the inside out.

When Tina rolled Bette to her back, Bette’s eyes fluttered shut, but Tina tapped her cheek once—look at me.

She did. And what she saw in Tina’s eyes—devotion, ache, joy, terror—it all hit her like a punch to the chest.

Tina leaned down, slow and steady, until her breath fanned over Bette’s skin, her hands anchoring Bette’s thighs. She made her feel like the center of gravity shifted. Every moan, every tremor that escaped from Bette’s throat, was drawn out like music Tina had studied all her life.

And when Bette came—spine bowed, head thrown back, hands clutching Tina’s wrists—it was with a soundless cry that shook something loose inside her.

They lay in silence after. Just breath. Just warmth.

No words still.

Bette reached for Tina’s hand, and Tina laced their fingers together over Bette’s stomach. If they had spoken, maybe they would’ve said, I’ve always been yours.

But they didn’t have to. The room already knew.

The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing. Outside, the world spun on. Unaware. Uninvited.

Inside the covers, Tina and Bette lay in a tangle of limbs and sheets. The soft golden spill of a streetlamp outside filtered through the curtain and kissed Bette’s shoulder, casting a quiet halo across her bare skin. Tina traced it with her eyes, then her fingertips.

She hadn’t moved away. Not even an inch.

Bette was still beneath her, arm draped loosely around Tina’s back, hand resting just under her shoulder blade like she didn’t dare let go—even now. Her thumb moved in slow, unconscious circles against Tina’s skin.

Tina leaned forward and pressed a kiss just below Bette’s ear. Her lips lingered there. Not urgent. Just grateful. Just… present.

Bette’s eyes fluttered open, slow and warm, and Tina pulled back just enough to see her face—bare, raw, unguarded. They held each other’s gaze, and the ache that passed between them was quiet but infinite.

“I’m still here,” Tina whispered, barely audible.

Bette didn’t answer with words. She reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind Tina’s ear, letting her fingers drift down the slope of her jaw, across the hollow of her throat. She kissed her again—soft, open-mouthed, slow. The kind of kiss you give when you know what it means to lose and still hope.

Tina’s hand skimmed down Bette’s side, reverent, like she still wasn’t quite sure she was allowed to touch her again. But Bette met her halfway—her legs shifting so their bodies aligned, warm skin sliding against warm skin. No urgency now. Just the slow reacquaintance of two bodies relearning each other with patience and awe.

They kissed like they had time. Like this was the beginning instead of something stolen.

Tina pressed her forehead to Bette’s and exhaled. Her fingers trailed over the soft dip of Bette’s waist, her touch gentle and constant, never still. Bette’s hand moved to cradle the back of Tina’s neck, holding her close, grounding her.

Neither of them closed their eyes. It was like blinking would make it disappear again.

Bette rolled them slowly, gently, until she hovered above Tina, her hair falling like a curtain between them. She dipped her head to kiss Tina’s collarbone, her chest, the soft center of her stomach. Tina’s hands threaded into her hair, pulling her closer, never pushing—just needing contact. Needing to feel her everywhere.

Everywhere.

When Bette’s palm slid down to clasp Tina’s hip, Tina shifted to meet her touch. They kissed again, deeper now, and their bodies moved in a rhythm not driven by need but by ache—like every press of skin was saying, I missed you. I still choose you. I never stopped.

Tina cupped Bette’s cheek and kissed her, slow and aching. Bette kissed her back with her whole body—moving against her, with her, like gravity had been pointing her here all along.

After everything. After ten years. After every almost and never and maybe.

This was them, still.

When Bette finally rested her forehead against Tina’s and whispered, “Is this real?” Tina nodded, eyes shimmering, breath warm between them.

“Don’t let go,” she whispered.

“Never again,” Bette breathed.

They stayed wrapped around each other until the quiet bled into night. They didn’t fall asleep, not really. They dozed in shifts, skin never breaking contact. When Tina shivered, Bette pulled the blanket higher. When Bette stirred, Tina’s hand would slide over her chest, calming her.

Fingers traced lines on backs and arms and cheeks. Lips wandered lazily over temples and shoulders. Legs tangled tighter. A new kind of closeness emerged—one not built on hunger or ache but on the quiet certainty of finally.

Tina whispered against Bette’s mouth, “was it worth the wait?”

Bette kissed her instead of answering.

Because it is.

Because she had always known.

They were wrapped in each other, sunk deep into the quiet hum of the room. The fire in the pit outside had long since gone to ash, but the embers inside—the ones they’d stirred with every touch, every breath—still glowed, quiet and full beneath Bette’s linen sheets. The air was warm with skin and sleep and the faint scent of lavender clinging to the fabric.

Tina lay on her side, her leg slotted between Bette’s, her body curved along her like they were shaped for it. One of her arms was folded beneath her pillow, the other draped across Bette’s chest, fingers resting right over the slow, steady rhythm of her heart. Their hands were tangled together there—thumbs brushing, palms matched like a quiet promise.

Neither of them spoke. There was no rush.

Tina’s nose was tucked into the hollow beneath Bette’s collarbone, and every now and then, Bette’s fingers would move—lightly, absently—along the dip of Tina’s spine. A touch without purpose except to remind them both that I’m here. You’re here. This is real.

The room was dim, the curtains only half-drawn. Light filtered through in fractured gold, brushing over Bette’s shoulder, the arc of Tina’s hip, the soft mess of curls flattened into the pillow. It was was already dark, but time didn’t feel linear here. It pooled around them like honey.

Eventually, Tina shifted slightly—just enough to press a kiss against Bette’s shoulder, her lips barely grazing the skin. She sighed.

“So…” Her voice was low, still thick with sleep, affection curling into the edges. “That was, without a doubt, efficient… intense… and deeply generous in bed.”

Bette gave a breathless, sleepy laugh and rubbed her face with the back of her hand. “God. Did I actually say that out loud?”

“You did,” Tina murmured, fingers toying lazily with the edge of the sheet, tracing idle patterns on Bette’s stomach. “With full conviction. Like it was printed on your résumé.”

Bette turned her head, eyes still half-lidded. “I was a menace.”

Tina’s smile widened, warm and slow. “Mmm. Maybe. But also—correct.”

Bette groaned into the pillow. “Please. I’m already dying.”

Tina propped herself up slightly on her elbow, her hair tumbling across her face. With the softest grin, she leaned in and pressed a kiss just under Bette’s jaw. “Terrifying,” she whispered. Her fingers slid up to brush lightly over Bette’s ribs. “And very hot.”

“I’m blocking my ears,” Bette muttered, throwing an arm over her eyes.

“Efficient…” Tina teased, punctuating each word with a kiss—one on her shoulder, one on the hollow of her throat, one low on her collarbone. “Intense…” Her fingers slipped under the edge of the blanket to rest just above Bette’s hip. “Generous.”

Bette turned her head toward her, eyes shining and a blush visible even in the dim light. “You forgot helpless.”

“No,” Tina said, brushing her thumb along Bette’s cheekbone. “That part you kept hidden. I had to find it out on my own.”

They laughed together, the kind of laughter that came not from humor but from release—relief. The kind that said, we’re here. We made it. This is happening.

Their bodies folded back into each other, Tina nuzzling closer, Bette’s hand sliding up to cradle the back of her neck. Fingertips curled in soft hair. A thumb brushing the shell of her ear.

Then, silence again—but this time it wasn’t empty. It was full. Soft and sacred.

Tina closed her eyes. Her fingers moved in slow circles over Bette’s skin, tracing invisible spirals just to feel her breathe.

“I’m really happy right now,” she said, almost shyly, like the words might evaporate if she spoke them too loud.

Bette didn’t answer.

Instead, she turned her face and kissed the crown of Tina’s head—slow, deliberate, reverent. Like that kiss had been waiting years to happen. And maybe it had.

Tina smiled into her shoulder. She nestled in closer. Then,  “Okay, but also… I’m starving.”

Bette chuckled, low and lazy. “You just had your soul fed.”

Tina tilted her head up and gave her a pointed look. “And now my stomach wants dessert.”

“Let me guess…” Bette stretched just a little, her arm still draped around Tina’s waist. “Cheese. Cake. Fruit in complicated shapes?”

“Obviously.”

Bette slid out from under the blanket with a groan, the sheet clinging to her briefly. Tina’s fingers reached for her without thinking, grazing the curve of her hip before she let her go.

“Stay,” Tina murmured. “Don’t go far.”

“I’m making you a snack board, not moving out,” Bette said over her shoulder with a smirk.

Tina watched her with eyes that said more than she would ever say out loud. She bit her bottom lip, the smile there soft and aching.

“God, I missed you,” she whispered.

Bette paused at the foot of the bed. The smile on her face fell into something quieter, something fragile and real.

“I’m right here,” she said, voice barely above a breath.

Tina nodded, drawing the sheet up over her chest, suddenly tender, suddenly still. “Good,” she said, blinking slow. “Because in five minutes, I want strawberries.”

“You’ll get strawberries,” Bette replied, backing toward the door. “Sliced. Perfectly fanned. Delivered in bed with ceremonial flair.”

Tina grinned and dropped her head back against the pillow. “Efficient. Intense. Generous.”

“Menace,” Bette called as she disappeared down the hall.

Tina closed her eyes, her smile lingering.

“Mine,” she whispered to the room.

And she stayed there, wrapped in linen and memory and the scent of the woman she’d found her way back to—waiting, warm, and home again.

Tina padded into the kitchen barefoot, her steps nearly soundless on the cool tile. One of Bette’s old button-downs hung loose on her frame—crisp cotton worn soft with time, the collar slightly askew from sleep. The sleeves were too long, falling past her hands, and she had to fold them back with a small, unconscious fumble as she leaned against the doorframe.

She didn’t speak.

She just looked.

Bette was at the open fridge, her back half-turned, curls pulled into a loose bun that looked like it had been done in the dark. A single strap of her camisole had slipped down her shoulder, exposing the slope of bare skin kissed golden by the early light. She was slicing strawberries with a quiet, almost meditative focus, her hand slow, careful, the knife clicking softly against the board.

On the counter, beside the fruit, were crackers, a wedge of cheese, a half-glass of orange juice, and last night’s leftover wontons in a takeout container. It was thoughtful. It was too much. It was so unmistakably her.

Tina tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. The shirt collar slipped slightly with the movement. She watched the subtle line of Bette’s jaw tighten as she concentrated, the way her fingers moved with an elegance that didn’t try to draw attention to itself.

“You’re really leaning into the generous host fantasy,” Tina said eventually, voice light but husky from sleep.

Bette glanced over her shoulder, then turned—slowly.

Her eyes landed on Tina. They paused there. Moved down. Took in the way her legs looked bare beneath the hem, the way the sleeves hung loose around her wrists, the way she looked like something borrowed and loved. Her lips parted slightly, just for a breath, and then curved—softly, reverently.

“You look better in that shirt than I ever did,” Bette murmured, not bothering to hide the warmth in her tone.

Tina smirked, walked to the counter, and plucked a strawberry from the board, brushing her fingers against Bette’s for a second too long before lifting it to her mouth. “You saying I’ve earned this feast?”

“You worked up an appetite,” Bette replied, eyes following the way Tina bit into the fruit.

They sat at the tiny kitchen table, knees bumping gently beneath the wood. Bette reached out to hand her a napkin when juice trailed down Tina’s wrist, her fingertips brushing the back of Tina’s hand without thinking. Tina smiled at that. She reached for a slice of cheese and held it to Bette’s lips, tilting her head like it was a dare.

Bette raised an eyebrow, then took it with exaggerated patience. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.”

They fell into something easy. Jokes about the past. Shane. Alice. People who’d stayed the same, for better or worse. Bette sipped her juice slowly, her free hand resting flat on the table, occasionally curling around Tina’s knee without even looking.

Tina watched the way her fingers tapped absently against the wood when she was thinking. She still did that. She always had.

The evening moved around them quietly. And then—Tina’s phone chirped.

Sharp. Out of place.

Her whole body tensed.

“Shit,” she muttered, her voice low, already turning in her chair. “Shit, shit. What time is it?”

Bette frowned. “Wait. You have to leave?”