Chapter Text
megan wakes up wrong.
not in the dramatic, movie-way wrong—no cold sweat, no bolt upright in bed, no sudden sense of doom—but in the quieter, more irritating way, where her brain is already awake before her body has fully caught up, alert and scanning like it’s looking for a problem it hasn’t found yet.
she lies there for a second, eyes half-open and still slightly crusted over with sleep, staring at the faint crack of late morning light leaking through the blinds, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
usually, after something good—really good—there’s a catch. a headache. a creeping dread. the delayed realization that she overshared or embarrassed herself or misread something important. regret, heavy and dull, settling into her chest like a bruise she doesn’t remember getting.
but none of that comes.
her head doesn’t hurt. her stomach isn’t twisted. her heart isn’t racing.
everything feels… fine.
and that’s what makes her uneasy.
she sits up slowly, blankets sliding down her legs, and looks around her room like it might have changed overnight without her noticing. the posters on the wall are still crooked. the chair in the corner still has three days’ worth of clothes draped over it like a defeated flag. her boots are still kicked off by the door, one upright, one fallen over on its side like it gave up halfway through the night.
nothing looks punished. nothing looks altered.
her phone is on the nightstand, exactly where she left it.
megan stares at it for a long second, heart doing that anticipatory flutter that feels less like excitement and more like bracing.
she half-expects a text to already be there. something that starts friendly and then swerves. hey, last night was fun, but— or i’ve been thinking and— or i don’t think i’m in a place where—
there’s nothing.
no social hangover explanation needed. no polite distance already established. no awkward recalibration.
just silence.
she exhales, slow, and lets herself sit in it.
which is when her brain, unhelpful as ever, decides that silence is not peace—it’s a warning.
she rolls onto her side and pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders, replaying the date like it’s footage she’s been tasked with reviewing for errors. not the way she felt during it—that part is unreliable, compromised by nerves and lavender matcha and the warmth brought to her cheeks by just being near daniela—but the facts.
what she said. what she wore. how long she talked before stopping to let daniela speak. whether she laughed too much, or worse, not enough. if she leaned in too close. if she pulled away too quickly.
she winces, remembering how she stumbled over that stupid stool in the café, the way her ears had burned after. she then remembers daniela’s hand on her elbow, light and steady, and immediately reframes it as daniela just being nice.
she remembers the kiss—soft, slow, undeniably real—and her chest tightens before she can stop it. she forces the thought to pivot, practical and cautious.
daniela had initiated it. daniela had wanted it. but that didn’t necessarily mean daniela would actually want more.
megan's very good at this—taking moments that felt intimate and filing them down into something safer, flatter, easier to lose.
she’s mid-spiral when her phone buzzes.
the sound is loud in the quiet room, sharp enough that she flinches.
she grabs it immediately, like if she doesn’t look fast enough it might disappear.
daniela: good morning :)
that’s it. no punctuation beyond the smiley. no qualifiers. no emotional weight attached.
megan’s heart does something stupid and hopeful anyway.
she stares at the message, rereading it like it might change if she looks long enough. good morning. not hey. not hope i didn’t wake you. just—good morning. like it’s assumed they would exist in the same timeline today.
she opens the text box and types—
megan: good morning!!
she stares at it.
two exclamation points feels like too much. too eager. too loud. like she’s trying to grab daniela by the shoulders and shake her and say please don’t forget about me.
she deletes one—
megan: good morning!
still… enthusiastic.
she backspaces again—
megan: good morning
now it reads too flat. cold. like she’s annoyed. like she forgot to turn read receipts off and is only responding out of obligation.
she adds a smiley face, a good middle ground—
megan: good morning :)
now it looks like she’s copying daniela. mirroring too closely.
she deletes the smiley. stares. adds it back.
eventually, after an embarrassing amount of deliberation, she sends—
megan: morning :)
it’s intentionally neutral. friendly, but not demanding. present, but not crowding.
she sets her phone down on the nightstand like it might burn her if she keeps holding it, and immediately feels ridiculous for how much weight she just assigned to five characters and a colon-parenthesis.
get a grip, she tells herself, staring up at the ceiling.
but even as she thinks it, another thought slides in underneath, quieter and more convincing.
don’t mess this up.
megan showers on autopilot, letting the hot water beat down on her shoulders while her mind keeps circling the same track. she shampoos her hair twice, conditions it once, and goes through the motions without really seeing herself in the fogged-up mirror. she chooses clothes that feel safe—nothing too bold, but not too basic either, nothing that says i’m trying. a worn-in sweater. jeans she knows fit her well. the version of herself that doesn’t take up too much visual space.
she makes a bagel with too much cream cheese and only manages to eat half of it. she tells herself she’s not that hungry even though her stomach protests loud enough for the whole complex to hear.
her phone lights up on the counter while she’s rinsing out her mug.
daniela: how did you sleep?
megan’s chest loosens with relief and tightens with something like guilt at the same time.
she didn’t imagine it. daniela is still here. still texting. still interested enough to ask.
she dries her hands carefully, buys herself a few extra seconds before picking the phone up.
don’t text back too fast, she thinks automatically.
not because she doesn’t want to talk—she does—but because she doesn’t want to seem like she’s been waiting.
she waits a minute. then another. then replies—
megan: pretty good! wbu?
again—friendly. contained. no questions beyond what’s polite.
she doesn’t ask what daniela’s doing today. she doesn’t say she keeps replaying last night. she doesn’t say i’m really excited for our next date, even though the words are sitting right there, heavy and warm on her tongue.
she frames restraint as politeness. distance as respect.
this feels reasonable to her. it feels adult. considerate.
it decidedly does not feel like fear.
lara pads into the kitchen a few minutes later, hair a mess, one of megan’s socks on and one of her own, yawning like she hasn’t slept in days. she reaches for the coffee pot, pours herself a mug, and then pauses, squinting at megan over the rim.
“you okay?” she asks, not suspicious, just curious.
megan shrugs, a little too quickly. “yeah. just tired.”
lara hums, unconvinced but not pressing. she leans against the counter, sipping her coffee, eyes flicking down to megan’s phone when it lights up again.
daniela: not bad. i’m a little sore but in a good way
daniela: my instructor made us have an extra rehearsal today because he’s evil like that
megan smiles before she can stop herself, then catches it, schools her expression back into something neutral.
lara notices that too.
she doesn’t grin. doesn’t tease. just says, gently, “you don’t look freaked out in a bad way.”
megan snorts. “that’s… reassuring?”
“you look like you’re trying not to drop something,” lara adds, thoughtful. “like those videos of golden retrievers holding an egg in their mouth.”
megan laughs it off, waving a hand. “you’re dramatic.”
but the words stick anyway, settling somewhere uncomfortable in her chest.
lara doesn’t push. she offers megan a bite of the dinner leftovers she warmed up for breakfast. sits at the table with her, scrolling through her phone, presence easy and unintrusive. easy intimacy. the kind that doesn’t demand anything from either party.
megan’s phone buzzes again, and this time she waits longer on purpose before responding, even though she doesn’t want to.
relief and shame twist together in her stomach.
she tells herself she’s being careful. considerate. smart.
she doesn’t yet have the language for what she’s actually doing.
she just knows that wanting this—wanting daniela, wanting more—feels dangerous in a way she hasn’t figured out how to manage.
so she holds it lightly. carefully.
like something fragile.
like something that could slip out of her hands if she grips it too tight.
…
life still goes on, which feels rude.
megan expects the feeling to loosen as the day goes on, the way it usually does after something emotionally charged. she expects the adrenaline to wear off, for her brain to settle back into its normal grooves. instead, the vigilance stays with her, low-grade and constant, like the radiation levels in current-day chernobyl.
she goes to class. she takes notes. she nods at the right moments. answers a question when she’s called on. no one would look at her and think anything is wrong.
but every neutral interaction feels louder than it should.
someone bumps her shoulder in the hallway and apologizes, and her first thought is it’s fine, really, already halfway to reassuring them. a professor asks for volunteers and her hand twitches before she stills it. at the café near campus, the barista gets her order wrong and megan smiles and says it’s okay and takes it anyway.
she’s very good at performing human functions.
in the empty moments—the walk between buildings, the pause before class starts, the seconds waiting for the crosswalk signal—her thoughts drift back to daniela, but never directly. not daniela will text or daniela wants to see me again.
always conditional. hypothetical.
if she texts again.
if she wants to go out.
if she brings up last night.
megan keeps her expectations light on purpose, like that makes them easier to set down on the coffee table that is her life.
daniela does text again, mid-afternoon, while megan is waiting for the bus.
daniela: i keep thinking about that song the café was playing when we were leaving
daniela: it’s been stuck in my head all day
it’s warm. specific. undeniably real.
proof that daniela remembers. proof that the date exists outside megan’s head.
megan’s chest tightens with something like gratitude, sharp enough that she has to swallow it down. she rereads the message twice, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
she wants to say me too. wants to say i loved that place, thank you for showing it to me. wants to say i’ve been thinking about you all day.
instead, she types—
megan: haha yeah that song was really good
deletes it.
types—
megan: i know right, it was so catchy
adds a smiley. deletes it. adds it back.
she sends—
megan: yeah, that one was really good :)
acceptable enthusiasm. nothing that asks for more.
daniela replies with a laughing emoji and a quick follow-up about how she looked it up during her lunch break.
megan smiles at her phone, small and private.
she does not start a new topic.
...
work is busy in the way that leaves her body tired but her mind untouched. she moves through her shift efficiently, muscle memory carrying her through sandwiches and register totals and polite small talk. a coworker goes on a rant about a customer who paid in all coins and megan listens, nodding, offering the right sympathetic noises.
every so often, she checks her phone on her break.
not obsessively. just enough to be socially acceptable
afterwards, lara meets her at home with a bag of groceries balanced on her hip, keys dangling from one finger. she kicks the door shut behind her and immediately clocks megan curled up on the couch, phone face-down on the cushion beside her.
“you eat yet?” lara asks, already moving toward the kitchen.
megan shakes her head. “was gonna… eventually.”
lara hums. she starts unpacking, narrating what she bought in an absentminded way. megan listens, half-present, half elsewhere. her phone buzzes.
daniela: i’m glad we went, by the way
daniela: ik i said it already but i had a really good time
the words land softly and heavily all at once.
megan feels the urge to cradle the phone to her chest, like it might steady her heartbeat. instead, she keeps it balanced loosely in her hand, like she doesn’t want to betray how much it matters.
she types—
megan: me too :)
it feels insufficient. she sends it anyway.
lara doesn’t look over. doesn’t comment on the way megan’s mouth keeps twitching like she’s holding something back. she finishes putting groceries away and plops down on the other end of the couch, kicking off her slippers.
they sit like that for a while. lara scrolling through her phone. megan pretending to watch whatever lara put on the tv.
lara notices things without saying them.
she notices that megan never initiates. that she waits, counts seconds, sets the phone down face-down like it’s a test of will. she notices the way megan’s shoulders tense every time the screen lights up, then relax just a fraction afterward.
she doesn’t accuse. doesn’t psychoanalyze.
after a while, she says, “i’m making pasta. you want some?”
megan nods immediately. “yeah. thanks.”
accepting feels easier than asking.
later, while they eat, megan tells herself a story she’s told many times before. that she’s being considerate. that she’s letting daniela set the pace. that she doesn’t want to assume anything or make daniela feel pressured.
this is kindness, she thinks. this is respect.
she doesn’t ask herself what pace she wants.
she doesn’t ask herself why the idea of wanting feels so dangerous.
…
that night, lying in bed, she thinks about daniela’s life the way she imagines it must look from the outside. busy. bright. full of people who know exactly who they are and where they’re going. daniela with her abundance of talent, her easy confidence, her future stretching out ahead of her like something inevitable.
megan slots herself into that picture as something brief. a moment. a stop along the way. something pleasant that happens and then passes.
it doesn’t feel like jealousy. it feels like preemptive grief.
daniela texts again, later than megan expects.
daniela: i saw a flyer for that band you were talking about
daniela: and it made me think of you
daniela: we’re still on for tuesday right?
megan smiles, full and unguarded, alone in the dark.
and then immediately, she wonders what the correct response to this is.
her phone rests in her palm, warm from her grip. there are a dozen things she wants to say, layered and earnest and real.
she types—
megan: yes, of course
megan: wouldn’t miss it for world
she hits send.
and chooses less.
⸻
megan notices it first while she’s brushing her teeth on tuesday afternoon.
she’s standing there, staring at her own reflection, minty foam at the corner of her mouth, and she realizes she isn’t pacing. isn’t checking the time every thirty seconds. isn’t cycling through outfits on the bed like she’s trying to crack some kind of code that didn’t even exist.
her heart isn’t racing. her hands aren’t shaking.
this should feel like relief.
instead, it feels… muted.
she rinses, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and leans closer to the mirror, studying herself like she might find the explanation written somewhere obvious. she looks fine. normal. calm, even.
see? she tells herself. this is good. this is growth.
before the first date, she’d been a mess—ask lara, ask yoonchae, hell, ask anyone—pacing the apartment, changing shirts until yoonchae and lara told her to stop, spiraling into worst-case scenarios with impressive speed and creativity. she’d wanted it too much, and her body had known it.
tonight, there’s none of that.
no catastrophic what if she doesn’t like me loops. no vivid mental images of daniela losing interest mid-conversation. no rehearsed apologies waiting on standby.
whatever happens tonight will just be… nice.
that’s the word she keeps coming back to: nice. manageable. pleasant.
she doesn’t let herself touch anything deeper than that.
megan gets dressed with intention, but not the kind that feels indulgent. she chooses clothes meant to disappear into a crowd: dark jeans, a soft t-shirt, a jacket she knows won’t be too warm once she’s inside. comfortable shoes. nothing that pinches or rides up or demands attention.
she runs a brush through her hair, twists it back into a loose braid, then throws a plain baseball cap to hide the fact that her hair was due for a wash a day ago. efficient. presentable. done.
a show is loud. crowded. not about being perceived.
that’s the logic she offers herself, neat and reasonable. this isn’t a date-date, not like the first one had been. this is an event. movement. noise. bodies packed together. no one will be looking too closely.
it makes it easier to justify disappearing a little.
lara watches her from the doorway, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable. “you’re very… chill,” she says finally.
megan snorts. “wow. rude.”
“no, i mean it,” lara says. “i expected more dramatics. you plucking off a flower’s petals and letting that decide if daniela actually likes you or not.”
megan shrugs, grabbing her keys. “guess i’m maturing.”
lara hums, unconvinced, but lets it go. she doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t poke. just says, “text me if you need an out,” like she always does.
megan smiles at her, genuine. “i will.”
she believes it. mostly. in theory.
…
the venue is already loud from the sidewalk. bass leaking through brick and concrete, vibrating faintly under her feet as she joins the short line outside. the air smells like cigarettes and damp jackets and something fried from the place next door. people cluster together in loose groups, laughing too loudly, voices already pitched up to compete with the noise inside.
megan takes it in automatically, cataloging.
two exits she can see from here. one on the side, probably an emergency door. bathrooms likely toward the back, past the bar. she notes the alley to the left, quieter, darker, a place she could step into if she needed to breathe.
this isn’t panic, she rationalizes in her very rational brain. it’s preparation.
once inside, the sensory overload hits all at once. the music is still in soundcheck, sharp and uneven, but the bass is constant, a physical presence that thumps against her ribs. bodies press close together, heat collecting fast. voices stack on top of each other until individual words blur into noise.
megan’s shoulders tense reflexively.
she lets it happen.
this is part of it, she tells herself. this is the cost of being here. of trying to date so stupidly out of her league.
she doesn’t fight the discomfort or try to make it go away; she just absorbs it, settles into endurance mode. she can handle this. she always handles things.
megan spots daniela near the bar, easy to pick out even in the dim light. hair down tonight, loose around her shoulders. she’s laughing at something the bartender says, head tipped back, whole body relaxed in a way megan still finds slightly unreal.
daniela sees her and her face lights up, immediate and unguarded.
“hey,” she says, leaning in to hug megan. she smells like clean soap and something citrusy. the hug is brief but solid, grounding without trapping her.
“hi,” megan says, smiling back. her voice comes out steady. she’s proud of that.
daniela doesn’t comment on the noise or the crowd. she doesn’t ask if megan’s okay. she just adjusts where she’s standing so they’re angled together instead of side by side, one arm brushing megan’s as she talks. when she speaks, she leans closer so megan can hear her without straining.
it’s subtle. natural. not a rescue.
megan finds herself mirroring her without thinking—matching her posture, her proximity. it makes things easier. she doesn’t have to decide where to stand or how close is acceptable; she just follows daniela’s lead.
“do you want to grab a spot closer, or stay back here?” daniela asks.
megan scans the room, the shifting mass of people. “uh—either’s fine,” she says automatically. then, catching herself, adds, “whatever you want.”
daniela tilts her head, considering. “let’s stay here for now.”
“okay,” megan says quickly. “yeah. totally.”
a few minutes pass. the lights dim. the crowd surges forward in a way that presses megan closer to daniela than she’d planned. she feels the bass through the soles of her shoes now, up her legs, into her chest. it’s a lot, but it’s contained. manageable.
she leans in, raises her voice just enough. “is this okay?”
daniela nods. “yeah.”
megan relaxes a fraction.
another song starts, louder than the last. the crowd tightens again. megan shifts her weight, recalibrates.
“we can move if you want,” she says, already half-turning toward one of the quieter edges she clocked earlier.
daniela pauses before answering. not long. just long enough for megan to notice.
“we’re fine,” daniela says, smiling. “i promise.”
“okay,” megan says immediately. “just—making sure.”
she means it. she’s being attentive. this is what you do when you care about someone, right? you check in. you anticipate. you make sure they’re comfortable before they have to ask.
the music swells. megan feels it cresting in her chest, the edge of overstimulation pressing in. she doesn’t say anything about that. instead, she tries again, softer this time.
“we don’t have to stay the whole set,” she offers. “i know it’s crowded.”
daniela exhales, barely audible over the noise. she glances at megan, expression still warm but more focused now.
“meg,” she says, gentle but firmer. “i’m good. really.”
megan nods, a little too quickly. “sorry. yeah. cool.”
she hears daniela say the words, sure, but she doesn’t quite hear them.
from her perspective, nothing is wrong. daniela isn’t upset. the night is moving along. she’s doing everything right—checking in, offering exits, making herself flexible.
this is what being easy looks like.
they stand there together, shoulders brushing, the music washing over them. daniela taps her foot in time with the beat. megan watches her for a second, fondness rising up in her chest like warmth.
she tells herself the night is going well.
she believes this because nothing has gone wrong.
she does not ask herself whether anything is missing.
…
the doors spill them back out onto the sidewalk in a rush—sound first, then bodies, then the sudden absence of both. the bass cuts off so sharply megan’s ears ring in protest, a phantom thump still echoing somewhere behind her eyes. cold night air slides under her jacket and she sucks in a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding for the last hour and a half.
it’s quiet in that specific way only possible after something loud. not peaceful—just hollowed out. like the city took one step back to let them breathe.
daniela laughs, shaking her head, hair a little frizzed loose from dancing. “okay, that last song?” she says. “illegal. actually criminal.”
megan huffs, hands shoved into her pockets, shoulders still up around her ears. “i’m pretty sure i lost three years off my hearing.”
“worth it,” daniela says immediately. then, softer, “mostly.”
they start walking without really deciding to. the crowd funnels off in different directions, splintering into smaller knots of people, voices overlapping and dissolving as distance does its work. megan keeps half a step to daniela’s left, matching her pace automatically, the way she always does. she’s aware of her body now in a way that feels almost intimate—legs heavy, calves buzzing, shoulders sore from standing so tense for so long. the adrenaline that carried her through the set is draining fast, leaving behind a boneless kind of tired.
it makes everything feel closer to the surface.
“what was your favorite?” daniela asks, hands tucked into her sleeves.
megan considers it. “the second one. the one where the drummer went kind of insane for his solo.”
daniela grins. “i knew you were gonna say that.”
“how?”
“you leaned forward like you were about to sprint onto the stage and join them,” she says, nudging megan’s arm lightly. “i was like—okay, she’s in.”
megan laughs, a little breathless. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“mmhm.”
they talk like that for a bit—easy, unweighted. about the crowd that wouldn’t stop talking through the opener. about the guy who spilled his drink and apologized to everyone in a three-foot radius like it was a formal ceremony. about how loud it was, how good it felt to feel something shake in your chest.
megan listens more than she talks, nodding, smiling, letting daniela’s voice fill the space that the music vacated. she can feel herself unwinding by degrees, the tension in her jaw easing, her hands unclenching in her pockets. her body is tired enough that it’s harder to keep everything neatly contained. thoughts slip. feelings bleed closer to the edge.
there’s a sense—quiet but persistent—that the night hasn’t reached its endpoint yet. not unfinished, exactly. just… not done.
daniela’s energy is different now. still warm, still engaged, but more measured. where earlier she was bouncing on her toes between songs, shouting comments into megan’s ear, now she’s walking slower, gaze flicking up at the buildings, the streetlights, the people passing them. she asks questions, listens to the answers. pauses before she speaks again.
megan notices. of course she does.
she files it away carefully and does not touch it.
they stop at a crosswalk. the light takes its time. a car blares its horn somewhere down the block and someone yells back. megan rocks back on her heels, the afterimage of strobe lights still flickering faintly when she blinks.
the light changes. they cross.
a block later, daniela slows, glancing at her phone, then back up at megan. “i’m kind of starving,” she says, casual. “do you want to grab something? like—anything. i don’t care.”
megan feels it—the small spark of nerves, quick and sharp, lighting somewhere behind her ribs. not panic. just awareness. this is the part where… things could evolve into something else. something more. she’s proud of how even she keeps her voice.
“yeah,” she says. “i’m down.”
daniela smiles, relieved in a way that makes megan wonder if she was bracing for a no. “cool. i was thinking maybe that deli on—” she gestures vaguely, “—or honestly anywhere. my brain is still vibrating.”
“same,” megan says. “i think my internal organs are rearranging themselves.”
daniela laughs, a real one, shoulders loosening. “that’s the sign of a good show.”
they walk another half block before daniela adds, offhand, “my place is kind of… full tonight, by the way. manon, my roommate, if i never mentioned her before, has her girlfriend over. it’s a whole thing.”
megan nods, like this is data she can simply slot into place. “yeah, that makes sense.”
another pause. then, without thinking too hard about it—because if she does, she’ll hesitate—she says, “we could just bring something back to my place, if you want. lara’s out tonight with our friend.”
the sentence feels louder than she expects once it’s out in the air. not heavy per se but present.
daniela looks at her, eyebrows lifting a fraction. there’s a beat where megan’s brain scrambles to read her face, cataloging microexpressions out of habit. then daniela smiles, easy and genuine.
“yeah,” she says. “that sounds really nice, actually.”
the nerves spike again, sharper this time. megan ignores them just as deliberately. “okay. cool.”
they decide on food without ceremony—something quick, greasy enough to feel grounding. the place is warm and bright and smells like oil and salt, a different kind of sensory overload that settles into megan’s bones instead of rattling them. she stands close to daniela at the counter, shoulders brushing every so often, each contact small and electric.
daniela talks to the cashier. megan watches the way she does it—confident, polite, unforced. she feels that familiar tug in her chest, the one that says: this girl is easy to like, of course she is, why wouldn’t she be? she swallows it down, tells herself not to spiral. this is just food. this is just the next step of a good night.
they carry their bags back out into the street, steam rising when they crack them open to steal fries on the walk. daniela burns her fingers and laughs about it. megan offers napkins. daniela accepts without comment. it feels normal in a way that steadies her.
daniela glances over at her, catching her in the act of thinking. “you good?”
“yeah,” megan says again. then adds, softer, “i’m having a really nice time.”
daniela’s smile shifts—less playful, more sincere. “me too.”
they reach megan’s building too quickly for megan's liking. the familiar front door, the chipped paint, the security camera that’s definitely fake. megan holds the door open, heart ticking a little faster now that the decision has solidified into action. daniela steps inside, shaking the cold from her shoulders.
the hallway smells like faintly of moth balls and a myriad of air freshener scents trying to mask the stench of stale air. megan leads the way upstairs, keys already in hand. she can feel the night pressing gently at her back, urging her forward, but she keeps her movements unhurried. controlled.
this is fine, she tells herself. this is good.
she doesn’t need anything more than this moment, this quiet continuation. she doesn’t need to want too much.
behind her, daniela hums under her breath, content, unguarded.
megan lets the sound settle into her chest and doesn’t ask for anything else.
after they’re inside megan’s apartment, they don’t talk right away once the door closes behind them.
megan sets the food down on the coffee table and moves around the apartment on muscle memory alone—light switch, counter cleared, a quick swipe at a mystery crumb like she’s hosting someone who matters. because she is. she tells herself that’s all this is. hosting. nothing loaded. nothing sharp.
daniela toes off her shoes by the door, lining them up without being asked, and megan clocks it in that quiet, habitual way she clocks everything. the small care people take when they’re trying not to intrude. she feels the urge to say you don’t have to do that and swallows it. lets it stand.
they sit on opposite ends of the couch at first, food between them like a buffer they didn’t consciously place. containers open. steam fogging the air. the apartment is dim in the evening way—one lamp on, shadows pooling in corners lara usually occupies. the absence is noticeable, but not lonely.
megan hands over napkins. daniela thanks her. their fingers brush, barely, and neither of them reacts like it means anything more than it does.
they eat.
it’s easy in a way that surprises megan. not electric, not charged. just… fine. they trade bites without ceremony. daniela steals one of megan’s fries and gets mock-offended when megan reaches for hers in return. laughter slips back in, unguarded for a few seconds at a time, like it had only stepped out to make a phone call.
“okay,” daniela says, chewing thoughtfully, “this is objectively better than eating on a sidewalk.”
megan smiles. “high bar.”
“still. your couch wins.”
megan shifts, tucking one leg under herself, the posture instinctive and unselfconscious. “i’ll let it know.”
daniela snorts, shoulders relaxing. she leans back, stretching her legs out until their calves bump. neither of them moves to correct it. the contact settles there, warm and incidental.
for a moment, it feels almost domestic. like this is something they do. like this is a rhythm they could fall into if they let themselves imagine that far ahead.
but megan doesn’t get ahead of herself.
she keeps the moment small. manageable. lets herself enjoy it without asking for more.
they eat in companionable quiet for a bit, the only sounds the rustle of paper and the muted noise of the city outside the windows. megan can feel the night slowing, the energy of the show finally burning off completely. what’s left is something softer. something with edges.
daniela wipes her hands on a napkin and sets it aside. she doesn’t look at megan right away. her gaze lingers on the empty container, then the coffee table, then finally lifts.
“hey,” she says. not heavy. just… intentional.
megan’s stomach tightens on reflex.
“yeah?”
daniela shifts, angling her body a little more toward her. not crowding. just present. “can i say something without you thinking i’m upset?”
there it is.
megan feels the internal alarm flare bright and immediate, like a fire door slamming shut somewhere in her chest. her brain races to inventory everything she’s done wrong tonight, already drafting apologies she hasn’t been asked for. outwardly, she keeps her face neutral, her shoulders loose.
she nods. the motion costs her more than she lets show. “okay.”
daniela exhales, relieved—not because megan agreed, but because she listened. “this isn’t a bad thing,” she says gently. “i just don’t want to sit on it.”
megan folds her hands into the sleeves of her shirt, fingers curling into the fabric. she waits.
“i really like you, like a lot,” daniela says, simply. no buildup. no hedging. “i’ve liked you since the second i willing bought a shitty overpriced sandwhich because you made it for me.” she took a deep breath. “and tonight… tonight didn’t change any of that. if anything, it kind of… confirmed it.”
megan’s chest aches at the directness of it. she keeps her eyes on daniela’s face, forces herself not to look away.
“and i like how attentive you are,” daniela continues. “i like that you check in and care able the little details. it makes me feel chosen. like you’re actually here with me.”
a fragile warmth spreads through megan, instinctively tempered, like she’s already preparing for it to be taken back.
daniela pauses. not dramatically. just enough to shift the air.
“but sometimes,” she says carefully, “i also feel a little… managed.”
the word lands softly and still knocks the breath from megan’s lungs.
it must show on her face because daniela quickly rushes to clarify, her tone steady, not defensive. “not in a controlling way. i don’t mean that. it’s more like—” she searches for it, brow furrowing. “like you’re always bracing for me to be disappointed with you. like you’re trying to guess how i’m feeling before i’ve told you.”
megan’s fingers tighten in her sleeves.
“and i start to feel like my words aren’t trusted to stand on their own,” daniela adds, voice quieter now. “like when i say i’m okay, or that i want to be here, it’s… provisional. like you’re constantly have one foot out of the door.”
she meets megan’s eyes again, openly. “and it makes me wonder sometimes if i’m not being clear enough with what i want to have with you.”
the silence that follows is thick, but not hostile. just full.
megan doesn’t move. her body goes very still, like if she stays exactly like this, nothing else will fracture. her gaze drifts to a spot over daniela’s shoulder, unfocused.
she thought she was being good.
she thought this was how you kept people—by anticipating, by smoothing every possible rough edge before it could cut. by making yourself easy, adjustable, never the source of friction. she thought attentiveness was the same thing as care.
she hadn’t realized how much of herself she was subtracting to do it. how much she was also subtracting daniela—her voice, her agency, her ability to mean what she said.
the realization doesn’t come with heat or shame. it comes cold and heavy, like grief.
“i’m sorry i made you feel like that… i was just… scared. really scared,” megan says finally, the words slipping out before she can sand them down. she swallows the bile rising in her throat, forces herself to keep going. “i don’t… i don’t trust good things to stay.”
daniela doesn’t interrupt.
megan’s hands unclench. one of them lifts, hesitates, then drops back to her lap. “so i try to be… preemptively easy. i guess. like if i don’t ask for too much, if i don’t want too loudly, then—” she shakes her head. “then it won’t hurt as bad if it ends.”
she looks back at daniela now, eyes bright but steady. “i want you to tell me when you’re not okay instead of me guessing. and i want to believe you like me without needing proof.”
the words sit there, bare and unguarded. her wants, named without apology.
daniela stays quiet. really quiet. she doesn’t rush in with reassurance or soften the moment with humor. she just holds megan’s gaze, letting the space stretch until it stops feeling dangerous and starts feeling like room.
“yeah, okay,” she says. “i want that too. and we can get there. it’ll just take some time.”
megan’s heart is pounding now, but not in panic. in momentum.
she shifts closer, just an inch at first, testing the space. daniela stays where she is, open, waiting. megan closes the distance the rest of the way herself, fingers brushing daniela’s knee before finding her hand.
she takes a breath. then another.
“can i—” she starts, stops, exhales a soft laugh at herself. she makes herself try again. “can i kiss you?”
daniela blinks at her for half a second, like the question has short-circuited something obvious. then her mouth curves, fond and a little incredulous.
“obviously,” she says. “you dork.”
something in megan loosens at that—not snapped, not undone, just… unhooked.
she leans in.
this kiss is nothing like the first one. there’s no hesitation once it starts, no skimming uncertainty. daniela meets her immediately, like she’s been waiting for megan to catch up to a conclusion she reached a while ago. her hand comes up, fingers sliding into megan’s hair at the nape of her neck, warm and grounding and just firm enough to make megan’s breath hitch.
megan makes a quiet sound she doesn’t recognize as her own and deepens the kiss without thinking, her thumb brushing along daniela’s jaw, feeling the curve of it, the soft press of skin there. it’s slower than urgency but fuller than caution, a kiss that takes its time learning shape and pressure and the small ways daniela responds.
they part only because, unfortunately, they have to breathe at some point.
megan barely gets the chance before daniela leans back in, a shorter kiss this time, then another. a quick peck that makes megan smile into the next, longer one. they hover in that space for a while—kiss, pause, forehead pressed together, another kiss—until megan feels pleasantly dazed, like her thoughts are floating just a few inches behind her.
when they finally settle back against the couch, it’s with their shoulders still touching, hands still loosely tangled. the food sits forgotten on the table, cooling unnoticed.
the quiet that follows isn’t heavy. it’s easy. shared.
megan swallows, suddenly aware of how close daniela is, of how normal it feels now that it’s happening. she gestures vaguely toward the tv. “i, uh. do you want me to put something on? a movie or something.”
“yeah,” daniela says easily. then, a beat later, quieter, “could we… maybe cuddle?”
megan’s brain immediately blue screens.
there’s a full second where her body is perfectly still and her thoughts scatter like startled birds. cuddle. cuddle. she reboots mid-panic, forces air back into her lungs, forces herself to answer like a human person.
“yes,” she says, a little too fast, then reins it in. “yeah. yeah, we can do that.”
daniela smiles, soft and pleased, and shifts closer without hesitation, fitting herself against megan’s side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. megan’s arm hesitates for exactly one heartbeat before it slides around daniela’s shoulders, tentative but certain once it’s there.
they settle in together, warmth shared, the movie starting up mostly as background noise. megan doesn’t check. doesn’t ask if this is okay. she just lets herself stay.
and this time, that feels like enough.